Dimly these lights do burn, as if this boudoir A cloister were; but these fair ornaments, Arranged in chaste profusion, show a maiden Mind dwells here that doth delight in beauty. Yonder, enshrined with wreaths of evergreen And immortelles, a precious picture hangs,-- Her mother and my sister, looking most Pityingly on me. What is this? Why, here’s The carven image of a maid at prayer; And here’s a tender picture of a youth And maiden in a flower-garden, done In placid oils upon a patch of canvas. Methinks the artist had done better had He put here in the corner of the picture Some quaint and curious demon, peeping o’er The garden wall. Why, looking at these toys, So fitting for a maiden’s bower, almost Moves me from my purpose. Must all these Vanish? Will not some angel answer me? No; Heaven answers not a bankrupt’s prayer. My fortune and her fortune swallowed in The hideous maw of speculation; both Banished, completely banished! Why, I’d rather Be exiled from my country than my fortune. But all, all is not lost. She hath a girlish Beauty and a heart most rare; and in This age of rude massed gold there’s value in it. A heaven-dowered woman hath an alchemy That can refine base gold. The bargain’s good.... Ninon, is not thy lady nearly ready?
My lady does demur to wear ze dress, And says she’d rather be plain Violet.
Thy scruples, Violet, are pretty whims; But more become a simpering maid than thy Chaste self. [_Aside_] Alas, the plague of poverty! [_Aloud_] Thou dost obedient service to thy guardian Uncle, and mayst save him from a plague That’s worse than all the plagues that e’er beset The town of Coventry.
Plague take the costume! I do not like it.
Let me turn up these lights--the jewel’s from
Its casket brought. I keep no false coin in My house, no cunning mockery, no smirking Counterfeit. Why, he shall own, and rightly Own, that she, in bodily volition, Movement, and gesture, well doth match a mind That’s matchless.
_Enter_ VIOLET _in fancy costume, and_ NINON _carrying domino_.
Why, thou art richly worth his gold, were his Possessions fabulous.
Whose gold, good uncle? Thou speakest strangely.
Give me thy arm, good uncle. I’ll tease thee.
I do mistrust thou’dst sell me in this costume; For Ninon, chatting as we dressed, and humoring Me, did say that often thus they sell Circassian maids unto the Turk.