A MATRIMONIAL DIALOGUE AND MARINE ECLOGUE.
- Mr. Adipocire, an eminent and reflecting Tallow Chandler.
- Mrs. Adipocire, an every-day sort of Woman.
Time—Evening. The Sea-shore.
MR. A.
How harden’d is the man who has not felt
His heart ’neath Nature’s influences melt!
MRS. A.
You promised all these terms of art to drop;
Indeed, my dear, you savour of the shop.
MR. A.
’Tis sweet to see the lazy clouds decamp,
’Tis sweet to see Night hang her silver lamp.
MRS. A.
Lamp!
MR. A.
And with telescope, or naked eye,
To view the lesser tapers of the sky.
MRS. A.
Tapers, for shame!
MR. A.
’Tis pleasing to discern
Planet from star, and know the orbs which burn.
MRS. A.
Burn! there again.
MR. A.
Ah! wherefore do they blaze?
Who lights the sunbeams, and the lunar rays?
MRS. A.
Oh!
MR. A.
When, as our immortal Shakespear sings,
“Night’s candles are burnt out,” who daylight brings?
MRS. A.
Ah!
MR. A.
He whose steady eye to his concerns
Forces the comets to make due returns.
MRS. A.
I’m quite worn out.
MR. A.
Who bounteous made the whales
Common and Spermaceti?
MRS. A.
Odious tales!
MR. A.
’Twas that First Cause which, for our nightly use,
Filleth the cocoa-nuts with unctuous juice,
Which bids the wether fatten to supply
A light to tantalise, not satisfy:
Which gives us fatty wax from bodies dead
Of Lamberts damp within their “narrow bed,”
Which stores the laden thighs of bees with wax,
(Its lustre hence no dining-table lacks
By footmen rubb’d, who burnish and blaspheme.)
Wax which illumes when urns emit their steam:
Wax which inspired the genius of Argand,
When lamps, despised till then, at his command
A radiance mild o’er dinner-tables shed,
Soft’ning on cheeks the artificial red.
Paling each pimply nose with chasten’d light:
MRS. A.
A—! you are quite incorrigible, quite;
When shall I ever tutor you to feel
The moral fitness of the “true genteel!”
MR. A.
Well, well, I’ll not offend, love, with my tongue.
Oh! with what art those lustres bright are hung!
MRS. A.
You keep indeed a guard upon your lips.
MR. A.
Observe that bird, how prettily it dips;
Its plumage and its graceful shape behold,
And see how Nature works in Beauty’s mould.
MRS. A.
I see my temper you’re disposed to try,
Yet I may be lamented when I die;
Speak as you please, you’re safe from my complaints,
But you’re enough to vex a saint of saints.
MR. A.
My dear, you’re waxing wroth.
MRS. A. (going.)
Provoking!
MR. A.
Stay,
I hear our children’s voices at their play;
I love to see them sporting on the rocks,
MRS. A.
Wetting their feet, and dirtying their frocks.
My dear, come in.
MR. A.
My darling, I’ll stay out.
MRS. A.
Don’t expect me to nurse you in the gout. [Exit.