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The Prince. Well, what do they exclude—excepting dress?
Lazarus. What why, each pair of shapely, shining shoulders
You see here, blocks a real artist's path;
Each one of those delectable pots-pourris
Of feeble English, rendering filthy French,
You call extravaganza and burlesque,
Shuts out a comedy which, good or bad,
Might yet be tried; breaks down a poet's hope,
Kills some poor unknown Garrick in the egg.
The nymphs themselves—who'd blame them, simple souls—
Persuade themselves they're "actresses," are proud
To have a Treasury-day, ten bars to learn,
A small name at the bottom of the bills.
Leston (to Lardy.) I'll do my best. A part's impossible,
That Muscovite attaché took the last,
Still, Captain Coldstream strongly urged your claim:
You shall have something in the pantomime.
Nellie. A devil or a page; say, something nice.
I won't wear skirts, I tell you—it's too low.
Tabak. I want a tiny song all to myself.
See how they praised me in the Houndsditch Post:
"The Tabak shows conspicuous aptitude
In the new song, 'We'll douse the glim, and slope.'"
Louie. That Tabak's always cracking up herself!
Leston. What is the figure?
Tabak.What d'you mean?
Leston.How much
Did our dear friend the major pay for that?
Tabak. Pay? Oh, the chap who wrote it had a farce;
The major had it played somewhere; since then I get good notices.
Leston.Of course, the farce
I played, and made the major take ten stalls.
Nellie. A jealous little chit! would you believe
She cried her eyes out—no great loss, I'm sure—
Only because, instead of her, I got
The front place for two nights when May fell ill.
Louie. And weren't you proud, my lady, eh? Oh, no!
If I could only do like other girls
And make up to stage managers, I bet
A shouldn't stay long in the rear
Nellie.For shame!
It is not true—it's all your nasty spite.
Louie. Spite against you—pish, child!
Nellie.Don't pish at me!
Louie. I shall.
Nellie.I won't endure it.
Louie.Your hair's dyed.
Nellie. You wish you'd some to dye!
Louie. How dare you, miss!
Nellie. Dear me!
Louie. Oh my!
Scala.Sweet innocents! they kiss
And coo, and call each other nice soft names,
Till one day, when the dear friend is promoted,
Gets one more inch of tinsel on her boots,
A hat that towers above the common line,
And straightway all the doves are shrill parrots.
Larun. Well, well, ambition's meritorious,
Howe'er it speaks or shrieks.
Filbert.Ambition, sir!
It is a composite of vanity,
Envy, and greed—the curse of modern times.
It eats its way into the nation's heart,
And fires its pulse with feverish recklessness.
There's not a village, not a London lane,
But holds some witless worshipper of print,
For print and print alone means fame to them,
Who'd die to see his name in capitals.
Ambition—it's the vulgarest of virtues,
Since virtue you will call it—one that's shared
By every clerk who grumbles at his pay,
Disdains his duty and detests his chief;
By every corporal weary of his stripes,
By every pinchbeck Radical, athirst
For consulships or judgeships; every youth
Who wears his hair long and his collars low,
And in the Little Peddlington Gazette
Fills up the poet's corner. No, the vice
Of indolence, indifference—that's rare;
That argues some philosophy, some pride,
Some knowledge of humanity and life.