BOLT. Then look at me--I'm a perpetual joke!--I'm all point, like a porcupine--all fire, like a poet's heart, and light as his breeches pocket. Old Cotton has gone out all day--ha, ha! don't you take? don't you twig? A'n't you fly? A'n't you awake? MIZ. Yes, I'm awake, but I don't see. BOLT. We are to mind the shop, are we? I say never mind it--let's go out. MIZ. Nonsense! you know master and we are like a man and woman in a weather-house--when one goes out the other stays at home. BOLT. And so, when the old man's back is turned, we are to shew our heads are turned, by stopping in the shop all day--selling check'd neck-handkerchiefs and baby's red stockings? Not we!--we'll go out and have some fun, Bobby. MIZ. No, no! it wont do; we must take care of the shop. BOLT. Now look ye,--how does master take care of his money? MIZ. By locking it up. BOLT. Then that's the way we'll take care of the shop--I'll lock the door, and you shall shut the shutters. MIZ. Oh, come, come! I sha'n't go, nor you sha'n't, either. It wont do, Charley; better be boxed here, than get in the wrong box. BOLT. Well, I've made up my mind; the next job is to make up my body: I must dress. MIZ. Well, you may enjoy your own holiday. Pleasant day, and fine weather to you, and a prosperous return;--I sha'n't go. BOLT. You have no grandeur of soul--you don't love fun. MIZ. Come, don't say that; damn it, I live upon fun--he, he!--you know I do. Give us your hand, Charley. I'll go! Oh dear, a day's pleasure! BOLT. You'll go, will you? MIZ. Give us your hand. BOLT. (_Takes his hand._) Here's off for fun, then! (_Exeunt, R._) SCENE II. _Street--A porch projecting from flat; on the door is a plate inscribed, "Mrs. Stitchley, dress-maker."_ _Enter CUTAWAY, followed by HARRIET, L.H. 1 E._ CUT. This way, this way, charming Harriet; your aunt has not missed you yet; but she soon will; she is now so taken up with her ribbons and beautiful purchases, that she is thinking but little of her beautiful niece. HAR. But this step-- CUT. Stands before your prison door--your only step is flight. HAR. A flight of steps, each one more imprudent than the last. And what awaits me on my descent? CUT. Love, who will be your guide? HAR. A pretty guide--he is blind himself. CUT. True, but there is no resisting him. Love is a _torrent_--and his blindness is a _cataract_. Come, come! the banns have been put up for the last month, at Croydon Church--the ring is in my waistcoat pocket--I've appointed a father to give you away. HAR. Father? I haven't seen him. CUT. Probably not, for though _a father_, he is not yet _apparent_. All is right;--away! fly! when they say love is blind, they only mean he closes his eyes to transgressions like ours. (_Exeunt, R.H._) _Enter BOLT and MIZZLE, smartly dressed, L.H._ BOLT. Well, here we are--out! MIZ. Yes, out in our reckoning, may be.