Scene.—Picture Gallery in Ruddigore Castle.  The walls are
       covered with full-length portraits of the Baronets of
       Ruddigore from the time of James I.—the first being that of
       Sir Rupert, alluded to in the legend; the last, that of the
       last deceased Baronet, Sir Roderic.

  Enter Robin and Adam melodramatically.  They are greatly altered
       in appearance, Robin wearing the haggard aspect of a guilty
       roue; Adam, that of the wicked steward to such a man.

                         DUET—ROBIN and ADAM.

  ROB.           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!

  ADAM.          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!

                            ADDITIONAL SONG
                     (Omitted after opening night.)

  ROB.      My face is the index to my mind,
            All venom and spleen and gall—ha! ha!
            Or, properly speaking,
            It soon will be reeking,
            With venom and spleen and gall—ha! ha!

  ADAM.     My name from Adam Goodheart you'll find
            I've changed to Gideon Crawle—ha! ha!
            For bad Bart's steward
            Whose heart is much too hard
            Is always Gideon Crawle—ha! ha!

  BOTH.     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—Ah!
                 With every woman you meet! Ah!

                 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 you yourself,
  is the next best thing—your dearest friend!

                            BALLAD—ROSE.

                 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!

  ALL (kneeling).          Grant thou her prayer!

  ROB.  (recitative).      Take her—I yield!

  ALL. (recitative).            Oh, rapture!  (All rising.)

  CHORUS.        Away to the parson we go—
                      Say we're solicitous very
                 That he will turn two into one—
                      Singing hey, derry down derry!

  RICH.          For she is such a smart little craft-
  ROSE.          Such a neat little, sweet little craft—
  RICH.               Such a bright little-
  ROSE.                    Tight little-
  RICH.                    Slight little-
  ROSE.                    Light little-
  BOTH.               Trim little, prim little craft!

  CHORUS.        For she is such a smart little craft, etc.

                                            (Exeunt all but Robin.)

       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, and
  tune your souls to mercy on your poor posterity!  (Kneeling).

  (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.

  (The Pictures step from their frames and march round the stage.)

                 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.       Beware! beware! beware!
  ROB.                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.

  ROB.           Alas, poor ghost!

  SIR ROD.                      The pity you
                      Express for nothing goes:
                 We spectres are a jollier crew
                      Than you, perhaps, suppose!

  CHORUS.        We spectres are a jollier crew
                      Than you, perhaps, suppose!

                            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!

  As the sob of the breeze sweeps over the trees, and the mists lie
       low on the fen,
  From grey 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!

  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!
                      Ha! ha! ha! ha!

       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!
       1ST GHOST.  That's nothing.
       2ND GHOST.  Nothing at all.
       3RD GHOST.  Everybody does that.
       4TH 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?
       1ST GHOST.  There's something in that.
       2ND GHOST.  Yes, it seems reasonable.
       3RD GHOST.  At first sight it does.
       4TH 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.
       1ST 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.
       SIR ROD.  Very good—then let the agonies commence.

         (Ghosts make passes.  Robin begins to writhe in agony.)

       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 Roderic makes signs to Ghosts, who resume their attitudes.)

       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.

                 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!

  ROB.                I pardon you!
                      I pardon you!

  ALL.                He pardons us-
                                     Hurrah!

                (The Ghosts return to their frames.)

  CHORUS.        Painted emblems of a race,
                      All accurst in days of yore,
                 Each to his accustomed place
                      Steps unwillingly once more!

  (By this time the Ghosts have changed to pictures again.  Robin
       is overcome by emotion.)

                           (Enter Adam.)

       ADAM.  My poor master, you are not well—
       ROB.  Old Adam, 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!
                                                      (Exeunt Adam)

                        RECIT. and SONG—ROBIN.

  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!
                                                      (Exit Robin.)

  (Enter Despard and Margaret.  They are both dressed in sober black
       of formal cut, and present a strong contrast to their
       appearance in Act I.)

                                 DUET.

  DES.      I once was a very abandoned person—
  MAR.           Making the most of evil chances.
  DES.      Nobody could conceive a worse 'un—
  MAR.           Even in all the old romances.
  DES.           I blush for my wild extravagances,
                      But be so kind
                      To bear in mind,
  MAR.      We were the victims of circumstances!
                                                           (Dance.)
       That is one of our blameless dances.

  MAR.      I was once an exceedingly odd young lady—
  DES.           Suffering much from spleen and vapours.
  MAR.      Clergymen thought my conduct shady—
  DES.           She didn't spend much upon linen-drapers.
  MAR.           It certainly entertained the gapers.
                      My ways were strange
                      Beyond all range—
  DES.           Paragraphs got into all the papers.
                                                           (Dance.)

  DES.           We only cut respectable capers.

  DES.      I've given up all my wild proceedings.
  MAR.           My taste for a wandering life is waning.
  DES.      Now I'm a dab at penny readings.
  MAR.           They are not remarkably entertaining.
  DES.           A moderate livelihood we're gaining.
  MAR.                In fact we rule
                      A National School.
  DES.      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, 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, DESPARD, and MARGARET.

  ROB. 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!

  MAR. If 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!

  DES. 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 is 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!

  (Adam introduces Dame Hannah, very much excited, and exits.)

       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!

  (Dame Hannah, who has taken a formidable dagger from one of the
       armed figures, throws her small dagger to Robin.)

       HAN.  Harkye, miscreant, you have secured me, and I am your
  poor prisoner; but if you think I cannot take care of myself you
  are very much mistaken.  Now then, it's one to one, and let the
  best man win!

                           (Making for him.)

       ROB.  (in an agony of terror).  Don't! don't look at me like
  that!  I can't bear it!  Roderic!  Uncle!  Save me!

  (Sir 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!
       ROD.  (looking at Hannah).  Little Nannikin!
       HAN.  (amazed).  Roddy-doddy!
       ROD.  My own old love!  Why, how came you here?
       HAN.  This brute—he carried me off!  Bodily!  But I'll show
  him!  (about to rush at Robin).
       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.                              (Exit Robin.)
       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—DAME HANNAH.

            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!

  BOTH.               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.

  BOTH.               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.

  BOTH.               Sing hey,
                      Lackaday! etc.

                (Falls weeping on Sir Roderic's bosom.)

  (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 Dame 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.
       ROB.  My darling!  (They embrace.)
       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.          When a man has been a naughty baronet,
                 And expresses deep 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.

  CHORUS.        That's the teaching in her Book of Etiquette.

  RICH.          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!

  CHORUS.             Which is just the sort of ration you enjye!

  DES. and MAR.  Prompted by a keen desire to evoke
                 All the blessed calm of matrimony's yoke,
                      We shall toddle off tomorrow,
                      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

  Libretto by William S. Gilbert
  Music by Sir Arthur Sullivan

  DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  Sir Marmaduke Pointdextre, an Elderly Baronet

  Alexis, of the Grenadier Guards—His Son

  Dr. Daly, Vicar of Ploverleigh

  John Wellington Wells, of J. W. Wells & Co., Family Sorcerers

  Lady Sangazure, a Lady of Ancient Lineage

  Aline, Her Daughter—betrothed to Alexis

  Mrs. Partlet, a Pew-Opener

  Constance, her Daughter

  Chorus of Villagers

         ACT I—Grounds of Sir Marmaduke's Mansion, Mid-day

    (Twelve hours are supposed to elapse between Acts I and II)

       ACT II— Grounds of Sir Marmaduke's Mansion, Midnight