PATIENCE Is it a hunting song?

BUN. A hunting song? No, it is not a hunting song. It is the wail of the poet's heart on discovering that everything is commonplace. To understand it, cling pa.s.sionately to one another and think of faint lilies.

[They do so as he recites]

"OH, HOLLOW! HOLLOW! HOLLOW!"

What time the poet hath hymned The writhing maid, lithe-limbed, Quivering on amaranthine asphodel, How can he paint her woes, Knowing, as well he knows, That all can be set right with calomel?

When from the poet's plinth The amorous colocynth Yearns for the aloe, faint with rapturous thrills, How can he hymn their throes Knowing, as well he knows, That they are only uncompounded pills?

Is it, and can it be, Nature hath this decree, Nothing poetic in the world shall dwell?

Or that in all her works Something poetic lurks, Even in colocynth and calomel?

I cannot tell.

[He goes off, L.U.E. All turn and watch him, not speaking until he has gone.]

ANGELA How purely fragrant!

SAPHIR How earnestly precious!

PATIENCE Well, it seems to me to be nonsense.

SAPHIR Nonsense, yes, perhaps -- but oh, what precious nonsense!

COLONEL This is all very well, but you seem to forget that you are engaged to us.

SAPHIR It can never be. You are not Empyrean. You are not Della Cruscan. You are not even Early English. Oh, be Early English ere it is too late!

[Officers look at each other in astonishment.]

JANE [looking at uniform] Red and Yellow! Primary colors! Oh, South Kensington!

DUKE We didn't design our uniforms, but we don't see how they could be improved!

JANE No, you wouldn't. Still, there is a cobwebby grey velvet, with a tender bloom like cold gravy, which, made Florentine fourteenth century, trimmed with Venetian leather and Spanish altar lace, and surmounted with something j.a.panese -- it matters not what -- would at least be Early English! Come, maidens.

[Exeunt Maidens, L.U.E., two and two, singing refrain of "Twenty love-sick maidens we". PATIENCE goes off L. The Officers watch the Ladies go off in astonishment.]

No. 4a. Twenty love-sick maidens we (Chorus) Maidens

[As the MAIDENS depart, the DRAGOONS spread across the stage.]

MAIDENS Twenty love-sick maidens we, Love-sick all against our will.

Twenty years hence we shall be Twenty love-sick maidens still!

Ah, miserie!

DUKE Gentlemen, this is an insult to the British uniform.

COLONEL A uniform that has been as successful in the courts of Venus as on the field of Mars!

No. 5. When I first put this uniform on (Solo and Chorus) Colonel and Dragoons

[The DRAGOONS form their original line.]

Song -- COLONEL

When I first put this uniform on, I said, as I looked in the gla.s.s, "It's one to a million That any civilian My figure and form will surpa.s.s.

Gold lace has a charm for the fair, And I've plenty of that, and to spare, While a lover's professions, When uttered in Hessians, Are eloquent ev'rywhere!"

A fact that I counted upon, When I first put this uniform on!

Chorus of DRAGOONS

By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have counted upon, The same thing occurred to me, When I first put this uniform on!

COL. I said, when I first put it on, "It is plain to the veriest dunce, That every beauty Will feel it her duty To yield to its glamour at once.

They will see that I'm freely gold-laced In a uniform handsome and chaste"-- But the peripatetics Of long-haired aesthetics Are very much more to their taste-- Which I never counted upon, When I first put this uniform on!

CHORUS By a simple coincidence, few Could ever have reckoned upon, I didn't antic.i.p.ate that, When I first put this uniform on!

[The DRAGOONS go off angrily, R.]

[Enter BUNTHORNE, L.U.E., who changes his manner and becomes intensely melodramatic.]

No. 6. Am I alone and un.o.bserved?

(Recitative and Solo) Bunthorne

BUN. [Up-stage, he looks off L. and R.]

Am I alone, And un.o.bserved? I am!

[comes down]

Then let me own I'm an aesthetic sham!

[and walks tragically to down-stage, C.]

This air severe Is but a mere Veneer!

This cynic smile Is but a wile Of guile!

This costume chaste Is but good taste Misplaced!

Let me confess!

A languid love for Lilies does not blight me!

Lank limbs and haggard cheeks do not delight me!

I do not care for dirty greens By any means.

I do not long for all one sees That's j.a.panese.

I am not fond of uttering plat.i.tudes In stained-gla.s.s att.i.tudes.

In short, my mediaevalism's affectation, Born of a morbid love of admiration!