AIR.—TALLYHO.
I'm yours at any sort of fun,
My buck, I'll tell you so;
A main to fight, a nag to run,
But say the word, 'tis done and done,
All's one to Tallyho.
Upon a single card I'll set
A thousand pound, or so.
But name the thing, I'll bind the bet,
And, if I lose, I'll scorn to fret;
All's one to Tallyho.
Suppose you challenge in a glass,
Sweet Doll, my pretty Doe;
And think your love could mine surpass,
I'd swallow hogsheads, for my lass,
All's one to Tallyho.
[Exeunt.
Enter Celia, calling after them.
Celia. Brother! why, brother! was there ever such a mad mortal! Lud, I wish he'd left me in Paris. I wish I hadn't left England—Fontainbleau!—better to have shone on the Steyne, at Brighton—Bless me! I wish I had only one dear beau, if but to keep me out o'the way o'the coaches—talk of French gallantry, and attention to the ladies! I protest, we've quite spoiled them—No, I find I have no chance here, while rivalled by Eclipse, Gimcrack, and Whirligig—Now, if love would but throw the handsome officer in my way, that entertained me so agreeably at the Sunday opera, at Paris.
Enter Henry and Rosa.
Henry. [Seeing Celia.] Yes, 'tis she, 'tis my charming unknown.
[Aside.
Celia. Is that lady with him? [Rosa takes Henry's Arm.] takes him by the arm!—I wonder women haven't some regard to decency, in public!
[Exit, singing.