ACT II.

_Scene, a Room in an ordinary Lodging-house at Weimar_—PUDDINGFIELD _and_ BEEFINGTON _discovered sitting at a small deal table, and playing at All-fours—Young_ POTTINGEN, _at another table in the corner of the room, with a pipe in his mouth, and a Saxon mug of a singular shape beside him, which he repeatedly applies to his lips, turning back his head, and casting his eyes towards the firmament—at the last trial he holds the mug for some moments in a directly inverted position; then replaces it on the table with an air of dejection, and gradually sinks into a profound slumber—the pipe falls from his hand, and is broken._

BEEF. I beg.

PUDD. [_Deals three cards to_ BEEFINGTON.] Are you satisfied?

BEEF. Enough; what have you?

PUDD. High, low, and the game.

BEEF. D——n! ’Tis my deal. [_Deals; turns up a knave._] One for his heels!

[_Triumphantly._

PUDD. Is king highest?

BEEF. No. [_Sternly_] The game is mine. The knave gives it me.

PUDD. Are knaves so prosperous?

BEEF. Aye, marry are they in this world. They have the game in their hands. Your kings are but _noddies_[276] to them.

PUDD. Ha! ha! ha! Still the same proud spirit, Beefington, which procured thee thine exile from England.

BEEF. England! my native land! when shall I revisit thee?

[_During this time_ PUDDINGFIELD _deals, and begins to arrange his hand._

BEEF. [_Continues._] Phoo, hang All-fours; what are they to a mind ill at ease? Can they cure the heartache? Can they soothe banishment? Can they lighten ignominy? Can All-fours do this? O, my Puddingfield! thy limber and lightsome spirit bounds up against affliction with the elasticity of a well-bent bow; but mine—O! mine—

[_Falls into an agony, and sinks back in his chair. Young_ POTTINGEN, _awakened by the noise, rises, and advances with a grave demeanour towards_ BEEFINGTON _and_ PUDDINGFIELD. _The former begins to recover._

Y. POT. What is the matter, comrades,[277] you seem agitated. Have you lost or won?

BEEF. Lost! I have lost my country.

Y. POT. And I my sister. I came hither in search of her.

BEEF. O, England!

Y. POT. O, Matilda!

BEEF. Exiled by the tyranny of an usurper, I seek the means of revenge, and of restoration to my country.

Y. POT. Oppressed by the tyranny of an Abbot, persecuted by the jealousy of a Count, the betrothed husband of my sister languishes in a loathsome captivity; her lover is fled no one knows whither, and I, her brother, am torn from my parental roof, and from my studies in chirurgery, to seek him and her, I know not where—to rescue Rogero, I know not how. Comrades, your counsel. My search fruitless—my money gone—my baggage stolen! what am I to do? In yonder Abbey—in these dark, dank vaults, there, my friends, there lies Rogero—there Matilda’s heart.