LUCY I have it.--For that matter, you need not send your humanity a travelling, Mr. Cutlet. For instance, last night-- CUTLET Some by fevers, some by gun-shot wounds-- LUCY Only two streets off-- CUTLET Some in drunken quarrels-- LUCY (_Aloud._) The butcher's shop at the corner. CUTLET What were you saying about poor Cleaver? LUCY He has found his ears at last. (_Aside._) That he has had his house burnt down. CUTLET Bless me! LUCY I saw four small children taken in at the green grocer's. CUTLET Do you know if he is insured? LUCY Some say he is, but not to the full amount. CUTLET Not to the full amount--how shocking! He killed more meat than any of the trade between here and Carnaby market--and the poor babes--four of them you say--what a melting sight!--he served some good customers about Marybone--I always think more of the children in these cases than of the fathers and mothers--Lady Lovebrown liked his veal better than any man's in the market--I wonder whether her ladyship is engaged--I must go and comfort poor Cleaver, however.--[_Exit_.] LUCY Now is this pretender to humanity gone to avail himself of a neighbour's supposed ruin to inveigle his customers from him. Fine feelings!--pshaw! [_Exit_.] (_Re-enter Cutlet_.) CUTLET What a deceitful young hussey! there is not a word of truth in her. There has been no fire. How can people play with one's feelings so!--(_sings_)--"For tenderness formed"--No, I'll try the air I made upon myself. The words may compose me--(_sings_). A weeping Londoner I am, A washer-woman was my dam; She bred me up in a cock-loft, And fed my mind with sorrows soft: For when she wrung with elbows stout From linen wet the water out,-- The drops so like to tears did drip, They gave my infant nerves the hyp. Scarce three clean muckingers a week Would dry the brine that dew'd my cheek: So, while I gave my sorrows scope, I almost ruin'd her in soap. My parish learning I did win In ward of Farringdon-Within; Where, after school, I did pursue My sports, as little boys will do. Cockchafers--none like me was found To set them spinning round and round. O, how my tender heart would melt, To think what those poor varmin felt! I never tied tin-kettle, clog, Or salt-box to the tail of dog, Without a pang more keen at heart, Than he felt at his outward part. And when the poor thing clattered off, To all the unfeeling mob a scoff, Thought I, "What that dumb creature feels, With half the parish at his heels!" Arrived, you see, to man's estate, The butcher's calling is my fate; Yet still I keep my feeling ways. And leave the town on slaughtering days.