Oh, my friend, let me run into thy bosom! no lark escaped from the devouring pounces of a hawk, quakes with more dismal apprehension.
_Y. Mir._ Marriage! hanging! I was just at the gallows foot, the running noose about my neck, and the cart wheeling from me.--Oh, I shan't be myself this month again!
_Dur._ Did not I tell you so? They are all alike, saints or devils!
_Y. Mir._ Ay, ay: there's no living here with security; this house is so full of stratagem and design, that I must abroad again.
_Dur._ With all my heart; I'll bear thee company, my lad: I'll meet you at the play; and we'll set out for Italy to-morrow morning.
_Y. Mir._ A match; I'll go pay my compliment of leave to my father presently.
_Y. Mir._ What, pretend a command over me, after his settlement of a thousand pound a year upon me! No, no, he has passed away his authority with the conveyance; the will of the living father is chiefly obeyed for the sake of the dying one.
Dependence, ev'n a father's sway secures, For, though the son rebels, the heir is yours. [_Exeunt severally._
MIRABEL _and_ DURETETE, _as coming from the Play_.
_Y. Mir._ I liked the company;--the lady, the rich beauty, in the front box, had my attention: These impudent poets bring the ladies together to support them, and to kill every body else.
_For deaths upon the stage, the ladies cry,_ _But ne'er mind us, that in the audience die:_ _The poet's hero should not move their pain,_ _But they should weep for those their eyes have slain._
_Dur._ Hoyty, toyty! did Phillis inspire you with all this?
_Y. Mir._ Ten times more; the playhouse is the element of poetry, because the region of beauty; the ladies, methinks, have a more inspiring, triumphant air in the boxes than any where else--they sit, commanding on their thrones, with all their subject slaves about them;--Their best clothes, best looks, shining jewels, sparkling eyes; the treasure of the world in a ring.--I could wish that my whole life long, were the first night of a new play.
_Dur._ The fellow has quite forgot this journey;--have you bespoke post horses?
_Y. Mir._ Grant me but three days, dear Captain, one to discover the lady, one to unfold myself, and one to make me happy, and then I'm yours to the world's end.