_Gent._ Either there or at Melesinda's--Adieu! [_Exeunt._

SCENE.--Mr. H----'s _Apartment._

_Mr. H. (solus.)_ Was ever anything so mortifying? to be refused by
old Mother Damnable!--with such parts and address,--and the little
squeamish devils, to dislike me for a name, a sound.--Oh my cursed
name! that it was something I could be revenged on! if it were alive,
that I might tread upon it, or crush it, or pummel it, or kick it, or
spit it out--for it sticks in my throat, and will choke me.

My plaguy ancestors! if they had left me but a Van, or a Mac, or an
Irish O', it had been something to qualify it.--Mynheer Van
Hogsflesh,--or Sawney Mac Hogsflesh,--or Sir Phelim O'Hogsflesh,--but
downright blunt------. If it had been any other name in the world, I
could have borne it. If it had been the name of a beast, as Bull,
Fox, Kid, Lamb, Wolf, Lion; or of a bird, as Sparrow, Hawk, Buzzard,
Daw, Finch, Nightingale; or of a fish, as Sprat, Herring, Salmon; or
the name of a thing, as Ginger, Hay, Wood; or of a color, as Black,
Gray, White, Green; or of a sound, as Bray; or the name of a month,
as March, May; or of a place, as Barnet, Baldock, Hitchen; or the
name of a coin, as Farthing, Penny, Twopenny; or of a profession, as
Butcher, Baker, Carpenter, Piper, Fisher, Fletcher, Fowler, Glover;
or a Jew's name, as Solomons, Isaacs, Jacobs; or a personal name, as
Foot, Leg, Crookshanks, Heaviside, Sidebottom, Longbottom,
Ramsbottom, Winterbottom; or a long name, as Blanchenhagen, or
Blanchenhausen; or a short name, as Crib, Crisp, Crips, Tag, Trot,
Tub, Phips, Padge, Papps, or Prig, or Wig, or Pip, or Trip; Trip had
been something, but Ho---. (_Walks about in great
agitation--recovering his calmness a little, sits down._)

Farewell the most distant thoughts of marriage; the finger-circling
ring, the purity figuring glove, the envy-pining bridemaids, the
wishing parson, and the simpering clerk. Farewell the ambiguous
blush-raising joke, the titter-provoking pun, the morning-stirring
drum.--No son of mine shall exist, to bear my ill-fated name. No
nurse come chuckling, to tell me it is a boy. No midwife, leering at
me from under the lids of professional gravity. I dreamed of
caudle.--(_Sings in a melancholy tone._) Lullaby,
Lullaby,--hush-a-by-baby--how like its papa it is!--(_Makes motions
as if he was nursing._) And then, when grown up, "Is this your son,
Sir?" "Yes, Sir, a poor copy of me, a sad young dog,--just what