Come, of your Buttercup buy!
Boat. Ay, Little Buttercup—and well called—for you’re the rosiest, the roundest, and the reddest beauty in all Spithead.
But. Red, am I? and round—and rosy! Maybe, for I have dissembled well! But hark ye, my merry friend—hast ever thought that beneath a gay and frivolous exterior there may lurk a cankerworm which is slowly but surely eating its way into one’s very heart?
Boat. No, my lass, I can’t say I’ve ever thought that.
Enter Dick Deadeye. He pushes through Sailors.
Dick. I have thought it often. (All recoil from him.)
But. Yes, you look like it! What’s the matter with the man? Isn’t he well?
Boat. Don’t take no heed of him; that’s only poor Dick Deadeye.
Dick. I say—it’s a beast of a name, ain’t it—Dick Deadeye?
But. It’s not a nice name.