Too quick for _me_! There's money in this youth.
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.
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!
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 frowst all day Indoors, if they but cough or spurn their hay.
BASHVILLE. Madam, an omnibus to Euston Road, And thence t' th' Angel--
LYDIA. Let us haste, my love: The coachman is impatient.
CASHEL. Did he guess He stays for Cashel Byron, he'd outwait Pompei's sentinel. Let us away. This day of deeds, as yet but half begun, Must ended be in merrie Islington. [_Exeunt_ LYDIA _and_ CASHEL.
BASHVILLE. Gods! how she hangs on's arm! I am alone. Now let me lift the cover from my soul. O wasted humbleness! Deluded diffidence! How often have I said, Lie down, poor footman: She'll never stoop to thee, rear as thou wilt Thy powder to the sky. And now, by Heaven, She stoops below me; condescends upon This hero of the pothouse, whose exploits, Writ in my character from my last place, Would damn me into ostlerdom. And yet There's an eternal justice in it; for By so much as the ne'er subduéd Indian Excels the servile negro, doth this ruffian Precedence take of me. "_Ich dien._" Damnation! I serve. My motto should have been, "I scalp." And yet I do not bear the yoke for gold. Because I love her I have blacked her boots; Because I love her I have cleaned her knives, Doing in this the office of a boy, Whilst, like the celebrated maid that milks And does the meanest chares, I've shared the passions Of Cleopatra. It has been my pride To give her place the greater altitude By lowering mine, and of her dignity To be so jealous that my cheek has flamed Even at the thought of such a deep disgrace As love for such a one as I would be For such a one as she; and now! and now! A prizefighter! O irony! O bathos! To have made way for this! Oh, Bashville, Bashville: Why hast thou thought so lowly of thyself, So heavenly high of her? Let what will come, My love must speak: 'twas my respect was dumb.