Oh! my Tatlanthe! have you seen his face,
His air, his shape, his mien, his ev'ry grace?
In what a charming attitude he stands,
How prettily he foots it with his hands!
Well, to his arms, no to his legs I fly,
For I must have him, if I live or die. [Exeunt.
Scene.—A Bedchamber.
Chrononhotonthologos asleep.
[Rough music, viz., salt-boxes and rolling-pins, gridirons and tongs; sow-gelders' horns, marrowbones and cleavers, &c. &c. He wakes.
Chro. What heav'nly sounds are these that charm my ears!