SCENE IV.

LEPOCHE'S HOUSE.

_Enter LEPOCHE, strutting._

_Lep._ Aha! 'tis certain dat I ave someting in my air dat is grande--I wrong my bon addresse and figure, to stick to dis taileur trade; Oui, dat is de reason of Madame Rosa's scorn. If de Lady de Bull did take me for a colonel, dressed as I vas, vat must I be a-la-mode de noblesse?--Aha! I have a tought; I vill surprise Madam Rosa into de love for my person! [_Sings._] Oui, le Marquis de Papillon clothes fit me exactement--how lucky I did not take dem home yesterday!--Aha! Oh, here come de Madame Rosa!

[_Retires._

_Enter ROSA._

_Rosa._ Ah, could I again behold my dearest lord--every separation, from those we love, seems a chasm in existence--No danger, I think, from my brother Henry; he's now too busy with his own love, to give any interruption to mine: and, yet, I think, had his passion for this young lady but commenced previous to that of Lord Winlove's for me, Henry would not now lament the life, which, he imagines, he has taken.

_Enter LOPOCHE in a tawdry Dress--Kneels before her._

_Rosa._ [_Not recollecting him._] Pray, sir, if I may--

_Lep._ Heigho! Behold de gentilhomme dat love a you--throw your arms round my neck like solitaire, and give me kiss, my charming fair.

_Rosa._ Trifling--Impertinent!

_Lep._ Impertinent--Aha! [_Rises in a Passion._] Do you know who you talk to, mademoiselle?--Impertinent!--You are great lady, indeed, but I vas just now, (little as you may tink of me) taken for a colonel, by my Lady de Bull, though, perhaps, not so great as you, but, by gar, she vas tree times as big--Impertinent!--See, I vill be revenge--may I never set a stitch, but I vill have satisfaction--I am enrage!

_Enter NANNETTE._

You, Nannette, stand out of my valk, or I may put my feet upon you.

_Nan._ Oh, lud, what's the matter?

_Rosa._ Nannette, step with me into my chamber.

[_Exit._

_Lep._ Dere you may stay in your chamber--Aha! since you scorn me, Madame Runavay, I vill deliver you up to de Lady Abbess.

_Nan._ But Miss Rosa wants me.

_Lep._ I vant you, and I am your maitre--[_Towards the Door._] you vant a gentilhomme, do you?--but, dere, madam, you may play vid your pincushion--vantrebleu! Aha; I am so fine and clever, I must ave somebody--Nannette, you come and kiss me.

_Nan._ Pooh! Nonsense!

_Lep._ Comment!

_Nan._ Lud, sir, what signifies your strutting about there like a jackdaw, and there's the foreman waiting to take home that suit of clothes on you.

[_Exit._

_Lep._ So--I vas just now impertinent, and now I am jackdaw--fort bien!--de devil's in all de vomen about me to-day--[_Knocking without._] Malpeste!--[_Looking._] here is dat Lord Winlove returned again--By gar, he vill cut my throat--best hide a littel.

[_Exit._

_Enter LORD WINLOVE._

_Lord W._ No, I cannot drive her from my heart--let me not condemn her too hastily--I'll first know to a certainty who accompanied her from this house yesterday morning--My death, from that rencontre with Henry, is everywhere believed, and even a reward offered for apprehending him--Well, one comfort, I'm a living witness of his innocence--But now for his lovely sister--Ah, see where she sits! dissolved in grief and tears.

[_Runs out to her._

_Enter HENRY._

_Henry._ Here you, Lepoche! Where is this fellow?--what has he done with Rosa? 'Pray Heaven she ha'n't given him the slip! Now, with Tallyho's consent, and the amiable Celia's acceptance of my passion, I've no alloy to my golden delights, but the mournful memory of Lord Winlove, thus revived, in my unhappy sister's recent elopement.--Was she still in possession of her unsullied name, I, of my Celia's love, and the esteem of such a friend as Lord Winlove could have been--Fortune might do her worst.

AIR.--HENRY.

_Let Fame sound her trumpet, and cry, "To the war!" Let glory re-echo the strain; The full tide of honour may flow from the scar, And heroes may smile on their pain. The treasures of autumn let Bacchus display, And stagger about with his bowl, On science, let Sol beam the lustre of day, And wisdom give light to the soul. Let India unfold her rich gems to the view, Each virtue, each joy to improve; Oh, give me the friend, that I know to be true, And the fair, that I tenderly love! What's glory, but pride? A vain bubble, is fame, And riot, the pleasure of wine. What's riches, but trouble? and title's a name; But friendship and love, are divine._

_Enter LORD WINLOVE and ROSA._

_Henry._ Lord Winlove alive!

_Lord W._ Sorry to see me so, Henry?

_Henry._ I own, my lord, I am surprised, yet rejoice to find my hand guiltless of blood, and you still possessed of power to heal my honour, in doing justice to my unhappy sister. Forgive my former weakness, I now only appeal to your humanity.

_Lord W._ My dear Henry, I never looked upon your sister, but with the ardent wish, of an honourable connexion--a jealous honour hurried you to rashness, and the fondest love rendered me imprudent: thus, we see, the noblest principles, if guided only by our passions, may prove destructive.

_Enter CELIA, running._

_Celia._ Oh, my dear Captain! but I didn't know you had company--a thousand pardons--[_Courtesies round._] but, upon my word, I don't know how to apologize for this strange intrusion of mine--Captain, don't be vain, if I make this horrible news of your danger, an excuse for my coming hither.

_Henry._ A thousand thanks for this kind solicitude!--My lord--Sister--give me leave to introduce a lady, who, I hope, will soon honour our family by the dearest tie.

_Miss Dolly B._ [_Without._] Run, husband, or they'll catch us.

_Enter LACKLAND and MISS DOLLY BULL._

_Lack._ Let's rally, and face the enemy.

_Enter SIR JOHN and LADY BULL._

_Sir J. B._ So, you're a pretty jade! but I'll----

[_Advancing._

_Lack._ No abuse.

[_Stops him._

_Sir J. B._ What! not my own daughter?

_Lack._ Nobody must abuse my wife.

_Sir J. B._ Wife! I shall go mad!--my daughter married to a fellow that I saw this morning in white shoes, and a black shirt?

_Lady B._ Ay, you would have English.

_Sir J. B._ I hope he's a rogue.

[_LACKLAND bows._

_Henry._ Your son-in-law!

_Sir J. B._ If he was myself--I hope he's a rogue--

_Lady B._ Tell me Dolly, how dare you take up with that person?

_Miss Dolly B._ Why, la, mamma! when the Colonel and 'Squire Tallyho left me, I was glad to catch at any body.

_Lack._ What's that you say, Mrs. Lackland?--I'm very much obliged to you--you have done me infinite honour!

[_Makes a low Bow._

_Enter TALLYHO._

_Tall._ Eh, what, have you all got about the winning-post here?

_Miss Dolly B._ Yes, and now, you may canter off to Newmarket.

_Tall._ Lackland, I give you joy of little Ginger, for she was never good, egg, or bird.

_Enter COLONEL EPAULETTE._

_Colonel E._ How do you, good folks, damme? Ah, Miss Dolly coquin, run away!

_Miss Dolly B._ Yes, Colonel, and didn't even wait for my dancing pumps!

_Colonel E._ How is my good Lady de Bull? zounds!

_Lady B._ Sir, if you're a Frenchman, behave like one.

_Colonel E._ I vill never behave myself, damme!

_Tall._ Oh, Captain, you made the betts against my mare--when do we share, my Trojan?

_Henry._ Sir, I don't understand----

_Tall._ Why, didn't I pay forfeit, and let the colonel's Black Prince walk over the course to-day?

_Henry._ And, seriously, did you dare to think that I'd join in such a scandalous affair?

_Tall._ Then you may fling your cap at Celia.

_Henry._ Hush! you laid me five thousand yourself--consent to my marriage with your sister, or I'll proclaim you, not only here, at Fontainbleau, but at every racecourse in England.

_Tall._ I'm had--yes, and tricked, choused, slanged, and banged! Celia, take him against the field--clever--has nicked me, that have nicked hundreds!

_Henry._ I fancy, the first real good ever produced by gaming; our winning is but a decoy, its joys, built upon the grief of others, and our losses stop but in ruin, or dishonour.

_Tall._ May be so; but, as I set out a young pigeon, I'll die an old rook.

_Sir J. B._ But how shall I get this rook [_To LACKLAND._] out of my pigeon-house?

_Colonel E._ Ah, pauvre Lackland! I ave procure de commission for you, in my regiment.

_Lack._ Thank you, Colonel, but while I can raise the price of a drumstick, I'll never draw a sword against my country.

_Sir J. B._ What!--your hand, my Briton!--you shall never want a nail for your hat, in my parlour, at dinner time--you shall post my books, and take the whip hand of my lady's gig on a Sunday.

_Lack._ Drive a gig! My dear dad, you shall rattle up in your vis-a-vis, to the astonishment of all Garlick Hill.

_Sir J. B._ My dearee and I ride, side by side, in a vis-a-vis! ha! ha! ha!

_Tall._ Yes, and if you whip your gig down to Yorkshire, I'll mount her ladyship upon Whirligig, and, Sir Jackey, my lad, up you go again upon Kick-him-Jenny.

_Sir J. B._ I'll see you astride the dragon, upon Bow steeple first--but now I'll invite you all to the British Lion, where French claret shall receive the zest of English hospitality--Eh, my Antigallican son-in-law?

_Lack._ Well said, Bull; but mind, I'll have no illiberal prejudices in my family--general national reflections, are unworthy the breast of an Englishman; and, however in war, each may vindicate his country's honour, in peace, let us not know a distance, but the Streights of Dover.

FINALE.

Lord W. _This patriot fire, within each heart, For ever let us nourish._

Rosa. _Of Glory still, the golden mart, May England ever flourish!_

Henry. _Let fashion, with her glitt'ring train, Abroad, awhile deceive us;_

Celia. _We long to see dear home again, The love of England must remain, And that can never leave us. This patriot fire, &c._

Sir J. B. _My future range, The Stock Exchange, 'Tis there I'll mend my paces; Nor gig, nor nag, Jack Bull shall drag, To French, or English races._

Lady B. _At feast, or ball, At Grocers' Hall, 'Tis there I'll mend my paces; Yet nothing keep Me from a peep, At French or English races._

CHORUS.

_Now of each doubt, and perplexity eas'd, From Fontainbleau we prance, In hopes with our errors, our friends will be pleas'd, As 'tis our way in France._

THE END.