In sailing o'er life's ocean wide No doubt the heart should be your guide; But it is awkward when you find A heart that does not know its mind!

(Exeunt Robin with Rose L., and Richard, weeping, R.)

(Enter Mad Margaret. She is wildly dressed in picturesque tatters, and is an obvious caricature of theatrical madness.)

SCENA--MARGARET.

Cheerily carols the lark Over the cot.

Merrily whistles the clerk Scratching a blot.

But the lark And the clerk, I remark, Comfort me not!

Over the ripening peach Buzzes the bee.

Splash on the billowy beach Tumbles the sea.

But the peach And the beach They are each Nothing to me!

And why?

Who am I?

Daft Madge! Crazy Meg!

Mad Margaret! Poor Peg!

He! he! he! he! (chuckling).

Mad, I?

Yes, very!

But why?

Mystery!

Don't call!

Whisht! whisht!

No crime-- 'Tis only That I'm Love-lonely!

That's all!

BALLAD--MARGARET.

To a garden full of posies Cometh one to gather flowers, And he wanders through its bowers Toying with the wanton roses, Who, uprising from their beds, Hold on high their shameless heads With their pretty lips a-pouting, Never doubting--never doubting That for Cytherean posies He would gather aught but roses!

In a nest of weeds and nettles Lay a violet, half-hidden, Hoping that his glance unbidden Yet might fall upon her petals.

Though she lived alone, apart, Hope lay nestling at her heart, But, alas, the cruel awaking Set her little heart a-breaking, For he gathered for his posies Only roses--only roses!

(Bursts into tears.)

(Enter Rose.)

ROSE. A maiden, and in tears? Can I do aught to soften thy sorrow? This apple--(offering apple).

MAR. (Examines it and rejects it.) No! (Mysteriously.) Tell me, are you mad?

ROSE. I? No! That is, I think not.

MAR. That's well! Then you don't love Sir Despard Murgatroyd? All mad girls love him. I love him. I'm poor Mad Margaret--Crazy Meg--Poor Peg! He! he! he! he! (chuckling).

ROSE. Thou lovest the bad Baronet of Ruddigore? Oh, horrible--too horrible!

MAR. You pity me? Then be my mother! The squirrel had a mother, but she drank and the squirrel fled! Hush! They sing a brave song in our parts--it runs somewhat thus: (Sings.)

"The cat and the dog and the little puppee Sat down in a--down in a--in a----

I forget what they sat down in, but so the song goes!

Listen--I've come to pinch her!

ROSE. Mercy, whom?

MAR. You mean "who".

ROSE. Nay! it is the accusative after the verb.

MAR. True. (Whispers melodramatically.) I have come to pinch Rose Maybud!

ROSE. (Aside, alarmed.) Rose Maybud!

MAR. Aye! I love him--he loved me once. But that's all gone, fisht! He gave me an Italian glance--thus (business)--and made me his. He will give her an Italian glance, and make her his. But it shall not be, for I'll stamp on her--stamp on her- -stamp on her! Did you ever kill anybody? No? Why not?

Listen--I killed a fly this morning! It buzzed, and I wouldn't have it. So it died--pop! So shall she!

ROSE. But, behold, I am Rose Maybud, and I would fain not die "pop."

MAR. You are Rose Maybud?

ROSE. Yes, sweet Rose Maybud!

MAR. Strange! They told me she was beautiful! And he loves you! No, no! If I thought that, I would treat you as the auctioneer and land-agent treated the lady-bird--I would rend you asunder!

ROSE. Nay, be pacified, for behold I am pledged to another, and Lo, we are to be wedded this very day!

MAR. Swear me that! Come to a Commissioner and let me have it on affidavit! I once made an affidavit--but it died--it died- -it died! But see, they come--Sir Despard and his evil crew!

Hide, hide--they are all mad--quite mad!

ROSE. What makes you think that?

MAR. Hush! They sing choruses in public. That's mad enough, I think. Go--hide away, or they will seize you! Hush!

Quite softly--quite, quite softly!

(Exeunt together, on tiptoe.)

(Enter Chorus of Bucks and Blades, heralded by Chorus of Bridesmaids.)

CHORUS OF BRIDESMAIDS.

Welcome, gentry, For your entry Sets our tender hearts a-beating.

Men of station, Admiration Prompts this unaffected greeting.

Hearty greeting offer we!

CHORUS OF BUCKS AND BLADES.

When thoroughly tired Of being admired, By ladies of gentle degree--degree, With flattery sated, High-flown and inflated, Away from the city we flee--we flee!

From charms intramural To prettiness rural The sudden transition Is simply Elysian, So come, Amaryllis, Come, Chloe and Phyllis, Your slaves, for the moment, are we!

ALL. From charms intramural, etc.

CHORUS OF BRIDESMAIDS.

The sons of the tillage Who dwell in this village Are people of lowly degree--degree.

Though honest and active, They're most unattractive, And awkward as awkward can be--can be.

They're clumsy clodhoppers With axes and choppers, And shepherds and ploughmen And drovers and cowmen, And hedgers and reapers And carters and keepers, But never a lover for me!

ENSEMBLE.

BRIDESMAIDS. BUCKS AND BLADES.

So welcome gentry, etc. When thoroughly tired, etc.

(Enter Sir Despard Murgatroyd.)

SONG AND CHORUS--SIR DESPARD.