Chair. Good your honour, speak to us in English.
Y. Book. Why then, you chairmen, wherever I move, you are to follow me; for I mean to strut, shine through the dusk of the evening, and look as like a lazy town-fool as I can, to charm 'em.
Lat. Well, but the music?
Y. Book. But remember, ye sons of Phœbus, brethren of the string and lyre, that is to say, ye fiddlers—Let me have a flourish as I now direct. When I lift up my cane, let it be martial. If I but throw myself just forward on it, or but raise it smoothly, sigh all for love, to show, as I think fit, that I would die or fight for her you see me bow to. Well, then, strike up:—
Song, by Mr. Leveridge.[66]
I.
Venus has left her Grecian isles,
With all her gaudy train
Of little loves, soft cares and smiles,
In my larger breast to reign.
II.
Ye tender herds and list'ning deer,
Forget your food, forget your fear,
The bright Victoria will be here.
III.
The savages about me throng,
Moved with the passion of my song,
And think Victoria stays too long.
Y. Book. There's for you, Jack; is not that like a fine gentleman that writes for his own diversion?
Lat. And nobody's else.
Y. Book. Now I warrant one of your common sparks would have stamped, fretted, and cried, what the devil! fooled! jilted! abused!—while I, in metre, to show you how well nothing at all may be made to run—
The savages about me throng,
Moved with the passion of my song,
And think Victoria stays too long.