(Mr. Clipclose reads it; jumps up, and whistles "Bobbing Joan.")
Quartetto.
Mags.
Master, are you mad?
Mr. C.
No; but I'm distracted.
Pot-boy.
Times are wery bad,
Pop.
And I in grief abstracted.
Mags.
Odds! he'll take his life!
Mr. C. (kissing the billet.)
Sweet note! thou'rt balm and manna!
Mags to Pop. (who is reading it over Mr. C.'s shoulder.)
Is it from his wife?
Pop. (slaps his thigh.)
No! from Miss Juliana!"
Clipclose, when he reads it, rushes out; Mags after him. Poppleton attempts to follow, but is detained by pot-boy. He forks out tanner, and disappears. Solo—Apollonicon. Hurried music descriptive of three cabs: Clipclose in 793, at a rapid pace; Mags, 1659; Poppleton 1847, pursuing. Scene closes.
Scene II.
Thompson and Fearon's, Holborn; gin-palace at full work; company less select than numerous, and ladies and gentlemen taking "some'ut short" at the counter. Enter, in full uniform. Captain Connor; O'Toole and Blowhard in shell jackets. They call for a flash of lightning, touch glasses affectionately, and bolt the ruin. The captain stumps down for all.
Glee—Connor, O'Toole, and Blowhard.
Capt.
Gin cures love, my boys, and gin cures the colic;
O'T.
Gin fits a man for fight, or fits him for a frolic;
Blow.
Come, we'll have another go, then hey for any rollic!
Trio.
Come, we'll have another go, and hey then for a rollic!
Blow.—Lass! (to an attendant, whom he chucks under the chin,) some more jacky! Connor, do you still
Bend at the shrine of her on Ludgate-hill?
OT. (contemptuously).—Zounds! a cit's helpmate. That would never do.
One of us Guards, and one of taste like you.
Capt.—Faith, honest Blowhard, and you, my pal, O'Toole,
Tho' fond of flirting, yet your friend's no fool!
Think ye that I could live upon my pay,
And keep four wives on three and six a day?
No. Let me have a monied mistress still,
My El Dorado be a tradesman's till.
Love fed by flimsies, is the love that thrives,
And let the mercers keep the Guardsman's wives.
O'T.—I see how matters stand, my trump; enough.
Blow. (to O'T.)—He's wide awake, Tim. (To the Capt.) Con. you're up to snuff!
Capt.—Come, one more round of jacky, and we part,—
I, to the peerless lady of my heart
In Stamford-street;—to Knightsbridge barrack you;
And mind don't split that I was out at Kew.
(They take each another johnny, shake hands, and separate. The scene closes.)