_Mir._ Very much, madam; the most apropos in the world--for, what should I chop upon, but the very place where the perjured rogue of a lover, and the forsaken lady, are battling it tooth and nail! Come, madam, spend your spirits no longer; we'll take an easier method: I'll be Æneas now, and you shall be Dido, and we'll rail by book. Now for you, Madam Dido: _Nec te noster amor, nec te data dextera quondam,_ _Nec Meritura tenet crudeli funere Dido_---- Ah, poor Dido! [_Looking at her._ _Bis._ Rudeness! affronts! impatience! I could almost start out, even to manhood, and want but a weapon, as long as his, to fight him upon the spot. What shall I say? _Mir._ Now she rants. _Quæ quibus anteferam? jam jam nec Maxima Juno._ _Bis._ A man! No, the woman's birth was spirited away. _Mir._ Right, right, madam, the very words. _Bis._ And some pernicious elf left in the cradle, with human shape, to palliate growing mischief. [_Both speak together, and raise their Voices by Degrees._ Mir. _Perfide, sed duris genuit te Cautibus horrens_ _Caucasus, Hyrcanæque admorunt Ubera Tigres._ _Bis._ Go, sir, fly to your midnight revels---- _Mir._ Excellent! _I sequere Italiam ventis, pete regna per undas,_ _Spero equidem mediis, si quid pia Numina possunt._ [Together again. _Bis._ Converse with imps of darkness of your make; your nature starts at justice, and shivers at the touch of virtue.--Now, the devil take his impudence! He vexes me so, I don't know whether to cry or laugh at him. _Mir._ Bravely performed, my dear Libyan! I'll write the tragedy of Dido, and you shall act the part; but you do nothing at all, unless you fret yourself into a fit; for here the poor lady is stifled with vapours, drops into the arms of her maids, and the cruel, barbarous, deceitful, wanderer, is, in the very next line, called pious Æneas.--There's authority for ye. Sorry indeed Æneas stood, To see her in a pout; But Jove himself, who ne'er thought good To stay a second bout, Commands him off, with all his crew, And leaves poor Dy, as I leave you. [_Runs off._ _Bis._ Go thy ways, for a dear, mad, deceitful, agreeable fellow! O' my conscience, I must excuse Oriana. That lover soon his angry fair disarms, Whose slighting pleases, and whose faults are charms. [_Exit._ _Enter_ PETIT; _runs about to every Door, and knocks_. _Petit._ Mr. Mirabel! Sir, where are you? no where to be found? _Enter_ YOUNG MIRABEL. _Y. Mir._ What's the matter, Petit? _Petit._ Most critically met!--Ah, sir, that one who has followed the game so long, and brought the poor hare just under his paws, should let a mungrel cur chop in, and run away with the puss! _Y. Mir._ If your worship can get out of your allegories, be pleased to tell me, in three words, what you mean.