What shall I do with him? If I leave him here, he'll drink
himself into a fever. I must e'en coax him. L'Eclair, come, come, my
dear L'Eclair, let me prevail upon you to go to bed; I'm going to bed
myself.

_L'Ec._ O! fy, that's too broad; I blush for you; would you delude my
innocence?

_Ros._ The profligate monster! I delude!

_L'Ec._ Well, I yield to fate: stars! veil your chaste heads, and thou.
O! little candle, hide thy wick! behold the lamb submitting to the
sacrifice. (_Reels to embrace her._)

_Ros._ Why, you heathen monster! how dare you talk to me about lambs and
sacrifices? ah! if you stir another step, I'll alarm the family! I can
scream, sir!

_L'Ec._ I know you can; but pray, don't, somebody might hear you, and
that would be very disappointing, recollect I have a character to lose.

_Ros._ And have not I a character too, Sir?

_L'Ec._ Hush! hush! Let's drops the subject.

_Ros._ How now, sirrah! have you any thing to say against my character?

_L'Ec._ Oh! no, I never speak ill of the dead.

_Ros._ Why, you vile insinuating, but I shall preserve my temper though
you have lost your manners: well, assuredly of all objects in creation,
the most pitiable is a man in liquor.

_L'Ec._ There's an exception--a man in love.

DUETT.--_Rosabelle and L'Eclair._

_Ros._ The precept of Bacchus to man proves a curse,
The head it confounds, and the heart it bewitches.

_L'Ec._ I'm sure, the example of Cupid is worse,
For he walks abroad without shirt, drawers, or breeches.

_Ros._ Pshaw! Cupid, you dolt, has rich garments enough.

_L'Ec._ Nay, his wardrobe's confin'd to a plain suit of buff.

_Ros._ 'Twas Bacchus taught men to drown reason in cans.

_L'Ec._ 'Twas Cupid taught ladies the first use of fans.

_Ros._ How diff'rent the garland, their votaries twine,--
How genteel is the myrtle--how vulgar the vine!

_L'Ec._ Of myrtle or vine I pretend not to know,
But a fig-leaf I think would be most apropos: [_Exeunt._

SCENE II.--_The Count's Chamber--De Valmont is discovered gazing in
profound meditation upon a miniature picture._

_De Val._ Eugenia!
Now of the angel race, and hous'd in Heaven!
Forgive, dear saint! these blameful eyes that flow
With human love, and mourn thy blessedness.
O! ye strange powers! with what excelling truth
Has Art's small hand here mimic'd mightiest Nature!
What cheeks are these! could Death e'er crop such roses?
Eyes!