THE CAPTIVE, A COMIC OPERA; As it is Perform'd at the THEATRE-ROYAL IN THE HAY-MARKET.
LONDON: Printed for W. GRIFFIN, at GARRICK's HEAD, in
Catharine-Street
in the
Strand.
1769.
ADVERTISEMENT.
MR. FOOTE's Situation rendering it impossible for him to perform the smaller Pieces of his own Writing as often as the PUBLIC would desire them, thought that a SINGING FARCE, though pretending to no other Merit than that of good MUSIC, would be more acceptable to his AUDITORS than others destitute of that ORNAMENT, which had been often performed at the Winter THEATRES.
The DIALOGUE of this Trifle is taken, with some Alterations, from a PLAY of DRYDEN's: In that Part it is inoffensive; and the SONGS, which have been selected with great Care, will, it is hoped, afford Entertainment.
TABLE of the SONGS, with the COMPOSERS NAMES.
Those marked thus * are composed on purpose for this OPERA.
ACT I.
1 * Ah, how sweet the rural scene!
Dibdin.
2 Lord, my dear, why such ill nature?
Gallupi.
3 Cease ye fountains, cease to murmur,
Cocchi.
4 * Poor panting heart, ah! wilt thou ever
Dibdin.
5 For vengeance dire thou wretch prepare,
Vinci.
6 For all her art,
Dibdin.
7 Thus low for all your favours,
Ciampi.
8 The wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Perez.
ACT II.
9 Alas! 'tis in vain,
Vento.
10 * In emblem I am like a cat,
Dibdin.
11 * But pr'ythee spare me,
Dibdin.
12 * Now, now, my fairest, let us go,
Dibdin.
13 Hence with anger, hence with chiding,
Cocchi.
Chorus,
Duny.
PERSONS.
MEN.
The Cadi,
Mr. BANNISTER.
Ferdinand,
Mr. DU-BELLAMY.
WOMEN.
Fatima,
Mrs. ARTHUR.
Zorayda,
Mrs. JEWEL.
SCENE,
a Garden belonging to the
CADI,
near
ALGIERS.
THE CAPTIVE.
ACT. I.
SCENE I.
A Garden belonging to the
CADI
's house. On the curtain's rising the
CADI
appears, seated cross-legg'd, in a sort of pavilion. He is smoking a long pipe. On either side of him sit his wife
FATIMA
and his daughter
ZORAYDA.
Some men and women slaves appear at work in the garden. After the chorus the
CADI
and
FATIMA
rise, and are met by
FERDINAND,
who presents a letter.
CHORUS.
AH, how sweet the rural scene!
Circled by those charming groves,
Slavery its labour loves,
And the captive hugs his chain.
Come, Fatima, we'll rise and take a walk towards the house, honey-bird. You, daughter Zorayda, may stay in the garden longer if you like it.
Now love and fortune assist me!
(kneeling)
Most noble Cadi, your friend Uchali, admiral of the Dey's gallies at Algiers, commands me thus to prostrate myself—
What are you, Christian?
That letter will inform you.
A good personable fellow.
(reading)
"The bearer, a Spaniard by birth, has been a slave of mine upwards of a year, during which time he has behaved himself well; yesterday he received money for his ransom; and being now free, only waits for a ship to carry him to his own country: 'till an opportunity offers he desires to remain among your slaves, many of whom are his countrymen. You may venture to trust him; and he will repay your kindness by discharging any office in your family you think proper to appoint him."
I like him prodigiously.
This letter is, indeed, from my friend Uchali. Well, Christian, I have no objection to your staying awhile among my slaves, if you will conduct yourself quietly, and be of use in my garden here.
I have been bred to gardening from my youth.
I'll bring him into that arbour, where a rose-tree and a myrtle are just falling for want of a prop; if they were bound together they would help to keep one another up.
Come into the house, I say; he does not want your help. To work, sirrah, if you'd stay with me—
Take this little alms to buy you tobacco.
Lord, my dear, why such ill-nature?
Heaven and earth at once demand
Pity for a wretched creature,
Captive in a foreign land.
Shall our mein of harshness savour?
No, 'twas never your intent:
Yet I hope my kind behaviour
Will be construed as 'twas meant.
SCENE II.
During the former Scene a black slave brings a basket of flowers to
ZORAYDA,
from which she culls a nosegay. When the
CADI
and
FATIMA
go off,
FERDINAND
advances, but retires again, upon a motion from
ZORAYDA,
who rises afterwards, and comes forward.
They're gone. Now might I venture to speak to my dear Zorayda!—She makes signs to me with her hand to keep back. I must do so for a while, till her father has got at a greater distance.
Cease, ye fountains, cease to murmur;
Leave, ye gentle gales, to blow;
Softly flowing,
Gently blowing,
Ye but wake my tender woe.
They are quite out of sight.
Come near then.
My life! my angel!
Have a care. My father has been but three days here in the country. I perceive you have disposed of the money I conveyed to you, in the manner I desired, to procure your ransom.
It is true. Owing to your bounty, I am at length a free man, and procured that letter from my former master, to be received among your father's slaves; which has answered to my wish, and I now only wait for your farther commands.
Tho' this is the first time of our speaking together, my letters have sufficiently informed you who and what I am. You have not forgot the purport of my last?
No, sweet creature.
You know my desire is to become of your religion, and to go with you from hence to Spain. What have you done about the directions I gave you with regard to that?
I have spoken to a fast friend of mine, a renegado, who has taken care to prepare a vessel for our departure. To-morrow night the galley will come to the point, west of your garden here, with a dozen Spaniards, all of them able-bodied rowers, and of approved fidelity.
To-morrow night?
The sooner we can put our design in execution the better, lest some adverse accident should prevent us.
'Tis true:—stay hereabouts, and presently I will come down into the garden again and let you know whether I can be prepared against to-morrow night, or not.
Poor panting heart, ah! wilt thou ever
Throb within my troubled breast?
Shall I see the moment never
That is doom'd to give thee rest?
Cruel stars, that thus torment me!
Fortune smooths her front in vain;
Pleasure's self cannot content me,
But is turn'd with me to pain.
SCENE III.
FERDINAND,
and then
FATIMA
in a veil.
If this be captivity, who would not be a captive? What a lucky day was it for me when I was set to work upon my master's terras in Algiers, where I was seen from the windows of her father's house by this charming infidel, who singled me from the rest of my companions!
Thus far my love has carried me almost without my knowledge—Yonder he is—Shall I proceed—Shall I discover myself?
(not seeing her)
Oh, sweet Zorayda!
What's that he says?
Where is my flute? I will sit down upon this stump of a tree, and whistle away the minutes till she comes back.
Zorayda!
What melancholy love-tune shall I play now?
(sits down and plays)
I can hold no longer.
(slaps him upon the shoulder)
My dear Zorayda!—so soon returned!
Again!—What's the meaning of this? Do you take me for the Cadi's daughter?
(unveiling)
By all that's good, the nauseous wife!
You are confounded.
Somewhat nonplust, I confess, to hear you deny your name so positively. Why, are you not Zorayda, the Cadi's daughter? Did not I see you with him but just now? Nay, were you not so charitable as to give me money?
But I am neither Zorayda, nor the Cadi's daughter.
I know not that; but I am sure he is old enough to be your father.
But once again—How came you to name Zorayda?
Another mistake of mine; for asking one of your slaves, when I came into the garden, who were the chief ladies about the house, he answered me Zorayda and Fatima; but she, it seems, is his daughter, (with a plague to her) and you are his beloved wife.
Say your beloved mistress, if you please, for that's the title I desire.
Ay, but I have a qualm of conscience.
Your conscience was very quiet when you took me for Zorayda.
I must be plain with you—You are married to a reverend man, the head of your law. Go back to your chamber, madam; go back.
No, sirrah; but I'll teach you, to your cost, what vengeance is in store for refusing a lady who has offered you her love.
For vengeance dire, thou wretch! prepare,
Nought shall my resentment stay;
To a lion, to a bear,
My nature turns,
While my bosom burns
To seize my destin'd prey.
Oh, object to my soul how sweet!
To see you grovling at my feet,
While I no pity shew;
To spurn your tears,
To mock your fears,
And tread you to the shades below.
SCENE IV.
FERDINAND, FATIMA,
and afterwards the
CADI.
What do you mean, madam? For Heaven's sake, peace.
Ungrateful wretch! What do I mean! Help, help, husband! my lord Cadi! I shall be undone; the villain will be too strong for me. Help, for pity of a poor distress'd creature.
Then I have nothing but impudence to assist me. I must drown the clamour, whate'er comes on it.
(he takes out his flute and plays as loud as he possibly can, and she continues crying out)
What's here! What's here!
Oh, sweetest! I'm glad you're come; this Christian slave was going to be rude with me.
Oh, horrid! abominable! the villain—the monster—take him away, flay and impale him, rid the world of such a viper.
First hear me, worthy sir. What have you seen to provoke you?
I have heard the outcries of my wife, the bleatings of the poor innocent lamb. What have I seen, quotha! If I see the lamb lie expiring, and the wolf by her, is not that evidence sufficient of the murder?
Pray think in reason, Sir. Is a man to be put to death for a similitude? No violence has been committed; none intended. The lamb's alive; and, if I durst tell you so, no more a lamb than I am a wolf.
How's that, villain!
Be patient, madam, and speak but truth, I'll do any thing to serve you.
Well.—Hear him speak, husband; perhaps he may say something for himself I know not.
But did he mean no mischief? Was he endeavouring nothing?
In my conscience I begin to doubt he did not.
Then what meant all those outcries?
I heard music in the garden, and I stole softly down, imagining it might be he.
How's that! Imagining it might be he?
Yes, to be sure, my lord. Am not I the mistress of the family; and is it not my place to see good order kept in it? I thought he might have allured some of the she slaves to him, and was resolved to prevent what might have been betwixt them; when on a sudden he rush'd out upon me, and caught me in his arms with such a fury—
I have heard enough,—away with him.
Mistaking me, no doubt, for one of the slaves that work in the garden. With that, affrighted as I was, I discovered myself, and cry'd aloud; but as soon as ever he knew me, the villain let me go; and, I must needs say, he started back as if I were a serpent, and was more afraid of me than I of him.
O, thou ungrateful villain! Did'st thou come to get footing in my family in order to corrupt it? That's cause enough of death. Once more, again, away with him.
Well, but, love—
Speak not for him.
I must speak, and you hear me.
Away with him, I say.
What! for an intended trespass? No harm has been done, whatever may be. Then consider he does not belong to you, and is recommended by a friend you would not chuse to disoblige.
Why that's true.
I see she'll bring me off if she can.
And are you sure, rascal, you meant no harm?
No harm, upon my reputation,—no more than the child unborn. I was playing here by myself, (such is my foolish custom) and took madam, as she says, for one of the female slaves employ'd in your garden.
Well, sirrah, to your kennel; mortify your flesh, and consider in whose family you are.
Yes, sir, I'll consider.
And learn another time to treat the Cadi's wife as she would have you.
What do you mean by that?
What do I mean!—I'll shew you what I mean—give the puppy a remembrancer.—
Come, come,—enough.
Do let me beat him a little, husband.
No wife—no:—Get in before me—
Why sure!
Get in I say.
I wont.
March.—
Well, I will march;—but if I am not revenged on you for this, you old tyrant, the Devil take me.
For all her art,
I see her heart;
She counterfeits too grosly:
And, Lady fair,
I shall take care
To watch your waters closely.
I'm us'd to keep
A rod in steep;
For long I've had suspicion:
And if I find
She's ill inclin'd,
I'll bring her to contrition.
SCENE V.
FERDINAND
and then
ZORAYDA
behind him.
Christian where are you?
'Tis her voice—I can't be mistaken again.
Ferdinand!—
Zorayda!—
Yes 'tis I.
Come nearer that I may be sure.
There, there.—
Do you know what has happened to me since you went away?
Yes, yes, I know it all.—"Any thing to serve you, Madam."—Whose words were these, Gentleman?
Come don't make yourself worse natur'd than you are.—To save my life you would be content I should promise any thing.
Yes, if I was sure you would perform nothing.
But is your mother-in-law such a virago?
What do you think of her?
Hang me if I know what to think of her! but this I'm sure of, she had like to play the Devil with me.
Well, I assure you these freaks are nothing with her.—I perceiv'd she took a fancy for you the moment she saw you:—However, beware of her.—You think that's her face you see; but 'tis only a dawb'd vizard: And for constancy, I can tell you for your comfort, she would love till death—I mean till yours;—for when she was tir'd of you, she would certainly dispatch you to another world, for fear of telling tales.
But why all this?—What's Fatima to me?—You cannot imagine I would exchange a diamond for a pebble stone.
No;—But I think you might like to have the diamond and the pebble stone too by way of variety.
By this fair hand I swear—
Well, come—What do you swear?
To resist temptation.
To avoid it is better. And since you say your friends and your ship will be ready to-morrow night, to-morrow night I am determined to go off with you.—Meet me here about ten o'clock.—I'll slip down from my chamber, and bring my father in my hand.
Your father!
I mean what he considers as the better part of him,—his pearls and jewels,—his whole contents,—his heart and soul—as much as ever I can carry.
I shall be gone this moment and inform my companions.
Thus low for all your favours,
Behold your servant bends;
Through life my best endeavours
Shall be to make amends.
Though life's too short to prove
My truth, my gratitude and love.
Dear liberty possessing,
Can man more happy be?
But what endears the blessing,
Is that it comes from thee.
SCENE VII.
ZORAYDA.
Let me consider a little.—Am not I a mad wicked girl, going to forsake my father, and leave my country, to run into a strange one with a slave whose freedom I purchase, and I first saw, by accident, thro' a window in my father's house that look'd into the place where he work'd?—Why, on maturely weighing the matter, not so mad and wicked as I at first appear. I have long hated both our Mahometan laws and religion in my heart, and I have no means to get rid of them both but by putting myself in the hands of a Christian.—This is a handsome man I am sure, and I will believe him an honest one.
The wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Yet, yet on hope relies;
And the last sigh that rends his heart,
Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimm'ring taper light,
Adorns and chears our way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
END OF THE FIRST ACT.
ACT. II.
SCENE I.
Scene changes to another View of the Garden by Moonlight, with a Balcony and Portico belonging to the
CADI
's Hause.
FERDINAND
enters leading
ZORAYDA.
I have been waiting here I know not how long!—Why, thou sweet delicious creature, why torture me with thy delay?—And art thou come at last!—But where hast thou been?—I was almost in despair.
Don't be angry; it was well I could come at all. There has been a strange bustle this evening within.
As how! What has been the matter?
Some cause which my father has lately decided, and, to tell you the truth, I believe not with the strictest attention to justice; however, the party has carryed his complaint to the Dey, and he has been obliged to go to court about it; but he's come back again, and I fancy the storm is pretty well blown over.
And what are we to do now?
Why, what we have already schemed; but, as I had outstay'd the time appointed, I just slipped down to see if you had patience to keep to your post.
Could you doubt it?
Is the galley ready?
I'm but this moment come from it. It lies within a pistol shot of us, just without the little gate of your garden which leads to the sea.
Well, I'll run up again and bring down what I told you; in the mean time, do you take another look towards the galley, and prepare the men for our reception.
I have entrusted a countryman of mine, one of your father's slaves, with our design. I left him on the watch; but I'll go myself.
Heigho!
What's the matter!
Something—I don't know what.
Nay my love—
Let me lean upon your arm—It will away again—My courage is good for all this.
Zorayda!—
Feel my heart.
Poor little thing how it throbs!
Oh me!
Alas! 'tis in vain my distress to dissemble.
I wish, yet, with fear, I my wishes pursue;
I fain would be gone, yet in going I tremble;
No stay to support me, no pilot but you.
At once, friends, and father, and country, forsaking,
New faith, new companions, new climates to try;
Each step that I tread tender thoughts are awaking,
And still I look back, and withdraw with a sigh.
SCENE II.
The
CADI
alone in a Slave's Habit like that of
FERDINAND's.
This it is to have a sound head-piece.—I have mewed up my suspected spouse in her chamber.—No more embassies to that lusty young Christian. Next, by this habit of a slave, I have made myself as like him as I can. Now walking under the windows of my Seraglio, if Fatima should look out, she will certainly take me for Ferdinand, and call to me, and by that I shall know what concupiscence is working in her. She cannot come down to commit iniquity, there's my safety; but if she peep, if she put her note abroad, there's demonstration of her pious will, and let me alone to work her for it.
In emblem I am like a cat
That's watching for a mouse.
Close by his hole behold her squat,
While her heart goes pit-a-pat.
If a squeaking she hears,
She pricks up her ears,
And when he appears,
Leaps on him souse.
And so will I do with my wife.
Just so will I watch her,
And so if I catch her,
I'll worry her out of her life.
SCENE. III.
The
CADI, ZORAYDA
running to him with the Casket in her Hand.
Now I can embrace you with a good conscicence.—Here are the pearls and jewels—here's my father.
I am indeed thy father; but how the Devil didst thou know me in this disguise!—and what pearls and jewels dost thou mean?
What have I done! and what will now become of me!
Ar't thou mad, Zorayda?
I think you will make me so.
Why?—What have I done to you?—Recollect thyself, and speak sense to me.
Then give me leave to tell you, that you are the worst of fathers.
Did I think I had got such a monster!—Proceed, my dutiful child, proceed, proceed.
You have been raking together a mass of wealth, by indirect and wicked means. The spoils of orphans are in these jewels, and the tears of widows are in these pearls.
You amaze me!
I would do so.—This casket is loaded with your sins. 'Tis the cargo of rapine and extortion, the iniquity of thirty years cadiship converted into diamonds.
Would some rich railing rogue dare say as much to me, that I might squeeze his purse for scandal.
Here, Sir, don't think I'll be the receiver of your thefts.—I discharge my conscience of them.—Here, take again your filthy mammon, and restore it, you had best, to the true owners.
I am finely documented by my own daughter.
And a great credit to me to be so.—Do but think how decent a habit you have on, and how becoming your function to be disguised like a slave, and eves-dropping under the womens windows.
Pr'ythee, child, reproach me no more of human sailings.—I am better at bottom than thou thinkest.—I am not the man you take me for.
No, to my sorrow, Sir, you are not.
It was a very bad beginning; tho' methought to see you come running upon me with such a warm embrace—Pr'ythee, what was meaning of that violent hot hug?
I'm sure I meant nothing but the zeal and affection which I bear to the man in the world whom I love best.
Why this is as it should be.—Take the treasure again—It will never be put into better hands.
But, pr'ythee, spare me, dearest daughter,
If ought that's past my conscience stings;
Down my old cheeks it forces water,
To hear your cruel taunts and flings.
You should consider, child, if I
Have in my office grip'd too nigh,
'Twas to the end that you might have
My wealth when I was in the grave.
My failings then no longer press;
We all have errors, more or less.
SCENE. IV.
The
CADI, ZORAYDA, FERDINAND
in a rich habit.
What do you mean, my dear, to stand talking in this suspicious place, just under Fatima's window?—You are well met, comrade; I know you are the friend of our flight.
Ferdinand in disguise!—Now I begin to smell a rat.
And I another that outstinks it.—False Zorayda! thus to betray me to your father.
Alas! I was betrayed myself.—He was here in disguise like you; and I, poor innocent, ran into his hands.
In good time you did so.—I laid a trap for a she fox, and worse vermin has caught himself in it. You would fain break loose now, tho' you left a limb behind you; but I am yet in my territories, and in call of company, that's my comfort.
Know I have a trick yet to put you past your squeaking.
What do you mean?—You will not throttle him!—Consider he's my father.
Pr'ythee let us provide first for our own safety.—If I do not consider him, he will consider us with a vengeance afterwards.
You may threaten him from crying out; but, for my sake, give him back a little cranny of his windpipe, and some part of speech.
Not so much as one single interjection.—Come away, father-in-law; this is no place for dialogues.—When you are upon the bench you talk by hours, and there no man must interrupt you.—This is but like for like, good father-in-law.—Now I am on the bench, 'tis your turn to hold your tongue.
(He struggles.
)
Nay, if you will be hanging back, I shall take care you shall hang forwards.
(Pulls him along the stage with a sword at his reins.)
T'other way to the arbour with him, and make haste before we are discovered.
If I only bind and gag him there, he may commend me hereafter for civil usage; he deserves not so much favour for any action of his life.
Yes pray bate him one for begetting your mistress.
Once more, come along in silence my Pythagorian father-in-law.
Oh! dear me!—dear me!—I wish it was well over—All I'm afraid of is that my courage or strength will fail me.—Well, is he safe?
Yes, yes—I have lodg'd him.—He won't trouble us within this half hour, I warrant you.
Now, now, my fairest, let us go;
Fortune, Fate can frown no more:
A gentle gale begins to blow
To waft us to a safer shore.
Let us the fav'ring minute seize,
Give all our canvas to the wind,
Take with us freedom, love and ease,
And leave remorse and pain behind.
SCENE V.
ZORAYDA, FERDINAND, FATIMA
in the Balcony, who afterwards comes down.
Oh! Heavens! what will become of us all!—Who's in the garden?—Ferdinand I say!—Ferdinand!—Help—assistance—the Dey's officers are in the house breaking open the doors of the womens apartments.
Oh! that scriech-owl in the balcony!—We shall be pursued immediately!—Which way shall we take?
She talks of the Emperor's officers!—It will be impossible to escape them, at least for me.—Here take these jewels—You may get off.
And what will become of thee then, poor kind soul?
I must take my fortune.—When you have got safe into your own country, I hope you will sometime bestow a sigh to the memory of her who lov'd you.
No, take back your jewels—It's an empty casket without thee.—Thou and it had been a bargain.
I hear them coming!—Shift for yourself at least.
No, confound me if I budge from you now.
Who's there?—Zorayda!—Ferdinand!
O are you there, Madam!—You have ferritted me out.
Come, come, this is no time for follies of any kind. The Cadi, her father, my husband, is undone, and we shall all be involved in his ruin. The court have had new informations of his extortion, and the wealth he has amassed by it. The last circumstance is enough to condemn him, and an order is issued to strangle him, and seize upon his effects. It is not a moment since the guards, thinking he was hid in my room, broke open the door where he had lock'd me up.
And where are they now?
I had the presence of mind to tell them that the Cadi was at a house he has twelve miles off, where they are gone to look for him, by which means we have an hour or two's respite to look about us.
Alas! what good can we derive from that?
Hold! stay here—By Heaven I have a thought.
Dear Zorayda give me your hand; if there was ever any jealousies between us, I hope they are now at an end.
Fat.
Hence with anger, hence with chiding;
From my breast the cause is gone.
Zor.
Ev'ry harsher thought subsiding,
Henceforth shall our souls be one.
Fat.
Females, mean and envious creatures,
Seldom love for gen'rous ends:
Zor.
But let us, of nobler natures,
Shew that women can be friends.
A. 2.
Come then, friendship, here unite us
In thy soft, thy sacred bands;
At thy shrine, behold we offer
Hearts conjoin'd as well as hands.
Envy, vanity and malice
Plague the bosoms where they reign:
She, who would herself be happy,
Ne'er will seek a sister's pain.
SCENE VI.
ZORAYDA, FATIMA, FERDINAND,
the
CADI.
Come, Sir, come out.—I have told you your condition, and, if there is any thing to be done for you, you see there's no time to be lost.
O dear!—O dear!—O dear!—
Well, you know I always told you what would be the consequence of your bribery and corruption. I said it would bring you to the mutes and the bowstring at last.
What will become of me!
Why you'll be strangled as soon as the officers come back.
Oh! that cursed strangling.—I can't bear the thoughts of it.—No, good bye to you all.—I'll go and drown myself.
Stop: since you're for taking to the water, I have a proposal to make to you. The galley is now waiting in which your daughter and I designed to make our escape; what say you, will you accompany us?—We have already got the chief part of your effects, which I promise to share with you when we get to Spain.
Do, dear father.
Indeed, husband, 'tis the only thing left for us.
Well, dear wife, give me a kiss then.
With pleasure I this land forego:
My fame will sure be mangled;
But what care I, let it be so
If I escape being strangled.
Nay, pr'ythee, let's make haste away;
I really tremble while I stay.
Oh! dreadful thing!
In a bow string
To have one's neck intangled.
Cho.
Nay, pr'ythee,
&c.
Fat.
Here, Sir, receive your willing wife;
Aboard you need but hand me:
From henceforth I am your's for life,
Confide in and command me.
To ancient husbands girls be good;
Remember jointer'd widowhood.
That time may come,
And then—but mum!
He—hem—You understand me.
Cho.
To ancient husbands,
&c.
Zor.
I have been naughty, I confess;
But now, you need not doubt it,
I mean my conduct to redress,
And straight will set about it.
Forgive me only, dear papa,
I'll be obedient as mama,
Contented still,
When I've my will,
And who is pleas'd without it?
Cho.
Forgive me only, dear papa,
&c.
Ferd.
And now our scenic task is done,
This comes of course, you know, Sirs,
We drop the mask of every one,
And stand in
statu quo,
Sirs;
Your ancient friends and servants we,
Who humbly wait for your decree,
One gracious smile,
To crown our toil,
And happy let us go, Sirs.
Cho.
Your ancient friends,
&c.
THE END OF the OPERA.