_La Gloire._ Oh diable! this is popularity. Adieu, my grateful neighbours! Thus does many a fool-hardy booby, like me, run his head into danger; and a few empty huzzas, which leave him at the next turning of a corner, are all he gets for his pains. Now, while all the town is gone to dinner, will I go to woo. My poor Madelon must be woefully fallen away, since I quitted Calais, Heigho! I've lost, I warrant me, a good half of my mistress since we parted. I have secured for her the daintiest bits of our whole cargo, as marks of my affection. A butcher couldn't show her more tenderness than I shall. If love were now weighed out by the pound, bating my master, the Count Ribaumont, who is in love with Lady Julia, not all the men in the city could balance the scales with me. [_Exit._ SCENE III. _A Hall, in the House of JOHN de VIENNE._ _Enter JULIA and O'CARROL._ _Julia._ Now, O'Carrol; what is the time of day? _O'Carrol._ Fait, Lady Julia, we might have called it a little past breakfast time, formerly; but since the fashion of eating has been worn out in Calais, a man may be content to say it bears hard upon ten. Och! if clocks were jacks now, time would stand still; and the year would go down, for the want of winding up every now and then. _Julia._ Saw you my father this morning? _O'Carrol._ You may say that. _Julia._ How looked he, O'Carrol? _O'Carrol._ By my soul! Lady Julia, that old father of yours, and master of mine, is a gallant gentleman. And gallantly he bears himself. For certain, and so he ought; being a Knight of Burgundy, and Governor of Calais; but if I was Governor just now, to be sure I should not like to take a small trip from Calais, one morning, just to see what sort of a knight I was in Burgundy. _Julia._ Who has he in his company? _O'Carrol._ Why, madam, why--now dare not I tell who, for fear of offending her.--Company? Why, to be sure I have been in his company:--for want of finer acquaintance, madam, he was e'en forced to put up, half an hour, with an humble friend. _Julia._ Poor fool! thy words are shrewder than thy meaning. How many crowd the narrow space of life With those gay, gaudy flowers of society, Those annuals, call'd acquaintance; which do fade And die away, ere we can say they blosom; Mocking the idle cultivator's care, From year to year; while one poor slip of friendship, Hardy, tho' modest, stands the winter's frost, And cheers its owner's eye with evergreen!