_Page._ Ye--ye--yes--Es--teem! I should have said. _Susan_ (_Laughs_). Yes, yes, Esteem! The poor Youth overflows with Es--teem and Aff--ection--and-- _Page._ Um! (_Aside to Susan_). _Susan._ Nia, nia, nia, (_Mocking the Page_).--Dear Madam, do make him sing those good-for-nothing Verses. _Countess._ (_Takes the verses Susan gave her, from her pocket_) Pray who wrote them? _Susan_ (_Pointing to the Page_). Look, Madam, look! His sins rise in his face--Nobody but an Author could look so silly-- _Countess._ Come, Hannibal, sing. _Susan._ Ah, the bashful Scribbler! SONG. To the Winds, to the Waves, to the Woods I complain; Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart! They hear not my Sighs, and they heed not my Pain; Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart! {{“The name of my Goddess I ’grave on each Tree; Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart! ’Tis I wound the bark, but Love’s arrows wound me: Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart! The Heav’ns I view with their azure bright skies; Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart! But Heaven to me are her still brighter eyes: Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!”}} To the Sun’s morning splendor the poor Indian bows; Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart! But I dare not worship where I pay my Vows: Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart! {{“His God each morn rises and he can adore; Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart! But my Goddess to me must soon never rise more: Ah, well-a-day! My poor heart!”}} (_During the song the Countess is evidently affected by the Passion with which the Page sings._ _Susan._ Now let us try whether one of my Caps-- _Countess._ There is one of mine lies on my dressing-table. (_Exit Susan to the dressing room of the Countess._)--Is your Commission made out? _Page._ Oh yes, Madam, and given me; Here it is. (_Presents his commission to the Countess._) _Countess._ Already? They have made haste I see! They are not willing to lose a moment--Their hurry has made them even forget to affix the Seal. _Susan._ (_Returns_) The Seal! To what, Madam? _Countess._ His Commission. _Susan._ So soon! _Countess._ I was observing, there has been no time lost. (_Returns the Page his Commission; he sticks it in his girdle._) _Susan._ Come--(_Makes the Page kneel down, and puts him on the cap_) What a pretty little Villain it is! I declare I am jealous: see if he is not handsomer than I am! Turn about--There--What’s here?--The riband!--So, so, so! Now all is out! I’m glad of it--I told my young Gentleman I would let you know his thievish tricks, Madam. _Countess._ Fetch me some black patches Susan. (_Exit Susan to her own chamber._