Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
Далее
По всем вопросам обращайтесь на: info@litportal.ru
(©) 2003-2024.
✖
Bentley's Miscellany, Volume II
Настройки чтения
Размер шрифта
Высота строк
Поля
(Poppleton buttons his coat, and puts himself into a boxing attitude.)
He has robb'd the till,
And lost the money, betting at a mill!
(Noise without. Door opens. Enter Young Clipclose hastily.)
Mr. C.– What, Mags and Pop! the coves I wish'd to see
Above all others. Curse my pedigree!
Air —Mr. Clipclose.– ("I've been roaming.")
I've been nabb'd, sirs, – I've been nabb'd, sirs, —
And bundled off direct to jail,
By the villains when they grabb'd, sirs,
And now I'm out upon stag-bail.
(Mr. C. seizes the pewter in his right hand.)
Mr. C.– Is this good stout?
Mags (feelingly). My honest master, quaff!
You'll find it strengthening, real half-and-half.
Air —Poppleton.– ("Here we go up, up, up.")
Come, Bob, take a sup, sup, sup!
Let the liquor your stiff neck slide down, boy;
There's nothing like keeping steam up,
When a man's at the worst, and done brown, boy.
(Clipclose starts, looks anxiously at Mags.)
Mr. C.– How's all at home, – I mean on Ludgate-hill, —
And have you heard the winner of the mill?
Mags (with considerable hesitation).– We all, alas! for Fortune's frowns seem fix'd on.
Poor Jerry Scout is bundled off to Brixton;
The shop's done up; and, for your lady wife,
I fear she's joined the Guards, yclept "The Life;"
On other things, barring the fight, I'm barren,
And Owen Swift was beat by Barney Aaron.
(Clipclose staggers across the room, and catches at the chimney-piece.)
Mr. C.– My wife levanted, and the shop done up!
Mags, hand the quart; I need another sup.
Othello like, Bob's occupation's done;
For I back'd Owen freely two to one.
Like Antony at Actium, this fell day
Strips me of all, shop, cash, and lady gay.
Would I had nerve to take myself away!
Pop. (aside.) – I'll watch him close. Although his looks are placid,
He'll take a dose, I fear, of prussic acid.
(Enter Pot-boy.)
Pot-boy.– Is there a gent call'd Mr. Clipclose here?
Mr. C.– I am that wretched man!(Slaps his forehead.)
Pot-boy. Who pays the beer?
Pop.– I.
Pot-boy.– Here's a note. (To Mr. C.) Lord, but the man looks queer!
(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.
He has robb'd the till,
And lost the money, betting at a mill!
(Noise without. Door opens. Enter Young Clipclose hastily.)
Mr. C.– What, Mags and Pop! the coves I wish'd to see
Above all others. Curse my pedigree!
Air —Mr. Clipclose.– ("I've been roaming.")
I've been nabb'd, sirs, – I've been nabb'd, sirs, —
And bundled off direct to jail,
By the villains when they grabb'd, sirs,
And now I'm out upon stag-bail.
(Mr. C. seizes the pewter in his right hand.)
Mr. C.– Is this good stout?
Mags (feelingly). My honest master, quaff!
You'll find it strengthening, real half-and-half.
Air —Poppleton.– ("Here we go up, up, up.")
Come, Bob, take a sup, sup, sup!
Let the liquor your stiff neck slide down, boy;
There's nothing like keeping steam up,
When a man's at the worst, and done brown, boy.
(Clipclose starts, looks anxiously at Mags.)
Mr. C.– How's all at home, – I mean on Ludgate-hill, —
And have you heard the winner of the mill?
Mags (with considerable hesitation).– We all, alas! for Fortune's frowns seem fix'd on.
Poor Jerry Scout is bundled off to Brixton;
The shop's done up; and, for your lady wife,
I fear she's joined the Guards, yclept "The Life;"
On other things, barring the fight, I'm barren,
And Owen Swift was beat by Barney Aaron.
(Clipclose staggers across the room, and catches at the chimney-piece.)
Mr. C.– My wife levanted, and the shop done up!
Mags, hand the quart; I need another sup.
Othello like, Bob's occupation's done;
For I back'd Owen freely two to one.
Like Antony at Actium, this fell day
Strips me of all, shop, cash, and lady gay.
Would I had nerve to take myself away!
Pop. (aside.) – I'll watch him close. Although his looks are placid,
He'll take a dose, I fear, of prussic acid.
(Enter Pot-boy.)
Pot-boy.– Is there a gent call'd Mr. Clipclose here?
Mr. C.– I am that wretched man!(Slaps his forehead.)
Pot-boy. Who pays the beer?
Pop.– I.
Pot-boy.– Here's a note. (To Mr. C.) Lord, but the man looks queer!
(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.
Другие электронные книги автора Various
Последний отзыв
Так получилось, что книга ко мне попала в тяжелый эмоциональный кризис и многое мне дала. Написано актуально, тут многих полезных вещей, никакого злоу...
Далее