قراءة كتاب Inkle and Yarico: An opera, in three acts
تنويه: تعرض هنا نبذة من اول ١٠ صفحات فقط من الكتاب الالكتروني، لقراءة الكتاب كاملا اضغط على الزر “اشتر الآن"
[They hide behind trees. Natives cross. After a long pause, Inkle looks from the trees.]
Inkle. Trudge.
Trudge. Sir. [In a whisper.]
Inkle. Are they all gone by?
Trudge. Won't you look and see?
Inkle. [Looking round.] So all is safe at last. [Coming forward.] Nothing like policy in these cases; but you'd have run on, like a booby! A tree, I fancy, you'll find, in future, the best resource in a hot pursuit.
Trudge. Oh, charming! It's a retreat for a king, sir: Mr. Medium, however, has not got up in it; your uncle, sir, has run on like a booby; and has got up with our party by this time, I take it; who are now most likely at the shore. But what are we to do next, sir?
Inkle. Reconnoitre a little, and then proceed.
Trudge. Then pray, sir, proceed to reconnoitre; for the sooner the better.
Inkle. Then look out, d'ye hear, and tell me if you discover any danger.
Trudge. Y——Ye—s—Yes.
Inkle. Well, is the coast clear?
Trudge. Eh! Oh lord!—Clear! [Rubbing his eyes.] Oh dear! oh dear! the coast will soon be clear enough now, I promise you——The ship is under sail, sir!
Inkle. Confusion! my property carried off in the vessel.
Trudge. All, all, sir, except me.
Inkle. They may report me dead, perhaps, and dispose of my property at the next island. [The vessel appears under sail.]
Trudge. Ah! there they go. [A gun fired.]——That will be the last report we shall ever hear from 'em I'm afraid.—That's as much as to say, Good bye to ye. And here we are left—two fine, full-grown babes in the wood!
Inkle. What an ill-timed accident! Just too, when my speedy union with Narcissa, at Barbadoes, would so much advance my interests.—Ah, my Narcissa, I never shall forget thy last adieu.—Something must be hit upon, and speedily; but what resource? [Thinking.]
Trudge. The old one—a tree, sir.—'Tis all we have for it now. What would I give, now, to be perched upon a high stool, with our brown desk squeezed into the pit of my stomach—scribbling away an old parchment!——But all my red ink will be spilt by an old black pin of a negro.
SONG.
[Last Valentine's Day.]
A voyage over seas had not entered my head,
Had I known but on which side to butter my bread,
Heigho! sure I—for hunger must die!
I've sail'd like a booby; come here in a squall,
Where, alas! there's no bread to be butter'd at all!
Oho! I'm a terrible booby!
Oh, what a sad booby am I!
In London, what gay chop-house signs in the street!
But the only sign here is of nothing to eat.
Heigho! that I——for hunger should die!
My mutton's all lost; I'm a poor starving elf!
And for all the world like a lost mutton myself.
Oho! I shall die a lost mutton!
Oh! what a lost mutton am I!