Und. Promp. [Within.] No, sir.
Puff. Now, then, for soft music.
Sneer. Pray, what’s that for?
Puff. It shows that Tilburina is coming!—nothing introduces you a heroine like soft music. Here she comes!
Dang. And her confidant, I suppose?
Puff. To be sure! Here they are—inconsolable to the minuet in Ariadne!
[Soft music.
“Enter Tilburina and Confidant.
| Tilb. … | Now has the whispering breath of gentle morn |
| Bid Nature’s voice and Nature’s beauty rise; | |
| While orient Phœbus, with unborrow’d hues, | |
| Clothes the waked loveliness which all night slept | |
| In heavenly drapery! Darkness is fled. | |
| Now flowers unfold their beauties to the sun, | |
| And, blushing, kiss the beam he sends to wake them— | |
| The striped carnation, and the guarded rose, | |
| The vulgar wallflower, and smart gillyflower, | |
| The polyanthus mean—the dapper daisy, | |
| Sweet-william, and sweet marjoram—and all | |
| The tribe of single and of double pinks! | |
| Now, too, the feather’d warblers tune their notes | |
| Around, and charm the listening grove. The lark! | |
| The linnet! chaffinch! bullfinch! goldfinch! greenfinch! | |
| But O, to me no joy can they afford! | |
| Nor rose, nor wallflower, nor smart gillyflower, | |
| Nor polyanthus mean, nor dapper daisy, | |
| Nor William sweet, nor marjoram—nor lark, | |
| Linnet, nor all the finches of the grove!’ |
Puff. Your white handkerchief, madam!—
Tilb. I thought, sir, I wasn’t to use that till heart-rending woe.
Puff. O yes, madam, at the finches of the grove, if you please.
| “Tilb. | Nor lark, |
| Linnet, nor all the finches of the grove! |
[Weeps.”
Puff. Vastly well, madam!
Dang. Vastly well, indeed!
| “Tilb. | For, O, too sure, heart-rending woe is now |
| The lot of wretched Tilburina!” |
Dang. Oh!—it’s too much.
Sneer. Oh!—it is indeed.
| “Con. … | Be comforted, sweet lady; for who knows, |
| But Heaven has yet some milk-white day in store? |
| Tilb. | Alas! my gentle Nora, |
| Thy tender youth as yet hath never mourn’d | |
| Love’s fatal dart. Else wouldst thou know, that when | |
| The soul is sunk in comfortless despair, | |
| It cannot taste of merriment.” |
Dang. That’s certain!
| “Con. | But see where your stern father comes: |
| It is not meet that he should find you thus.” |
Puff. Hey, what the plague!—what a cut is here! Why, what is become of the description of her first meeting with Don Whiskerandos—his gallant behaviour in the sea-fight—and the simile of the canary- bird?
Tilb. Indeed, sir, you’ll find they will not be missed.
Puff. Very well, very well!
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