Gilb. Love-song I can’t say, ma’am; but such as I have—I’m no great hand at composition—but I have one song—they call it, My choice of a wife.
Miss G. Pray let’s have it, sir.
Christy. Now for it, by Jabus.
Mr. H. Give it us, Mr. Gilbert.
Enter BIDDY with hot water, and exit.
GILBERT sings.
There’s none but a fool will wed on a sudden,
Or take a fine miss that can’t make a pudding;
If he get such a wife, what would a man gain, O!
But a few ballad-tunes on a wretched piano?
Some ladies than peacocks are twenty times prouder,
Some ladies than thunder are twenty times louder;
But I’ll have a wife that’s obliging and civil—
For me, your fine ladies may go to the devil!
Miss G. (rising) Sir, I comprehend your song, coarse as it is, and its moral to boot, and I humbly thank ye, sir. (She curtsies low.) And if I live a hundred year, and ninety-nine to the back of that, sir, I will remember it to you, sir.
Christy. (leaving the punch which he had been making, comes forward with a lemon in his hand) Wheugh! wheugh! wheugh! Ferrinafad!
Gilb. (aside) Ferrinafad!—the man’s mad!