ll.
_Baron._--(_presenting the Baroness for Capillaire to take to dinner._)
My wife.

_Capil._--No, no, old chap, you take the mother.
Young 'uns for me (_takes Patchoulia under one arm._)
Here's one, (_takes Rondeletia,_)
And here's another.

[_As they are going out_ ( L.) _the_ PRINCE, _forgetting
himself, passes before_ CAPILLAIRE.

Capil.--Halloa! where are you shoving to, you scrub?
Now for pot-luck, and woe betide the grub."

Match me that, Bogle, if you can! There is wit, genius, and polish for
you! No wonder that the "School for Scandal" has been driven off the
field. But we must positively indulge ourselves with a love scene, were
it merely to qualify the convulsions into which we have been thrown by
the humour of these funny fellows. Mark, learn, and understand how
ladies are to be wooed and won--

"[(_Enter_ PRINCE RODOLPH.) L.

_Rodo._--How's this--what, tears!--Enough to float a frigate!

_Patch._--Sir!

_Ronde._--Sir!

_Rodo._--Oh, it's the valet they look big at!
Come, what's the row?--peace-maker's my capacity.

_Ronde._--Low wretch!

_Patch._--I shudder, man, at your audacity!
How dare you interfere 'twixt your superiors?

_Rodo._--'Twas pity!

_Ronde._--Gracious! pity from inferiors!

_Rodo._--Nay, dry your eyes, your quarrel's cause I've found,
(_sings_) Oh, 'tis love, 'tis love,
'tis love that makes the world go round
The Prince is a sad dog, he'll pop away,
And bag you ten and twenty hearts a-day;
Knocks ladies down like nine-pins, with a look,
And worst of all can not be brought to book.
He sha'n't dim those eyes long, my darlings, shall he?

_Patch._--_Why, you mad flunky!_

_Ronde._--Why, you maniac valet!

_Patch._--Why, you impertinent piece of pretension!

_Ronde._--To call him man would be a condescension.
A valet, paugh! (_going._)

_Prince._--A clear case of cold shoulder.

_Patch._--We'll have you trounced, e'er you're a minute older!

[_Exeunt_ RONDELETIA _and_ PATCHOULIA. ( R.)

_Prince_--(R.) But listen, for a moment. No, they're gone,
Well, this is Cocker's old rule, 'set down one.'
I had no notion, while I was genteel,
How very small indeed a man may feel.
I've made what Capillaire calls a 'diskivery.'