Boatswain. Aye, Little Buttercup — and well called — for you're the rosiest, the roundest, and the reddest beauty in all Spithead.

Buttercup. Red, am I? and round — and rosy! Maybe, for I have dissembled well! But hark ye, my merry friend — hast ever thought that beneath a gay and frivolous exterior there may lurk a canker-worm which is slowly but surely eating its way into one's very heart?

Boatswain. No, my lass, I can't say I've ever thought that.

Enter Dick Deadeye. He pushes through sailors, and comes down.

Dick. I have thought it often. (All recoil from him.)

Buttercup. Yes, you look like it! What's the matter with the man? Isn't he well?

Boatswain. Don't take no heed of him; that's only poor Dick Deadeye.

Dick. I say — it's a beast of a name, ain't it — Dick Deadeye?

Buttercup. It's not a nice name.

Dick. I'm ugly too, ain't I?

Buttercup. You are certainly plain.

Dick. And I'm three-cornered too, ain't I?

Buttercup. You are rather triangular.

Dick. Ha! ha! That's it. I'm ugly, and they hate me for it; for you all hate me, don't you?

All. We do!

Dick. There!

Boatswain. Well, Dick, we wouldn't go for to hurt any fellow-creature's feelings, but you can't expect a chap with such a name as Dick Deadeye to be a popular character — now can you?

Dick. No.

Boatswain. It's asking too much, ain't it?

Dick. It is. From such a face and form as mine the noblest sentiments sound like the black utterances of a depraved imagination. It is human nature — I am resigned.

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