# Ruddigore/Act 2

ACT II
Duet—Robin and Adam
Rob.
Adam.
Both.
I once was as meek as a new-born lamb, I'm now Sir Murgatroyd—ha! ha! With greater precision, (Without the elision) Sir Ruthven Murgatroyd—ha! ha!
And I, who was once his valley-de-sham, As steward I'm now employed—ha! ha! The dickens may take him— I'll never forsake him! As steward I'm now employed—ha! ha!
How dreadful when an innocent heart Becomes, perforce, a bad young Bart., And still more hard on old Adam His former faithful valley-de-sham!
Rob. This is a painful state of things, Old Adam!
Adam. Painful, indeed! Ah, my poor master, when I swore that, come what would, I would serve you in all things for ever, I little thought to what a pass it would bring me! The confidential adviser to the greatest villain unhung! Now, Sir, to business. What crime do you propose to commit to-day?
​Rob. How should I know? As my confidential adviser, it's your duty to suggest something.
Adam. Sir, I loathe the life you are leading, but a good old man's oath is paramount, and I obey. Richard Dauntless is here with pretty Rose Maybud, to ask your consent to their marriage. Poison their beer.
Rob. No—not that—I know I'm a bad Bart, but I'm not as bad a Bart as all that.
Adam. Well, there you are, you see! It's no use my making suggestions if you don't adopt them.
Rob. [Melodramatically.] How would it be, do you think, were I to lure him here with cunning wile—bind him with good stout rope to yonder post—and then, by making hideous faces at him, curdle the heart-blood in his arteries, and freeze the very marrow in his bones? How say you, Adam, is not the scheme well planned?
Adam. It would be simply rude—nothing more. But soft—they come!
Adam and Robin retire up as Richard and Rose enter, preceded by Chorus of Bridesmaids
Duet—Richard and Rose
Rich.
Happily coupled are we, You see— I am a jolly Jack Tar, My star,  And you are the fairest,  The richest and rarest Of innocent lasses you are, By far— Of innocent lasses you are!
Fanned by a favouring gale, You'll sail Over life's treacherous sea With me,
And as for bad weather  We'll brave it together, And you shall creep under my lee, My wee! And you shall creep under my lee!
For you are such a smart little craft— Such a neat little, sweet little craft,  Such a bright little, tight little,  Slight little, light little, Trim little, prim little craft!
Chorus
For she is such, etc.
Rose.
My hopes will be blighted, I fear, My dear; In a month you'll be going to sea, Quite free,  And all of my wishes  You'll throw to the fishes As though they were never to be; Poor me! As though they were never to be.
And I shall be left all alone To moan, And weep at your cruel deceit, Complete;  While you'll be asserting  Your freedom by flirting With every woman you meet, You cheat— With every woman you meet!
Though I am such a smart little craft— Such a neat little, sweet little craft,  Such a bright little, tight little,  Slight little, light little, Trim little, prim little craft!
Chorus
Though she is such, etc.
Enter Robin
Rob. Soho! pretty one—in my power at last, eh? Know ye not that I have those within my call who, at my lightest bidding, would immure ye in an uncomfortable dungeon? [Calling.] What ho! within there!
Rich. Hold—we are prepared for this [Producing a Union Jack.] Here is a flag that none dare defy [all kneel], and while this glorious rag floats over Rose Maybud's head, the man does not live who would dare to lay unlicensed hand upon her!
Rob. Foiled—and by a Union Jack! But a time will come, and then—
Rose. Nay, let me plead with him. [To Robin.] Sir Ruthven, have pity. In my book of etiquette the case of a maiden about to be wedded to one who unexpectedly turns out to be a baronet with a curse on him, is not considered. Time was when you loved me madly. Prove that this was no selfish love by according your consent to my marriage with one who, if he be not yourself, is the next best thing—your dearest friend!
Ballad
Rose.
All. [Kneeling.]
Rob. [Recit.] All. [Recit.]
In bygone days I had thy love— Thou hadst my heart. But Fate, all human vows above, Our lives did part! By the old love thou hadst for me— By the fond heart that beat for thee— By joys that never now can be, Grant thou my prayer!
Grant thou her prayer!
Take her—I yield! Oh, rapture!
Chorus
Away to the parson we go— Say we're solicitous very That he will turn two into one— Singing hey, derry down derry!
For she is such a smart little craft Such a neat little, sweet little craft— Such a bright little— Tight little— Slight little— Light little— Trim little, slim little craft!
Chorus
For she is such a smart little craft, etc.
Rob. For a week I have fulfilled my accursed doom! I have duly committed a crime a day! Not a great crime, I trust, but still, in the eyes of one as strictly regulated as I used to be, a crime. But will my ghostly ancestors be satisfied with what I have done, or will they regard it as an unworthy subterfuge? [Addressing Pictures.] Oh, my forefathers, wallowers in blood, there came at last a day when, sick of crime, you, each and every, vowed to sin no more, and so, in agony, called welcome Death to free you from your cloying guiltiness. Let the sweet psalm of that repentant hour soften your long-dead hearts,
[The stage darkens for a moment. It becomes light again, and the Pictures are seen to have become animated.
Chorus of Family Portraits
Painted emblems of a race All accurst in days of yore, Each from his accustomed place Steps into the world once more.
Baronet of Ruddigore, Last of our accursed line, Down upon the oaken floor— Down upon those knees of thine.
Coward, poltroon, shaker, squeamer, Blockhead, sluggard, dullard, dreamer, Shirker, shuffler, crawler, creeper, Sniffler, snuffler, wailer, weeper, Earthworm, maggot, tadpole, weevil! Set upon thy course of evil Lest the King of Spectre-land Set on thee his grisly hand!
The spectre of Sir Roderic descends from his frame.
Sir Rod. Chorus
Sir Rod. Chorus
Sir Rod. Chorus
Sir Rod. Chorus
By the curse upon our race— Dead and hearsèd All accursèd! Each inheriting this place— Sorrows shake it! Devil take it! Must, perforce, or yea or nay— Yea or naying Be obeying! Do a deadly crime each day! Fire and thunder, We knocked under— Some atrocious crime committed Daily ere the world we quitted!
Sir Rod. Rob.
Beware! beware! beware! Gaunt vision, who art thou That thus, with icy glare And stern relentless brow, Appearest, who knows how?
Sir Rod.
I am the spectre of the late Sir Roderic Murgatroyd. Who comes to warn thee that thy fate Thou canst not now avoid.
Sir Rod.
Alas, poor ghost! The pity you Express for nothing goes:
We spectres are a jollier crew Than you, perhaps, suppose!
Chorus.
Yes! yes! We spectres are a jollier crew Than you, perhaps, suppose! Ha! ha!
Song—Sir Roderic
When the night wind howls in the chimney cowls, and the bat in the moonlight flies, And inky clouds, like funeral shrouds, sail over the midnight skies— When the footpads quail at the night-bird's wail, and black dogs bay at the moon, Then is the spectres' holiday—then is the ghosts' high-noon!
Chorus
Ha! ha! Then is the ghosts' high-noon!
Sir Roderic
As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees and the mists lie low on the fen, From gray tomb-stones are gathered the bones that once were women and men, And away they go, with a mop and a mow, to the revel that ends too soon, For cockcrow limits our holiday—the dead of the night's high-noon!
Chorus
Ha! ha! The dead of the night's high-noon!
Sir Roderic
And then each ghost with his ladye-toast to their churchyard beds takes flight, With a kiss, perhaps, on her lantern chaps, and a grisly, grim "good-night"; Till the welcome knell of the midnight bell rings forth its jolliest tune, And ushers in our next high holiday—the dead of the night's high-noon!
Chorus
Ha! ha! The dead of the night's high-noon!
Rob. I recognize you now—you are the picture that hangs at the end of the gallery.
Sir Rod. In a bad light. I am.
Rob. Are you considered a good likeness?
Sir Rod. Pretty well. Flattering.
Rob. Because as a work of art you are poor.
Sir Rod. I am crude in colour, but I have only been painted ten years. In a couple of centuries I shall be an Old Master, and then you will be sorry you spoke lightly of me.
Rob. And may I ask why you have left your frames?
Sir Rod. It is our duty to see that our successors commit their daily crimes in a conscientious and workmanlike fashion. It is our duty to remind you that you are evading the conditions under which you are permitted to exist.
Rob. Really, I don't know what you'd have. I've only been a bad baronet a week, and I've committed a crime punctually every day.
Sir Rod. Let us inquire into this. Monday?
Rob. Monday was a Bank Holiday.
Sir Rod. True. Tuesday?
Rob. On Tuesday I made a false income tax return.
All. Ha! ha!
First Ghost That's nothing.
Second Ghost. Nothing at all.
Third Ghost. Everybody does that.
Fourth Ghost. It's expected of you.
Sir Rod. Wednesday?
Rob. [Melodramatically.] On Wednesday I forged a will.
Sir Rod. Whose will?
Rob. My own.
Sir Rod. My good sir, you can't forge your own will!
Rob. Can't I though! I like that! I did! Besides, if a man can't forge his own will, whose will can he forge?
First Ghost. There's something in that.
Second Ghost. Yes, it seems reasonable.
​Third Ghost At first sight it does.
Fourth Ghost Fallacy somewhere, I fancy!
Rob. A man can do what he likes with his own?
Sir Rod. I suppose he can.
Rob. Well, then, he can forge his own will, stoopid! On Thursday I shot a fox.
First Ghost Hear, hear!
Sir Rod. That's better. [Addressing Ghosts] Pass the fox, I think? [They assent.] Yes, pass the fox. Friday?
Rob. On Friday I forged a cheque.
Sir Rod. Whose cheque?
Rob. Old Adam's.
Sir Rod. But Old Adam hasn't a banker.
Rob. I didn't say I forged his banker—I said I forged his cheque. On Saturday I disinherited my only son.
Sir Rod. But you haven't got a son.
Rob. No—not yet. I disinherited him in advance, to save time. You see—by this arrangement—he'll be born ready disinherited.
Sir Rod. I see. But I don't think you can do that.
Rob. My good sir, if I can't disinherit my own unborn son, whose unborn son can I disinherit?
Sir Rod. Humph! These arguments sound very well, but I can't help thinking that, if they were reduced to syllogistic form, they wouldn't hold water. Now quite understand us. We are foggy, but we don't permit our fogginess to be presumed upon. Unless you undertake to—well, suppose we say, carry off a lady? [Addressing Ghosts.] Those who are in favour of his carrying off a lady—[All hold up their hands except a Bishop.] Those of the contrary opinion? [Bishop holds up his hands.] Oh, you're never satisfied! Yes, unless you undertake to carry off a lady at once—I don't care what lady—any lady—choose your lady—you perish in inconceivable agonies.
Rob. Carry off a lady? Certainly not, on any account. I've the greatest respect for ladies, and I wouldn't do anything of the kind for worlds! No, no. I'm not that kind of baronet, I assure you! If that's all you've got to say, you'd better go back to your frames.
| “ | GHOSTS MAKE PASSES—ROBIN BEGINS TO WRITHE IN AGONY (P. 153) | ” |
​Sir Rod. Very good—then let the agonies commence.
Rob. Oh! Oh! Don't do that! I can't stand it!
Sir Rod. Painful, isn't it? It gets worse by degrees.
Rob. Oh—Oh! Stop a bit! Stop it, will you? I want to speak.
Sir Rod. Better?
Rob. Yes—better now! Whew!
Sir Rod. Well, do you consent?
Rob. But it's such an ungentlemanly thing to do!
Sir Rod. As you please. [To Ghosts.] Carry on!
Rob. Stop—I can't stand it! I agree! I promise! It shall be done.
Sir Rod. To-day?
Rob. To-day!
Sir Rod. At once?
Rob. At once! I retract! I apologize! I had no idea it was anything like that!
Chorus
Rob.
All.
He yields! He answers to our call! We do not ask for more. A sturdy fellow, after all, This latest Ruddigore! All perish in unheard of woe Who dare our wills defy; We want your pardon, ere we go, For having agonized you so— So pardon us— So pardon us— So pardon us— Or die! I pardon you! I pardon you! He pardons us— Hurrah!
Chorus
Painted emblems of a race, All accurst in days of yore, Each to his accustomed place Steps unwillingly once more!
Enter Adam.
Adam. My poor master, you are not well—
Rob. Gideon Crawle, it won't do—I've seen 'em—all my ancestors—they're just gone. They say that I must do something desperate at once, or perish in horrible agonies. Go—go to yonder village—carry off a maiden—bring her here at once—any one—I don't care which—
Adam. But—
Rob. Not a word, but obey! Fly! [Exit Adam
Recit. and Song
Rob.
Away, Remorse! Compunction, hence! Go, Moral Force! Go, Penitence! To Virtue's plea A long farewell— Propriety, I ring your knell! Come, guiltiness of deadliest hue! Come, desperate deeds of derring do!
Henceforth all the crimes that I find in the "Times". I've promised to perpetrate daily; To-morrow I start with a petrified heart, On a regular course of Old Bailey. There's confidence tricking, bad coin, pocket-picking, And several other disgraces— There's postage-stamp prigging, and then thimble-rigging, The three-card delusion at races!
Oh! A Baronet's rank is exceedingly nice, But the title's uncommonly dear at the price!
Ye well-to-do squires, who live in the shires, Where petty distinctions are vital, Who found Athenaeums and local museums, With a view to a baronet's title— Ye butchers and bakers and candlestick makers Who sneer at all things that are tradey— Whose middle-class lives are embarrassed by wives Who long to parade as "My Lady", Oh! allow me to offer a word of advice, The title's uncommonly dear at the price!
Ye supple M.P.'s who go down on your knees, Your precious identity sinking, And vote black or white as your leaders indite (Which saves you the trouble of thinking), For your country's good fame, her repute, or her shame, You don't care the snuff of a candle— But you're paid for your game when you're told that your name Will be graced by a baronet's handle— Oh! Allow me to give you a word of advice— The title's uncommonly dear at the price!
Duet
Des. Mar. Des. Mar. Des.
Mar.
I once was a very abandoned person— Making the most of evil chances. Nobody could conceive a worse 'un— Even in all the old romances. I blush for my wild extravagances, But be so kind To bear in mind, We were the victims of circumstances! [Dance. That is one of our blameless dances.
I was once an exceedingly odd young lady— Suffering much from spleen and vapours. Clergymen thought my conduct shady— She didn't spend much upon linen-drapers. It certainly entertained the gapers. My ways were strange Beyond all range— Paragraphs got into all the papers. [Dance. We only cut respectable capers.
I've given up all my wild proceedings. My taste for a wandering life is waning. Now I'm a dab at penny readings. They are not remarkably entertaining. A moderate livelihood we're gaining. In fact we rule A National school. The duties are dull, but I'm not complaining. [Dance. This sort of thing takes a deal of training!
Des. We have been married a week.
Mar. One happy, happy week!
Des. Our new life—
Mar. Is delightful indeed!
Des. So calm!
Mar. So unimpassioned! [Wildly.] Master, all this I owe to you! See, I am no longer wild and untidy. My hair is combed. My face is washed. My boots fit!
Des. Margaret, don't. Pray restrain yourself. Remember, you are now a district visitor.
Mar. A gentle district visitor!
Des. You are orderly, methodical, neat; you have your emotions well under control.
Mar. I have! [Wildly.] Master, when I think of all you have done for me, I fall at your feet. I embrace your ankles. I hug your knees! [Doing so.
Des. Hush. This is not well. This is calculated to provoke remark. Be composed, I beg!
Mar. Ah! you are angry with poor little Mad Margaret!
​Des. No, not angry; but a district visitor should learn to eschew melodrama. Visit the poor, by all means, and give them tea and barley-water, but don't do it as if you were administering a bowl of deadly nightshade. It upsets them. Then when you nurse sick people, and find them not as well as could be expected, why go into hysterics?
Mar. Why not?
Des. Because it's too jumpy for a sick-room.
Mar. How strange! Oh, Master! Master!—how shall I express the all-absorbing gratitude that— [About to throw herself at his feet.
Des. Now! [Warningly.
Mar. Yes, I know, dear—it shan't occur again. [He is seated—she sits on the ground by him.] Shall I tell you one of poor Mad Margaret's odd thoughts? Well, then, when I am lying awake at night, and the pale moonlight streams through the latticed casement, strange fancies crowd upon my poor mad brain, and I sometimes think that if we could hit upon some word for you to use whenever I am about to relapse—some word that teems with hidden meaning—like "Basingstoke"—it might recall me to my saner self. For, after all, I am only Mad Margaret! Daft Meg! Poor Meg! He! he! he!
Des. Poor child, she wanders! But soft—some one comes—Margaret pray recollect yourself—Basingstoke, I beg! Margaret, if you don't Basingstoke at once, I shall be seriously angry.
Mar. [Recovering herself.] Basingstoke it is!
Des. Then make it so.
Enter Robin. He starts on seeing them
Rob. Despard! And his young wife! This visit is unexpected.
Mar. Shall I fly at him? Shall I tear him limb from limb? Shall I rend him asunder? Say but the word and—
Des. Basingstoke!
Mar. [Suddenly demure.] Basingstoke it is!
Des. [Aside.] Then make it so. [Aloud.] My brother—I call you brother still, despite your horrible profligacy—we have come to urge you to abandon the evil courses to which you have committed yourself, and at any cost to become a pure and blameless ratepayer.
​Rob. But I've done no wrong yet.
Mar. [Wildly.] No wrong! He has done no wrong! Did you hear that!
Des. Basingstoke!
Mar. [Recovering herself.] Basingstoke it is!
Des. My brother—I still call you brother, you observe—you forget that you have been, in the eye of the law, a Bad Baronet of Ruddigore for ten years—and you are therefore responsible—in the eye of the law—for all the misdeeds committed by the unhappy gentleman who occupied your place.
Rob. I see! Bless my heart, I never thought of that! Was I very bad?
Des. Awful. Wasn't he? [To Margaret.]
Rob. And I've been going on like this for how long?
Des. Ten years! Think of all the atrocities you have committed—by attorney as it were—during that period. Remember how you trifled with this poor child's affections—how you raised her hopes on high (don't cry, my love—Basingstoke, you know), only to trample them in the dust when they were at the very zenith of their fullness. Oh fie, sir, fie—she trusted you!
Rob. Did she? What a scoundrel I must have been! There, there—don't cry, my dear [To Margaret, who is sobbing on Robin's breast], it's all right now. Birmingham, you know—Birmingham—
Mar. [Sobbing.] It's Ba—Ba—Basingstoke!
Rob. Basingstoke! Of course it is—Basingstoke.
Mar. Then make it so!
Rob. There, there—it's all right—he's married you now—that is, I've married you—[Turning to Despard]—I say, which of us has married her?
Des. Oh, I've married her.
Rob. [Aside.] Oh, I'm glad of that. [To Margaret.] Yes, he's married you now [passing her over to Despard], and anything more disreputable than my conduct seems to have been I've never even heard of. But my mind is made up—I will defy my ancestors. I will refuse to obey their behests, and thus, by courting death, atone in some degree for the infamy of my career!
Mar. I knew it—I knew it—God bless you—[Hysterically.
Des. Basingstoke!
Mar. Basingstoke it is! [Recovers herself.
Patter-Trio
Robin
My eyes are fully open to my awful situation— I shall go at once to Roderic and make him an oration. I shall tell him I've recovered my forgotten moral senses, And I don't care twopence-halfpenny for any consequences. Now I do not want to perish by the sword or by the dagger, But a martyr may indulge a little pardonable swagger, And a word or two of compliment my vanity would flatter, But I've got to die tomorrow, so it really doesn't matter! Des.So it really doesn't matter— Mar.So it really doesn't matter— All. So it really doesn't matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!
Margaret
If I were not a little mad and generally silly I should give you my advice upon the subject, willy nilly; I should show you in a moment how to grapple with the question, And you'd really be astonished at the force of my suggestion. On the subject I shall write you a most valuable letter, Full of excellent suggestions when I feel a little better, But at present I'm afraid I am as mad as any hatter, So I'll keep 'em to myself, for my opinion doesn't matter! Des.Her opinion doesn't matter—
Rob.Her opinion doesn't matter—
All. Her opinion doesn't matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!
Despard
If I had been so lucky as to have a steady brother Who could talk to me as we are talking now to one another—
Who could give me good advice when he discovered I was erring (Which is just the very favour which on you I am conferring), My story would have made a rather interesting idyll, And I might have lived and died a very decent indiwiddle. This particularly rapid, unintelligible patter Isn't generally heard, and if it is it doesn't matter! Rob.If it is it doesn't matter—
Mar.If it ain't it doesn't matter— All. If it is it doesn't matter, matter, matter, matter, matter!
[Exeunt Despard and Margaret
Enter Adam
Adam. [Guiltily.] Master—the deed is done!
Rob. What deed?
Adam. She is here—alone, unprotected—
Rob. Who?
Adam. The maiden. I've carried her off—I had a hard task, for she fought like a tiger-cat!
Rob. Great Heaven, I had forgotten her! I had hoped to have died unspotted by crime, but I am foiled again—and by a tiger-cat! Produce her—and leave us!
Rob. Dame Hannah! This is—this is not what I expected.
Han. Well, sir, and what would you with me? Oh, you have begun bravely—bravely indeed! Unappalled by the calm dignity of blameless womanhood, your minion has torn me from my spotless home, and dragged me, blindfold and shrieking, through hedges, over stiles, and across a very difficult country, and left me, helpless and trembling at your mercy! Yet not helpless, coward sir, for approach one step—nay, but the twentieth part of one poor inch—and this poniard [produces a very small dagger] shall teach ye what it is to lay unholy hands on old Stephen Trusty's daughter!
Rob. Madam, I am extremely sorry for this. It is not at all what I intended—anything more correct—more deeply respectful than my intentions towards you, it would be impossible for any one—however particular—to desire.
Han. Bah, I am not to be tricked by smooth words, hypocrite! But be warned in time, for there are, without, a hundred gallant hearts whose trusty blades would hack him limb from limb who dared to lay unholy hands on old Stephen Trusty's daughter!
Rob. And this is what it is to embark upon a career of unlicensed pleasure!
Han. Harkye, miscreant, you have secured me, and I am your poor prisoner; but if you think I cannot take care of myself ​
| “ | "WHAT IS THE MATTER? HAVE YOU CARRIED HER OFF?" (P. 161) | ” |
Rob. [In an agony of terror.] Don't! don't look at me like that! I can't bear it! Roderic! Uncle! Save me!
Roderic enters, from his picture. He comes down the stage
Rod. What is the matter? Have you carried her off?
Rob. I have—she is there—look at her—she terrifies me! Come quite up and save me!
Rod. [Looking at Hannah.] Little Nannikin!
Han. [Amazed.] Roddy-doddy!
Rod. My own old love! Why how came you here?
Rod. Stop! [To Rob.] What do you mean by carrying off this lady? Are you aware that once upon a time she was engaged to be married to me? I'm very angry—very angry indeed.
Rob. Now I hope this will be a lesson to you in future, not to—
Rod. Hold your tongue, sir.
Rob. Yes, uncle.
Rod. Have you given him any encouragement?
Han. [To Rob.] Have I given you any encouragement? Frankly now, have I?
Rob. No. Frankly, you have not. Anything more scrupulously correct than your conduct, it would be impossible to desire.
Rod. You go away.
Rob. Yes, uncle.
Rod. This is a strange meeting after so many years!
Han. Very. I thought you were dead.
Rod. I am. I died ten years ago.
Han. And are you pretty comfortable?
Rod. Pretty well—that is—yes, pretty well.
Han. You don't deserve to be, for I loved you all the while, dear, and it made me dreadfully unhappy to hear of all your goings on, you bad, bad boy!
Ballad
Han.
Both.
Han.
There grew a little flower 'Neath a great oak tree: When the tempest 'gan to lower Little heeded she: No need had she to cower, For she dreaded not its power—
She was happy in the bower Of her great oak tree! Sing hey, Lackaday! Let the tears fall free For the pretty little flower and the great oak tree!
Sing hey, Lackaday! etc.
When she found that he was fickle, Was that great oak tree, She was in a pretty pickle, As she well might be— But his gallantries were mickle, For Death followed with his sickle, And her tears began to trickle For her great oak tree! Sing hey, Lackaday! etc.
Said she, "He loved me never, Did that great oak tree, But I'm neither rich nor clever, And so why should he? But though fate our fortunes sever, To be constant I'll endeavour, Aye, for ever and for ever, To my great oak tree!" Sing hey, Lackaday! etc.
Enter Robin, excitedly, followed by all the characters and Chorus of Bridesmaids
Rob. Stop a bit—both of you.
Rod. This intrusion is unmannerly.
Han. I'm surprised at you.
Rob. I can't stop to apologize—an idea has just occurred to me. A Baronet of Ruddigore can only die through refusing to commit his daily crime.
Rod. No doubt.
Rob. Therefore, to refuse to commit a daily crime is tantamount to suicide!
Rod. It would seem so.
Rob. But suicide is, itself, a crime—and so, by your own showing, you ought never to have died at all!
Rod. I see—I understand! Then I'm practically alive!
Rob. Undoubtedly! [Sir Roderic embraces Hannah.] Rose, when you believed that I was a simple farmer, I believe you loved me?
Rose. Madly, passionately!
Rob. But when I became a bad baronet, you very properly loved Richard instead?
Rose. Passionately, madly!
Rob. But if I should turn out not to be a bad baronet after all, how would you love me then?
Rose. Madly, passionately!
Rob. As before?
Rose. Why, of course!
Rich. Here, I say, belay.
Rose. Oh, sir, belay, if it's absolutely necessary.
Rob. Belay? Certainly not!
Finale
Rob.
Having been a wicked baronet a week, Once again a modest livelihood I seek, Agricultural employment Is to me a keen enjoyment, For I'm naturally diffident and meek!
​Rose. Rich. Des. & Mar.
When a man has been a naughty baronet, And expresses his repentance and regret, You should help him, if you're able, Like the mousie in the fable, That's the teaching of my Book of Etiquette.
If you ask me why I do not pipe my eye, Like an honest British sailor, I reply, That with Zorah for my missis, There'll be bread and cheese and kisses, Which is just the sort of ration I enjye!
Prompted by a keen desire to evoke All the blessed calm of matrimony's yoke, We shall toddle off to-morrow, From this scene of sin and sorrow, For to settle in the town of Basingstoke!
All.
For happy the lily, That's kissed by the bee; And, sipping tranquilly, Quite happy is he; And happy the filly That neighs in her pride; But happier than any, A pound to a penny, A lover is, when he Embraces his bride!
Curtain