CASHEL. I must meet a monarch
This very afternoon at Islington.

LYDIA. At Islington! You must be mad.

CASHEL. A cab!
Go call a cab; and let a cab be called;
And let the man that calls it be thy footman.

LYDIA. You are not well. You shall not go alone.
My carriage waits. I must accompany you.
I go to find my hat. [_Exit._

CASHEL. Like Paracelsus,
Who went to find his soul. [_To_ BASHVILLE.] And now, young man,
How comes it that a fellow of your inches,
So deft a wrestler and so bold a spirit,
Can stoop to be a flunkey? Call on me
On your next evening out. I'll make a man of you.
Surely you are ambitious and aspire----

BASHVILLE. To be a butler and draw corks; wherefore,
By Heaven, I will draw yours.

[_He hits_ CASHEL _on the nose, and runs out_.

CASHEL [_thoughtfully putting the side of his forefinger
to his nose_, _and studying the blood on it_].

Too quick for _me_!
There's money in this youth.

_Re-enter_ LYDIA, _hatted and gloved_.

LYDIA. O Heaven! you bleed.

CASHEL. Lend me a key or other frigid object,
That I may put it down my back, and staunch
The welling life stream.

LYDIA. [_giving him her keys_]. Oh, what _have_ you done?

CASHEL. Flush on the boko napped your footman's left.

LYDIA. I do not understand.

CASHEL. True. Pardon me.
I have received a blow upon the nose
In sport from Bashville. Next, ablution; else
I shall be total gules. [_He hurries out._

LYDIA. How well he speaks!
There is a silver trumpet in his lips
That stirs me to the finger ends. His nose
Dropt lovely color: 'tis a perfect blood.
I would 'twere mingled with mine own!

_Enter_ BASHVILLE

What now?

BASHVILLE. Madam, the coachman can no longer wait:
The horses will take cold.

LYDIA. I do beseech him
A moment's grace. Oh, mockery of wealth!
The third class passenger unchidden rides
Whither and when he will: obsequious trams
Await him hourly: subterranean tubes
With tireless coursers whisk him through the town;
But we, the rich, are slaves to Houyhnhnms:
We wait upon their colds, and fro