* * * * *

FANCY EMPLOYED ON DIVINE SUBJECTS.

The truant Fancy was a wanderer ever, A lone enthusiast maid. She loves to walk In the bright visions of empyreal light, By the green pastures, and the fragrant meads, Where the perpetual flowers of Eden blow; By crystal streams, and by the living waters, Along whose margin grows the wondrous tree Whose leaves shall heal the nations; underneath Whose holy shade a refuge shall be found From pain and want, and all the ills that wait On mortal life, from sin and death forever.

* * * * *

COMPOSED AT MIDNIGHT.

From broken visions of perturbed rest I wake, and start, and fear to sleep again. How total a privation of all sounds, Sights, and familiar objects, man, bird, beast, Herb, tree, or flower, and prodigal light of heaven. 'Twere some relief to catch the drowsy cry Of the mechanic watchman, or the noise Of revel reeling home from midnight cups. Those are the meanings of the dying man, Who lies in the upper chamber; restless moans, And interrupted only by a cough Consumptive, torturing the wasted lungs. So in the bitterness of death he lies, And waits in anguish for the morning's light. What can that do for him, or what restore? Short taste, faint sense, affecting notices. And little images of pleasures past, Of health, and active life—health not yet slain, Nor the other grace of life, a good name, sold For sin's black wages. On his tedious bed He writhes, and turns him from the accusing light, And finds no comfort in the sun, but says "When night comes I shall get a little rest." Some few groans more, death comes, and there an end. 'Tis darkness and conjecture all beyond; Weak Nature fears, though Charity must hope, And Fancy, most licentious on such themes Where decent reverence well had kept her mute, Hath o'erstock'd hell with devils, and brought down By her enormous fablings and mad lies, Discredit on the gospel's serious truths And salutary fears. The man of parts, Poet, or prose declaimer, on his couch Lolling, like one indifferent, fabricates A heaven of gold, where he, and such as he, Their heads encompassed with crowns, their heels With fine wings garlanded, shall tread the stars Beneath their feet, heaven's pavement, far removed From damned spirits, and the torturing cries Of men, his breth'ren, fashion'd of the earth, As he was, nourish'd with the self-same bread, Belike his kindred or companions once— Through everlasting ages now divorced, In chains and savage torments to repent Short years of folly on earth. Their groans unheard In heav'n, the saint nor pity feels, nor care, For those thus sentenced—pity might disturb The delicate sense and most divine repose Of spirits angelical. Blessed be God, The measure of his judgments is not fix'd By man's erroneous standard. He discerns No such inordinate difference and vast Betwixt the sinner and the saint, to doom Such disproportion'd fates. Compared with him, No man on earth is holy call'd: they best Stand in his sight approved, who at his feet Their little crowns of virtue cast, and yield To him of his own works the praise, his due.



A TRAGEDY.

* * * * *

CHARACTERS.

SIR WALTER WOODVIL. JOHN, } SIMON, }his sons.

LOVELL, } GRAY, }Pretended friends of John.

SANDFORD. Sir Walter's old steward. MARGARET. Orphan Ward of Sir Walter. FOUR GENTLEMEN. John's riotous companions. SERVANTS.

SCENE—for the most part at Sir Walter's mansion in DEVONSHIRE; at other times in the Forest of SHERWOOD.

TIME—soon after the RESTORATION.

* * * * *

ACT THE FIRST.

SCENE—A Servants' Apartment in Woodvill Hall. Servants drinking—

TIME, the Morning.

A Song, by DANIEL.

"When the King enjoys his own again."

Peter. A delicate song. Where didst learn it, fellow?

Dan. Even there, where thou learnest thy oaths and thy politics—at our master's table.—Where else should a serving-man pick up his poor accomplishments?

Mar. Well spoken, Daniel. O rare Daniel! his oaths and his politics! excellent!

Fran. And where didst pick up thy knavery, Daniel?

Peter. That came to him by inheritance. His family have supplied the shire of Devon, time out of mind, with good thieves and bad serving-men. All of his race have come into the world without their conscience.

Mar. Good thieves, and bad serving-men! Better and better. I marvel what Daniel hath got to say in reply.

Dan. I marvel more when thou wilt say anything to the purpose, thou shallow serving-man, whose swiftest conceit carries thee no higher than to apprehend with difficulty the stale jests of us thy compeers. When was't ever known to club thy own particular jest among us?

Mar. Most unkind Daniel, to speak such biting things of me!

Fran. See—if he hath not brought tears into the poor fellow's eyes with the saltness of his rebuke.

Dan. No offence, brother Martin—I meant none. 'Tis true, Heaven gives gifts, and withholds them. It has been pleased to bestow upon me a nimble invention to the manufacture of a jest; and upon thee, Martin, an indifferent bad capacity to understand my meaning.

Mar. Is that all? I am content. Here's my hand.

Fran. Well, I like a little innocent mirth myself, but never could endure bawdry.

Dan. Quot homines tot sententiae.

Mar. And what is that?

Dan. 'Tis Greek, and argues difference of opinion.

Mar. I hope there is none between us.

Dan. Here's to thee, brother Martin. (Drinks.)

Mar. And to thee, Daniel. (Drinks.)

Fran. And to thee, Peter. (Drinks.)

Peter. Thank you, Francis. And here's to thee. (Drinks.)

Mar. I shall be fuddled anon.

Dan. And drunkenness I hold to be a very despicable vice.

All. O! a shocking vice. (They drink round.)

Peter. In as much as it taketh away the understanding.

Dan. And makes the eyes red.

Peter. And the tongue to stammer.

Dan. And to blab out secrets.

[During this conversation they continue drinking.

Peter. Some men do not know an enemy from a friend when they are drunk.

Dan. Certainly sobriety is the health of the soul.

Mar. Now I know I am going to be drunk.

Dan. How canst tell, dry-bones?

Mar. Because I begin to be melancholy. That's always a sign.

Fran. Take care of Martin, he'll topple off his seat else. [MARTIN drops asleep.

Peter. Times are greatly altered, since young master took upon himself the government of this household.

All. Greatly altered.

Fran. I think everything be altered for the better since His Majesty's blessed restoration.

Peter. In Sir Walter's days there was no encouragement given to good housekeeping.

All. None.

Dan. For instance, no possibility of getting drunk before two in the afternoon.

Peter. Every man his allowance of ale at breakfast—his quart!

All. A quart!! [In derision.

Dan. Nothing left to our own sweet discretions.

Peter. Whereby it may appear, we were treated more like beasts than what we were—discreet and reasonable serving-men.

All. Like beasts.

Mar. (Opening his eyes.) Like beasts.

Dan. To sleep, wagtail!

Fran. I marvel all this while where the old gentleman has found means to secrete himself. It seems no man has heard of him since the day of the King's return. Can any tell why our young master, being favored by the court, should not have interest to procure his father's pardon?

Dan. Marry, I think 'tis the obstinacy of the old knight, that will not be beholden to the court for his safety.

Mar. Now that is wilful.

Fran. But can any tell me the place of his concealment?

Peter. That cannot I; but I have my conjectures.

Dan. Two hundred pounds, as I hear, to the man that shall apprehend him.

Fran. Well, I have my suspicions.

Peter. And so have I.

Mar. And I can keep a secret.

Fran. (to PETER.) Warwickshire, you mean. [Aside.

Peter. Perhaps not.

Fran. Nearer, perhaps.

Peter. I say nothing.

Dan. I hope there is none in this company would be mean enough to betray him.

All. O Lord, surely not.

[They drink to SIR WALTER'S safety.

Fran. I have often wondered how our master came to be excepted by name in the late Act of Oblivion.

Dan. Shall I tell the reason?

All. Ay, do.

Dan. 'Tis thought he is no great friend to the present happy establishment.

All. O! monstrous!

Peter. Fellow-servants, a thought strikes me.—Do we, or do we not, come under the penalties of the treason-act, by reason of our being privy to this man's concealment?

All. Truly a sad consideration.

[To them enters SANDFORD suddenly.

Sand. You well-fed and unprofitable grooms, Maintain'd for state, not use; You lazy feasters at another's cost, That eat like maggots into an estate, And do as little work. Being indeed but foul excrescences, And no just parts in a well-order'd family; You base and rascal imitators, Who act up to the height your master's vices, But cannot read his virtues in your bond: Which of you, as I enter'd, spake of betraying? Was it you, or you, or thin-face, was it you?

Mar. Whom does he call thin-face?

Sand. No prating, loon, but tell me who he was, That I may brain the villain with my staff, That seeks Sir Walter's life! You miserable men, With minds more slavish than your slave's estate, Have you that noble bounty so forgot, Which took you from the looms, and from the ploughs, Which better had ye follow'd, fed ye, clothed ye, And entertain'd ye in a worthy service, Where your best wages was the world's repute, That thus ye seek his life, by whom ye live. Have you forgot, too, How often in old times Your drunken mirths have stunn'd day's sober ears, Carousing full cups to Sir Walter's health?— Whom now ye would betray, but that he lies Out of the reach of your poor treacheries. This learn from me, Our master's secret sleeps with trustier tongues, Than will unlock themselves to carls like you. Go, get you gone, you knaves. Who stirs? this staff Shall teach you better manners else.

All. Well, we are going.

Sand. And quickly too, ye had better, for I see Young Mistress Margaret coming this way.

[Exeunt all but SANDFORD

Enter MARGARET, as in a fright, pursued by a Gentleman, who, seeing SANDFORD, retires muttering a curse.

Sand. Good-morrow to my fair mistress. 'Twas a chance I saw you, lady, so intent was I On chiding hence these graceless serving-men, Who cannot break their fast at morning meals Without debauch and mistimed riotings. This house hath been a scene of nothing else But atheist riot and profane excess, Since my old master quitted all his rights here.

Marg. Each day I endure fresh insult from the scorn Of Woodvil's friends, the uncivil jests And free discourses of the dissolute men That haunt this mansion, making me their mirth.

Sand. Does my young master know of these affronts?

Marg. I cannot tell. Perhaps he has not been told. Perhaps he might have seen them if he would. I have known him more quick-sighted. Let that pass. All things seem changed, I think. I had a friend, (I can't but weep to think him alter'd too,) These things are best forgotten; but I knew A man, a young man, young, and full of honor, That would have pick'd a quarrel for a straw, And fought it out to the extremity, E'en with the dearest friend he had alive, On but a bare surmise, a possibility, That Margaret had suffer'd an affront. Some are too tame, that were too splenetic once.

Sand. 'Twere best he should be told of these affronts.

Marg. I am the daughter of his father's friend, Sir Walter's orphan ward. I am not his servant-maid, that I should wait The opportunity of a gracious hearing. Enquire the times and seasons when to put My peevish prayer up at young Woodvil's feet, And sue to him for slow redress, who was Himself a suitor late to Margaret. I am somewhat proud: and Woodvil taught me pride. I was his favorite once, his playfellow in infancy, And joyful mistress of his youth. None once so pleasant in his eyes as Margaret. His conscience, his religion, Margaret was, His dear heart's confessor, a heart within that heart, And all dear things summ'd up in her alone. As Margaret smil'd or frown'd John liv'd or died; His dress, speech, gesture, studies, friendships, all Being fashion'd to her liking. His flatteries taught me first this self-esteem, His flatteries and caresses, while he loved. The world esteem'd her happy, who had won His heart, who won all hearts; And ladies envied me the love of Woodvil.

Sand. He doth affect the courtier's life too much, Whose art is to forget, And that has wrought this seeming change in him, That was by nature noble. 'Tis these court-plagues, that swarm about our house, Have done the mischief, making his fancy giddy With images of state, preferment, place, Tainting his generous spirits with ambition.

Marg. I know not how it is; A cold protector is John grown to me. The mistress, and presumptive wife, of Woodvil Can never stoop so low to supplicate A man, her equal, to redress those wrongs, Which he was bound first to prevent; But which his own neglects have sanctioned rather, Both sancion'd and provok'd: a mark'd neglect, And strangeness fastening bitter on his love, His love, which long has been upon the wane. For me, I am determined what to do: To leave this house this night, and lukewarm John, And trust for food to the earth and Providence.

Sand. O lady, have a care Of these indefinite and spleen-bred resolves. You know not half the dangers that attend Upon a life of wand'ring, which your thoughts now, Feeling the swellings of a lofty anger, To your abused fancy, as 'tis likely, Portray without its terrors, painting lies And representments of fallacious liberty;— You know not what it is to leave the roof that shelters you.

Marg. I have thought on every possible event, The dangers and discouragements you speak of, Even till my woman's heart hath ceased to fear them, And cowardice grows enamor'd of rare accidents; Nor am I so unfurnish'd, as you think, Of practicable schemes.

Sand. Now God forbid; think twice of this, dear lady.

Marg. I pray you spare me, Mr. Sandford. And once for all believe, nothing can shake my purpose.

Sand. But what course have you thought on?

Marg. To seek Sir Walter in the forest of Sherwood. I have letters from young Simon, Acquainting me with all the circumstances Of their concealment, place, and manner of life, And the merry hours they spend in the green haunts Of Sherwood, nigh which place they have ta'en a house In the town of Nottingham, and pass for foreigners, Wearing the dress of Frenchmen.— All which I have perused with so attent And child-like longings, that to my doting ears Two sounds now seem like one, One meaning in two words, Sherwood and Liberty. And, gentle Mr. Sandford, 'Tis you that must provide now The means of my departure, which for safety Must be in boy's apparel.

Sand. Since you will have it so (My careful age trembles at all may happen), I will engage to furnish you. I have the keys of the wardrobe, and can fit you With garments to your size. I know a suit Of lively Lincoln green, that shall much grace you In the wear, being glossy fresh, and worn but seldom. Young Stephen Woodvil wore them while he lived. I have the keys of all this house and passages, And ere daybreak will rise and let you forth. What things soe'er you have need of I can furnish you; And will provide a horse and trusty guide, To bear you on your way to Nottingham.

Marg. That once this day and night were fairly past! For then I'll bid this house and love farewell; Farewell, sweet Devon; farewell, lukewarm John; For with the morning's light will Margaret be gone. Thanks, courteous Mr. Sandford.—

[Exeunt divers ways.



ACT THE SECOND.

SCENE.—An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.

JOHN WOODVIL—alone. (Reading parts of a letter).

"When Love grows cold, and indifference has usurped upon old Esteem, it is no marvel if the world begin to account that dependence, which hitherto has been esteemed honorable shelter. The course I have taken, (in leaving this house, not easily wrought thereunto,) seemed to me best for the once-for-all releasing of yourself (who in times past have deserved well of me) from the now daily, and not-to-be-endured tribute of forced love, and ill-dissembled reluctance of affection. "MARGARET."

Gone! gone! my girl? so hasty, Margaret! And never a kiss at parting? shallow loves, And likings of a ten days' growth, use courtesies, And show red eyes at parting. Who bids "Farewell!" In the same tone he cries "God speed you, sir?" Or tells of joyful victories at sea, Where he hath ventures; does not rather muffle His organs to emit a leaden sound, To suit the melancholy dull "farewell," Which they in Heaven not use?— So peevish, Margaret? But 'tis the common error of your sex When our idolatry slackens, or grows less, (As who of woman born can keep his faculty Of Admiration, being a decaying faculty, Forever strain'd to the pitch? or can at pleasure Make it renewable, as some appetites are, As, namely, Hunger, Thirst!—) this being the case, They tax us with neglect, and love grown cold, Coin plainings of the perfidy of men, Which into maxims pass, and apothegms To be retail'd in ballads.— I know them all. They are jealous when our larger hearts receive More guests than one. (Love in a woman's heart Being all in one.) For me, I am sure I have room here For more disturbers of my sleep than one. Love shall have part, but love shall not have all. Ambition, Pleasure, Vanity, all by turns, Shall lie in my bed, and keep me fresh and waking; Yet Love not be excluded. Foolish wench, I could have loved her twenty years to come, And still have kept my liking. But since 'tis so, Why, fare thee well, old playfellow! I'll try To squeeze a tear for old acquaintance' sake. I shall not grudge so much——

To him enters LOVEL.

Lovel. Bless us, Woodvil! what is the matter? I protest, man, I thought you had been weeping.

Wood. Nothing is the matter; only the wench has forced some water into my eyes, which will quickly disband.

Lovel. I cannot conceive you.

Wood. Margaret is flown.

Lovel. Upon what pretence?

Wood. Neglect on my part: which it seems she has had the wit to discover, maugre all my pains to conceal it.

Lovel. Then, you confess the charge?

Wood. To say the truth, my love for her has of late stopped short on this side idolatry.

Lovel. As all good Christians' should, I think.

Wood. I am sure, I could have loved her still within the limits of warrantable love.

Lovel. A kind of brotherly affection, I take it.

Wood. We should have made excellent man and wife in time.

Lovel. A good old couple, when the snows fell, to crowd about a sea-coal fire, and talk over old matters.

Wood. While each should feel, what neither cared to acknowledge, that stories oft-repeated may, at last, come to lose some of their grace by the repetition.

Lovel. Which both of you may yet live long enough to discover. For, take my word for it, Margaret is a bird that will come back to you without a lure.

Wood. Never, never, Lovel. Spite of my levity, with tears I confess it, she was a lady of most confirmed honor, of an unmatchable spirit, and determinate in all virtuous resolutions; not hasty to anticipate an affront, nor slow to feel, where just provocation was given.

Lovel. What made you neglect her, then?

Wood. Mere levity and youthfulness of blood, a malady incident to young men; physicians call it caprice. Nothing else. He that slighted her knew her value: and 'tis odds, but, for thy sake, Margaret, John will yet go to his grave a bachelor.

[A noise heard, as of one drunk and singing.

Lovel. Here comes one, that will quickly dissipate these humors.

Enter one drunk.

Drunken Man. Good-morrow to you, gentlemen. Mr. Lovel, I am your humble servant. Honest Jack Woodvil, I will get drunk with you to-morrow.

Wood. And why to-morrow, honest Mr. Freeman?

Drunken Man. I scent a traitor in that question. A beastly question. Is it not his Majesty's birthday? the day of all days in the year, on which King Charles the Second was graciously pleased to be born. (Sings.) "Great pity 'tis such days as those should come but once a year."

Lovel. Drunk in a morning! foh! how he stinks!

Drunken Man. And why not drunk in a morning? canst tell, bully?

Wood. Because, being the sweet and tender infancy of the day, methinks, it should ill endure such early blightings.

Drunken Man. I grant you, 'tis in some sort the youth and tender nonage of the day. Youth is bashful, and I give it a cup to encourage it. (Sings.) "Ale that will make Grimalkin prate."—At noon I drink for thirst, at night for fellowship, but, above all, I love to usher in the bashful morning under the auspices of a freshening stoop of liquor. (Sings.) "Ale in a Saxon rumkin then, makes valor burgeon in tall men."—But, I crave pardon. I fear I keep that gentleman from serious thoughts. There be those that wait for me in the cellar.

Wood. Who are they?

Drunken Man. Gentlemen, my good friends, Cleveland, Delaval, and Truby. I know by this time they are all clamorous for me.

[Exit singing.

Wood. This keeping of open house acquaints a man with strange companions.

Enter, at another door, Three calling for HARRY FREEMAN.

Harry Freeman, Harry Freeman. He is not here. Let us go look for him. Where is Freeman? Where is Harry?

[Exeunt the Three, calling for FREEMAN.

Wood. Did you ever see such gentry? (laughing.) These are they that fatten on ale and tobacco in a morning, drink burnt brandy at noon to promote digestion, and piously conclude with quart bumpers after supper to prove their loyalty.

Lovel. Come, shall we adjourn to the Tennis Court?

Wood. No, you shall go with me into the gallery, where I will show you the Vandyke I have purchased. "The late King taking leave of his children."

Lovel. I will but adjust my dress, and attend you.

[Exit LOVEL.

John Wood. (alone.) Now universal England getteth drunk For joy, that Charles, her monarch, is restored: And she, that sometime wore a saintly mask, The stale-grown vizor from her face doth pluck, And weareth now a suit of morris bells, With which she jingling goes through all her towns and villages. The baffled factions in their houses skulk; The commonwealthsman, and state machinist. The cropt fanatic, and fifth-monarchy-man, Who heareth of these visionaries now? They and their dreams have ended. Fools do sing, Where good men yield God thanks; but politic spirits, Who live by observation, note these changes Of the popular mind, and thereby serve their ends. Then why not I? What's Charles to me, or Oliver, But as my own advancement hangs on one of them? I to myself am chief.——I know, Some shallow mouths cry out, that I am smit With the gauds and show of state, the point of place, And trick of precedence, the ducks, and nods Which weak minds pay to rank. 'Tis not to sit In place of worship at the royal masques, Their pastimes, plays, and Whitehall banquetings, For none of these, Nor yet to be seen whispering with some great one, Do I affect the favors of the court. I would be great, for greatness hath great power, And that's the fruit I reach at.— Great spirits ask great play-room. Who could sit, With these prophetic swellings in my breast, That prick and goad me on, and never cease, To the fortunes something tells me I was born to? Who, with such monitors within to stir him, Would sit him down, with lazy arms across, A unit, a thing without a name in the state, A something to be govern'd, not to govern, A fishing, hawking, hunting, country gentleman? [Exit.

SCENE.—Sherwood Forest.

SIR WALTER WOODVIL. SIMON WOODVIL. (Disguised as Frenchmen.)

Sir W. How fares my boy, Simon, my youngest born, My hope, my pride, young Woodvil, speak to me? Some grief untold weighs heavy at thy heart: I know it by thy alter'd cheer of late. Thinkest thy brother plays thy father false? It is a mad and thriftless prodigal, Grown proud upon the favors of the court; Court manners, and court fashions, he affects, And in the heat and uncheck'd blood of youth, Harbors a company of riotous men, All hot, and young, court-seekers, like himself, Most skilful to devour a patrimony; And these have eat into my old estates, And these have drain'd thy father's cellars dry; But these so common faults of youth not named, (Things which themselves outgrow, left to themselves,) I know no quality that stains his honor. My life upon his faith and noble mind, Son John could never play thy father false.

Simon. I never thought but nobly of my brother, Touching his honor and fidelity. Still I could wish him charier of his person, And of his time more frugal, than to spend In riotous living, graceless society, And mirth unpalatable, hours better employ'd (With those persuasive graces nature lent him) In fervent pleadings for a father's life.

Sir W. I would not owe my life to a jealous court, Whose shallow policy I know it is, On some reluctant acts of prudent mercy, (Not voluntary, but extorted by the times, In the first tremblings of new-fixed power, And recollection smarting from old wounds,) On these to build a spurious popularity. Unknowing what free grace or mercy mean, They fear to punish, therefore do they pardon. For this cause have I oft forbid my son, By letters, overtures, open solicitings, Or closet tamperings, by gold or fee, To beg or bargain with the court for my life.

Simon. And John has ta'en you, father, at your word, True to the letter of his paternal charge.

Sir W. Well, my good cause, and my good conscience, boy, Shall be for sons to me, if John prove false. Men die but once, and the opportunity Of a noble death is not an every-day fortune: It is a gift which noble spirits pray for.

Simon. I would not wrong my brother by surmise; I know him generous, full of gentle qualities, Incapable of base compliances, No prodigal in his nature, but affecting This show of bravery for ambitious ends. He drinks, for 'tis the humor of the court, And drink may one day wrest the secret from him, And pluck you from your hiding-place in the sequel.

Sir W. Fair death shall be my doom, and foul life his. Till when, we'll live as free in this green forest, As yonder deer, who roam unfearing treason: Who seem the aborigines of this place, Or Sherwood theirs by tenure.

Simon. 'Tis said, that Robert Earl of Huntingdon, Men call'd him Robin Hood, an outlaw bold, With a merry crew of hunters here did haunt, Not sparing the king's venison. May one believe The antique tale?

Sir W. There is much likelihood, Such bandits did in England erst abound, When polity was young. I have read of the pranks Of that mad archer, and of the tax he levied On travellers, whatever their degree, Baron, or knight, whoever pass'd these woods, Layman, or priest, not sparing the bishop's mitre For spiritual regards; nay, once 'tis said, He robb'd the king himself.

Simon. A perilous man (smiling).

Sir W. How quietly we live here, Unread in the world's business, And take no note of all its slippery changes. 'Twere best we make a world among ourselves, A little world, Without the ills and falsehoods of the greater; We two being all the inhabitants of ours, And kings and subjects both in one.

Simon. Only the dangerous errors, fond conceits, Which make the business of that greater world, Must have no place in ours: As, namely, riches, honors, birth, place, courtesy, Good fame and bad, rumors and popular noises, Books, creeds, opinions, prejudices national, Humors particular, Soul-killing lies, and truths that work small good, Feuds, factions, enmities, relationships, Loves, hatreds, sympathies, antipathies, And all the intricate stuff quarrels are made of.

MARGARET enters in boy's apparel.

Sir W. What pretty boy have we here?

Marg. Bon jour, messieurs. Ye have handsome English faces,

I should have ta'en ye else for other two, I came to seek in the forest.

Sir W. Who are they?

Marg. A gallant brace of Frenchmen, curl'd monsieurs, That men say, haunt these woods, affecting privacy, More than the manner of their countrymen.

Simon. We have here a wonder. The face is Margaret's face.

Sir W. The face is Margaret's, but the dress the same My Stephen sometime wore. [To Margaret. Suppose us them; whom do men say we are? Or know you what you seek?

Marg. A worthy pair of exiles, Two whom the politics of state revenge, In final issue of long civil broils, Have houseless driven from your native France, To wander idle in these English woods, Where now ye live; most part Thinking on home and all the joys of France, Where grows the purple vine.

Sir W. These woods, young stranger, And grassy pastures, which the slim deer loves, Are they less beauteous than the land of France, Where grows the purple vine?

Marg. I cannot tell. To an indifferent eye both show alike. 'Tis not the scene, But all familiar objects in the scene, Which now ye miss, that constitute a difference. Ye had a country, exiles, ye have none now; Friends had ye, and much wealth, ye now have nothing; Our manners, laws, our customs, all are foreign to you, I know ye loathe them, cannot learn them readily; And there is reason, exiles, ye should love Our English earth less than your land of France, Where grows the purple vine; where all delights grow Old custom has made pleasant.

Sir W. You, that are read So deeply in our story, what are you?

Marg. A bare adventurer; in brief a woman, That put strange garments on, and came thus far To seek an ancient friend: And having spent her stock of idle words, And feeling some tears coming, Hastes now to clasp Sir Walter Woodvil's knees, And beg a boon for Margaret; his poor ward.

[Kneeling.

Sir W. Not at my feet, Margaret; not at my feet.

Marg. Yes, till her suit is answered.

Sir W. Name it.

Marg. A little boon, and yet so great a grace, She fears to ask it.

Sir W. Some riddle, Margaret?

Marg. No riddle, but a plain request.

Sir W. Name it.

Marg. Free liberty of Sherwood, And leave to take her lot with you in the forest.

Sir W. A scant petition, Margaret; but take it, Seal'd with an old man's tears.— Rise, daughter of Sir Rowland.

[Addressing them both.

O you most worthy, You constant followers of a man proscribed, Following poor misery in the throat of danger; Fast servitors to crazed and penniless poverty, Serving poor poverty without hope of gain; Kind children of a sire unfortunate; Green clinging tendrils round a trunk decay'd, Which needs must bring on you timeless decay; Fair living forms to a dead carcass joined;— What shall I say? Better the dead were gather'd to the dead, Than death and life in disproportion meet.— Go, seek your fortunes, children.—

Simon. Why, whither should we go?

Sir W. You to the court, where now your brother John Commits a rape on Fortune.

Simon. Luck to John! A light-heel'd strumpet when the sport is done.

Sir W. You to the sweet society of your equals, Where the world's fashion smiles on youth and beauty.

Marg. Where young men's flatteries cozen young maids' beauty. There pride oft gets the vantage hand of duty, There sweet humility withers.

Simon. Mistress Margaret, How fared my brother John, when you left Devon?

Marg. John was well, sir.

Simon. 'Tis now nine months almost, Since I saw home. What new friends has John made? Or keeps he his first love?—I did suspect Some foul disloyalty. Now do I know, John has proved false to her, for Margaret weeps. It is a scurvy brother.

Sir W. Fie upon it. All men are false, I think. The date of love Is out, expired; its stories all grown stale, O'erpast, forgotten, like an antique tale Of Hero and Leander.

Simon. I have known some men that are too general-contemplative for the narrow passion. I am in some sort a general lover.

Marg. In the name of the boy God, who plays at hoodman blind with the Muses, and cares not whom he catches: what is it you love?

Simon. Simply, all things that live, From the crook'd worm to man's imperial form, And God-resembling likeness. The poor fly, That makes short holiday in the sunbeam, And dies by some child's hand. The feeble bird With little wings, yet greatly venturous In the upper sky. The fish in th' other element, That knows no touch of eloquence. What else? Yon tall and elegant stag, Who paints a dancing shadow of his horns In the water, where he drinks.

Marg. I myself love all these things, yet so as with a difference:—for example, some animals better than others, some men rather than other men; the nightingale before the cuckoo, the swift and graceful palfrey before the slow and asinine mule. Your humor goes to confound all qualities. What sports do you use in the forest?—

Simon. Not many; some few, as thus:— To see the sun to bed, and to arise, Like some hot amorist with glowing eyes, Bursting the lazy bands of sleep that bound him, With all his fires and travelling glories round him. Sometimes the moon on soft night clouds to rest, Like beauty nestling in a young man's breast, And all the winking stars, her handmaids, keep Admiring silence, while those lovers sleep. Sometimes outstretcht, in very idleness, Nought doing, saying little, thinking less, To view the leaves, thin dancers upon air, Go eddying round; and small birds, how they fare, When mother Autumn fills their beaks with corn, Filch'd from the careless Amalthea's horn; And how the woods berries and worms provide Without their pains, when earth has nought beside To answer their small wants. To view the graceful deer come tripping by, Then stop, and gaze, then turn, they know not why, Like bashful younkers in society. To mark the structure of a plant or tree, And all fair things of earth, how fair they be.

Marg. (smiling.) And, afterwards, them paint in simile.

Sir W. Mistress Margaret will have need of some refreshment. Please you, we have some poor viands within.

Marg. Indeed I stand in need of them.

Sir W. Under the shade of a thick-spreading tree, Upon the grass, no better carpeting, We'll eat our noontide meal; and, dinner done, One of us shall repair to Nottingham, To seek some safe night-lodging in the town, Where you may sleep, while here with us you dwell, By day, in the forest, expecting better times, And gentler habitations, noble Margaret.

Simon. Allons, young Frenchman——

Marg. Allons, Sir Englishman. The time has been

I've studied love-lays in the English tongue, And been enamor'd of rare poesy: Which now I must unlearn. Henceforth, Sweet mother-tongue, old English speech, adieu; For Margaret has got new name and language new.

[Exeunt.

* * * * *

ACT THE THIRD.

SCENE.—An Apartment of State in Woodvil Hall.

Cavaliers drinking.

JOHN WOODVIL, LOVEL, GRAY, and four more.

John. More mirth, I beseech you, gentlemen—Mr. Gray, you are not merry.—

Gray. More wine, say I, and mirth shall ensue in course. What! we have not yet above three half-pints a man to answer for. Brevity is the soul of drinking, as of wit. Despatch, I say. More wine. (Fills.)

1st Gent. I entreat you, let there be some order, some method, in our drinkings. I love to lose my reason with my eyes open, to commit the deed of drunkenness with forethought and deliberation. I love to feel the fumes of the liquor gathering here, like clouds.

2nd Gent. And I am for plunging into madness at once. Damn order, and method, and steps, and degrees, that he speaks of. Let confusion have her legitimate work.

Lovel. I marvel why the poets, who, of all men, methinks, should possess the hottest livers, and most empyreal fancies, should affect to see such virtues in cold water.

Gray. Virtue in cold water! ha! ha! ha!

John. Because your poet-born hath an internal wine, richer than lippara or canaries, yet uncrushed from any grapes of earth, unpressed in mortal wine-presses.

3rd Gent. What may be the name of this wine?

John. It hath as many names as qualities. It is denominated indifferently, wit, conceit, invention, inspiration, but its most royal and comprehensive name is fancy.

3rd Gent. And where keeps he this sovereign liquor?

John. Its cellars are in the brain, whence your true poet deriveth intoxication at will; while his animal spirits, catching a pride from the quality and neighborhood of their noble relative, the brain, refuse to be sustained by wines and fermentations of earth.

3rd Gent. But is your poet-born always tipsy with this liquor?

John. He hath his stoopings and reposes; but his proper element is the sky, and in the suburbs of the empyrean.

3rd Gent. Is your wine-intellectual so exquisite? henceforth, I, a man of plain conceit, will, in all humility, content my mind with canaries.

4th Gent. I am for a song or a catch. When will the catches come on, the sweet wicked catches?

John. They cannot be introduced with propriety before midnight. Every man must commit his twenty bumpers first. We are not yet well roused. Frank Lovel, the glass stands with you.

Lovel. Gentlemen, the Duke. (Fills.)

All. The Duke. (They drink.)

Gray. Can any tell, why his Grace, being a Papist—

John. Pshaw! we will have no questions of state now. Is not this his Majesty's birthday?

Gray. What follows?

John. That every man should sing, and be joyful, and ask no questions.

2nd Gent. Damn politics, they spoil drinking.

3rd Gent. For certain, 'tis a blessed monarchy.

2nd Gent. The cursed fanatic days we have seen! The times have been when swearing was out of fashion.

3rd Gent. And drinking.

1st Gent. And wenching.

Gray. The cursed yeas and forsooths, which we have heard uttered, when a man could not rap out an innocent oath, but straight the air was thought to be infected.

Lovel. 'Twas a pleasant trick of the saint, which that trim puritan Swear-not-at-all Smooth-speech used, when his spouse chid him with an oath for committing with his servant-maid, to cause his house to be fumigated with burnt brandy, and ends of scripture, to disperse the devil's breath, as he termed it.

All. Ha! ha! ha!

Gray. But 'twas pleasanter, when the other saint Resist-the-devil-and-he-will-flee-from-thee Pureman was overtaken in the act, to plead an illusio visus, and maintain his sanctity upon a supposed power in the adversary to counterfeit the shapes of things.

All. Ha! ha! ha!

John. Another round, and then let every man devise what trick he can in his fancy, for the better manifesting our loyalty this day.

Gray. Shall we hang a puritan?

John. No, that has been done already in Coleman Street.

2nd Gent. Or fire a conventicle?

John. That is stale too.

3rd Gent. Or burn the Assembly's catechism?

4th Gent. Or drink the king's health, every man standing upon his head naked?

John (to Lovel). We have here some pleasant madness.

3rd Gent. Who shall pledge me in a pint bumper, while we drink to the king upon our knees?

Lovel. Why on our knees, Cavalier?

John (smiling). For more devotion, to be sure. (To a servant.) Sirrah, fetch the gilt goblets.

[The goblets are brought. They drink the King's health, kneeling. A shout of general approbation following the first appearance of the goblets.

John. We have here the unchecked virtues of the grape. How the vapors curl upwards! It were a life of gods to dwell in such an element: to see, and hear, and talk brave things. Now fie upon these casual potations. That a man's most exalted reason should depend upon the ignoble fermenting of a fruit, which sparrows pluck at as well as we.

Gray (aside to Lovel). Observe how he is ravished.

Lovel. Vanity and gay thoughts of wine do meet in him and engender madness.

[While the rest are engaged in a wild kind of talk, JOHN advances to the front of the stage, and soliloquizes.

John. My spirits turn to fire, they mount so fast. My joys are turbulent, my hopes show like fruition. These high and gusty relishes of life, sure, Have no allayings of mortality in them. I am too hot now, and o'ercapable, For the tedious processes, and creeping wisdom, Of human acts, and enterprises of a man. I want some seasonings of adversity, Some strokes of the old mortifier Calamity, To take these swellings down, divines call vanity.

1st Gent. Mr. Woodvil, Mr. Woodvil.

2nd Gent. Where is Woodvil?

Gray. Let him alone. I have seen him in these lunes before. His abstractions must not taint the good mirth.

John (continuing to soliloquize). O for some friend, now, To conceal nothing from, to have no secrets. How fine and noble a thing is confidence, How reasonable, too, and almost godlike! Fast cement of fast friends, band of society, Old natural go-between in the world's business, Where civil life and order, wanting this cement, Would presently rush back Into the pristine state of singularity, And each man stand alone.

(A servant enters.)

Servant. Gentlemen, the fireworks are ready.

1st Gent. What be they?

Lovel. The work of London artists, which our host has provided in honor of this day.

2nd Gent. 'Sdeath, who would part with his wine for a rocket?

Lovel. Why truly, gentlemen, as our kind host has been at the pains to provide this spectacle, we can do no less than be present at it. It will not take up much time. Every man may return fresh and thirsting to his liquor.

3rd Gent. There's reason in what he says.

2d Gent. Charge on then, bottle in hand. There's husbandry in that.

[They go out, singing. Only LOVEL remains, who observes WOODVIL.

John (still talking to himself). This Lovel here's of a tough honesty, Would put the rack to the proof. He is not of that sort Which haunt my house, snorting the liquors, And when their wisdoms are afloat with wine, Spend vows as fast as vapors, which go off Even with the fumes, their fathers. He is one, Whose sober morning actions Shame not his o'ernight's promises; Talks little, flatters less, and makes no promises; Why this is he, whom the dark-wisdom'd fate Might trust her counsels of predestination with, And the world be no loser. Why should I fear this man? [Seeing LOVEL. Where is the company gone?

Lovel. To see the fireworks, where you will be expected to follow. But I perceive you are better engaged.

John. I have been meditating this half hour, On all the properties of a brave friendship, The mysteries that are in it, the noble uses, Its limits withal, and its nice boundaries. Exempli gratia, how far a man May lawfully forswear himself for his friend; What quantity of lies, some of them brave ones, He may lawfully incur in a friend's behalf! What oaths, blood-crimes, hereditary quarrels, Night brawls, fierce words, and duels in the morning, He need not stick at, to maintain his friend's honor, or his cause.

Lovel. I think many men would die for their friends.

John. Death! why,'tis nothing. We go to it for sport, To gain a name or purse, or please a sullen humor, When one has worn his fortune's livery threadbare, Or his spleen'd mistress frowns. Husbands will venture on it, To cure the hot fits and cold shakings of jealousy. A friend, sir, must do more.

Lovel. Can he do more than die?

John. To serve a friend this he may do. Pray, mark me. Having a law within (great spirits feel one) He cannot, ought not, to be bound by any Positive laws or ord'nances extern, But may reject all these: by the law of friendship He may do so much, be they, indifferently, Penn'd statutes, or the land's unwritten usages, As public fame, civil compliances, Misnamed honor, trust in matter of secrets, All vows and promises, the feeble mind's religion, (Binding our morning knowledge to approve What last night's ignorance spake;) The ties of blood withal, and prejudice of kin. Sir, these weak terrors Must never shake me. I know what belongs To a worthy friendship. Come, you shall have my confidence.

Lovel. I hope you think me worthy.

John. You will smile to hear now— Sir Walter never has been out of the island.

Lovel. You amaze me.

John. That same report of his escape to France Was a fine tale, forged by myself— Ha! ha! I knew it would stagger him.

Lovel. Pray, give me leave. Where has he dwelt, how lived, how lain conceal'd? Sure I may ask so much.

John. From place to place, dwelling in no place long, My brother Simon still hath borne him company, ('Tis a brave youth, I envy him all his virtues). Disguised in foreign garb, they pass for Frenchmen, Two Protestant exiles from the Limousin Newly arrived. Their dwelling's now at Nottingham, Where no soul knows them.

Lovel. Can you assign any reason why a gentleman of Sir Walter's known prudence should expose his person so lightly?

John. I believe, a certain fondness, A childlike cleaving to the land that gave him birth, Chains him like fate.

Lovel. I have known some exiles thus To linger out the term of the law's indulgence, To the hazard of being known.

John. You may suppose sometimes They use the neighb'ring Sherwood for their sport, Their exercise and freer recreation.— I see you smile. Pray now, be careful.

Lovel. I am no babbler, sir; you need not fear me.

John. But some men have been known to talk in their sleep, And tell fine tales that way.

Lovel. I have heard so much. But, to say truth, I mostly sleep alone.

John. Or drink, sir? do you never drink too freely? Some men will drink, and tell you all their secrets.

Lovel. Why do you question me, who know my habits?

John. I think you are no sot No tavern-troubler, worshipper of the grape; But all men drink sometimes, And veriest saints at festivals relax, The marriage of a friend, or a wife's birthday.

Lovel. How much, sir, may a man with safety drink? [Smiling.

John. Sir, three half-pints a day is reasonable; I care not if you never exceed that quantity.

Lovel. I shall observe it; On holidays two quarts.

John. Or, stay; you keep no wench?

Lovel. Ha!

John. No painted mistress for your private hours? You keep no whore, sir?

Lovel. What does he mean?

John. Who for a close embrace, a toy of sin, And amorous praising of your worship's breath, In rosy junction of four melting lips, Can kiss out secrets from you?

Lovel. How strange this passionate behavior shows in you Sure, you think me some weak one.

John. Pray pardon me some fears. You have now the pledge of a dear father's life. I am a son—would fain be thought a loving one; You may allow me some fears: do not despise me, If, in a posture foreign to my spirit, And by our well-knit friendship, I conjure you, Touch not Sir Walter's life. [Kneels. You see these tears. My father's an old man. Pray let him live.

Lovel. I must be bold to tell you, these new freedoms Show most unhandsome in you.

John (rising). Ha! do you say so? Sure, you are not grown proud upon my secret! Ah! now I see it plain. He would be babbling. No doubt a garrulous and hard-faced traitor— But I'll not give you leave. [Draws.

Lovel. What does this madman mean?

John. Come, sir; here is no subterfuge; You must kill me, or I kill you.

Lovel (drawing). Then self-defence plead my excuse. Have at you, sir. [They fight.

John. Stay, sir. I hope you have made your will. If not,'tis no great matter. A broken cavalier has seldom much He can bequeath; an old worn peruke, A snuffbox with a picture of Prince Rupert, A rusty sword he'll swear was used at Naseby, Though it ne'er came within ten miles of the place; And if he's very rich, A cheap edition of the Icon Basilike, Is mostly all the wealth he dies possest of. You say few prayers, I fancy;—

So to it again. [They fight again. LOVEL is disarmed.

Lovel. You had best now take my life. I guess you mean it.

John (musing). No:—Men will say I fear'd him, if I kill'd him. Live still, and be a traitor in thy wish, But never act thy thought, being a coward. That vengeance, which thy soul shall nightly thirst for, And this disgrace I've done you cry aloud for, Still have the will without the power to execute. So now I leave you, Feeling a sweet security. No doubt My secret shall remain a virgin for you! [Goes out, smiling in scorn.

Lovel (rising). For once you are mistaken in your man. The deed you wot of shall forthwith be done, A bird let loose, a secret out of hand, Returns not back. Why, then 'tis baby policy To menace him who hath it in his keeping. I will go look for Gray; Then, northward ho! such tricks as we shall play Have not been seen, I think, in merry Sherwood, Since the days of Robin Hood, that archer good.



ACT THE FOURTH.

SCENE.—An Apartment in Woodvil Hall.

JOHN WOODVIL. (Alone.)

A weight of wine lies heavy on my head, The unconcocted follies of last night. Now all those jovial fancies, and bright hopes, Children of wine, go off like dreams. This sick vertigo here Preacheth of temperance, no sermon better. These black thoughts, and dull melancholy, That stick like burrs to the brain, will they ne'er leave me? Some men are full of choler, when they are drunk; Some brawl of matter foreign to themselves; And some, the most resolved fools of all, Have told their dearest secrets in their cups.

SCENE.—The Forest.

SIR WALTER. SIMON. LOVEL. GRAY.

Lovel. Sir, we are sorry we cannot return your French salutation.

Gray. Nor otherwise consider this garb you trust to than as a poor disguise.

Lovel. Nor use much ceremony with a traitor.

Gray. Therefore, without much induction of superfluous words, I attach you, Sir Walter Woodvil, of High Treason, in the King's name.

Lovel. And of taking part in the great Rebellion against our late lawful Sovereign, Charles the First.

Simon. John has betrayed us, father.

Lovel. Come, sir, you had best surrender fairly. We know you, sir.

Simon. Hang ye, villains, ye are two better known than trusted. I have seen those faces before. Are ye not two beggarly retainers, trencher-parasites, to John? I think ye rank above his footmen. A sort of bed and board worms—locusts that infest our house; a leprosy that long has hung upon its walls and princely apartments, reaching to fill all the corners of my brother's once noble heart.

Gray. We are his friends.

Simon. Fie, sir, do not weep. How these rogues will triumph! Shall I whip off their heads, father?

[Draws.

Lovel. Come, sir, though this show handsome in you, being his son, yet the law must have its course.

Simon. And if I tell ye the law shall not have its course, cannot ye be content? Courage, father; shall such things as these apprehend a man? Which of ye will venture upon me?—Will you, Mr. Constable self-elect? or you, sir, with a pimple on your nose, got at Oxford by hard drinking, your only badge of loyalty?

Gray. 'Tis a brave youth—I cannot strike at him.

Simon. Father, why do you cover your face with your hands? Why do you fetch your breath so hard? See, villains, his heart is burst! O villains, he cannot speak. One of you run for some water; quickly, ye knaves; will ye have your throats cut?

[They both slink off.

How is it with you, Sir Walter? Look up, sir, the villains are gone. He hears me not, and this deep disgrace of treachery in his son hath touched him even to the death. O most distuned and distempered world, where sons talk their aged fathers into their graves! Garrulous and diseased world, and still empty, rotten and hollow talking world, where good men decay, states turn round in an endless mutability, and still for the worse; nothing is at a stay, nothing abides but vanity, chaotic vanity.—Brother, adieu!

There lies the parent stock which gave us life, Which I will see consign'd with tears to earth. Leave thou the solemn funeral rites to me, Grief and a true remorse abide with thee.

[Bears in the body.

SCENE.—Another Part of the Forest.

Marg. (alone.) It was an error merely, and no crime, An unsuspecting openness in youth, That from his lips the fatal secret drew, Which should have slept like one of nature's mysteries, Unveil'd by any man. Well, he is dead! And what should Margaret do in the forest? O ill-starr'd John! O Woodvil, man enfeoff'd to despair! Take thy farewell of peace. O never look again to see good days, Or close thy lids in comfortable nights, Or ever think a happy thought again, If what I have heard be true.— Forsaken of the world must Woodvil live, If he did tell these men. No tongue must speak to him, no tongue of man Salute him, when he wakes up in a morning; Or bid "good-night" to John. Who seeks to live In amity with thee, must for thy sake Abide the world's reproach. What then? Shall Margaret join the clamors of the world Against her friend? O undiscerning world, That cannot from misfortune separate guilt, No, not in thought! O never, never, John. Prepared to share the fortunes of her friend For better or for worse, thy Margaret comes, To pour into thy wounds a healing love, And wake the memory of an ancient friendship. And pardon me, thou spirit of Sir Walter, Who, in compassion to the wretched living, Have but few tears to waste upon the dead.

SCENE.—Woodvil Hall.

SANDFORD. MARGARET. (As from a Journey.)

Sand. The violence of the sudden mischance hath so wrought in him, who by nature is allied to nothing less than a self-debasing humor of dejection, that I have never seen anything more changed and spirit-broken. He hath, with a peremptory resolution, dismissed the partners of his riots and late hours, denied his house and person to their most earnest solicitings, and will be seen by none. He keeps ever alone, and his grief (which is solitary) does not so much seem to possess and govern in him, as it is by Him, with a wilfulness of most manifest affection, entertained and cherished.

Marg. How bears he up against the common rumor?

Sand. With a strange indifference, which, whosoever dives not into the niceness of his sorrow might mistake for obdurate and insensate. Yet are the wings of his pride forever clipt; and yet a virtuous predominance of filial grief is so ever uppermost, that you may discover his thoughts less troubled with conjecturing what living opinions will say, and judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with the dead, whom his indiscretion made so.

Marg. I knew a greatness ever to be resident in him, to which the admiring eyes of men should look up even in the declining and bankrupt state of his pride. Fain would I see him, fain talk with him; but that a sense of respect, which is violated, when without deliberation we press into the society of the unhappy, checks and holds me back. How, think you, he would bear my presence?

Sand. As of an assured friend, whom in the forgetfulness of his fortunes he past by. See him you must; but not to-night. The newness of the sight shall move the bitterest compunction and the truest remorse; but afterwards, trust me, dear lady, the happiest effects of a returning peace, and a gracious comfort, to him, to you, and all of us.

Marg. I think he would not deny me. He hath ere this received farewell letters from his brother, who hath taken a resolution to estrange himself, for a time, from country, friends, and kindred, and to seek occupation for his sad thoughts in travelling in foreign places, where sights remote and extern to himself may draw from him kindly and not painful ruminations.

Sand. I was present at the receipt of the letter. The contents seemed to affect him, for a moment, with a more lively passion of grief than he has at any time outwardly shown. He wept with many tears (which I had not before noted in him), and appeared to be touched with the sense as of some unkindness; but the cause of their sad separation and divorce quickly recurring, he presently returned to his former inwardness of suffering.

Marg. The reproach of his brother's presence at this hour would have been a weight more than could be sustained by his already oppressed and sinking spirit. Meditating upon these intricate and widespread sorrows, hath brought a heaviness upon me, as of sleep. How goes the night?—

Sand. An hour past sunset. You shall first refresh your limbs (tired with travel) with meats and some cordial wine, and then betake your no less wearied mind to repose.

Marg. A good rest to us all.

Sand. Thanks, lady.



ACT THE FIFTH.

JOHN WOODVIL. (dressing).

John. How beautiful (handling his mourning) And comely do these mourning garments show! Sure Grief hath set his sacred impress here, To claim the world's respect! they note so feelingly By outward types the serious man within.— Alas! what part or portion can I claim In all the decencies of virtuous sorrow, Which other mourners use? as namely, This black attire, abstraction from society, Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom smiles, A cleaving sadness native to the brow, All sweet condolements of like-grieved friends, (That steal away the sense of loss almost,) Men's pity and good offices Which enemies themselves do for us then, Putting their hostile disposition off, As we put off our high thoughts and proud looks.

[Pauses, and observes the pictures.

These pictures must be taken down: The portraitures of our most ancient family For nigh three hundred years! How have I listen'd, To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride, Holding me in his arms, a prating boy, And pointing to the pictures where they hung, Repeat by course their worthy histories, (As Hugh de Widville, Walter, first of the name, And Anne the handsome, Stephen, and famous John: Telling me, I must be his famous John.) But that was in old times. Now, no more Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. I rather, I, by most unheard-of crimes, Have backward tainted all their noble blood, Razed out the memory of an ancient family, And quite reversed the honors of our house. Who now shall sit and tell us anecdotes? The secret history of his own times, And fashions of the world when he was young: How England slept out three-and-twenty years, While Carr and Villiers ruled the baby king: The costly fancies of the pedant's reign, Balls, feastings, huntings, shows in allegory, And Beauties of the court of James the First.

MARGARET enters.

John. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace? O, lady, I have suffer'd loss, And diminution of my honor's brightness. You bring some images of old times, Margaret, That should be now forgotten.

Marg. Old times should never be forgotten, John. I came to talk about them with my friend.

John. I did refuse you, Margaret, in my pride.

Marg. If John rejected Margaret in his pride, (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse Sometimes old playfellows,) the spleen being gone, The offence no longer lives. O Woodvil, those were happy days, When we two first began to love. When first, Under pretence of visiting my father, (Being then a stripling night upon my age,) You came a-wooing to his daughter, John. Do you remember, With what a coy reserve and seldom speech, (Young maidens must be chary of their speech,) I kept the honors of my maiden pride? I was your favorite then.

John. O Margaret, Margaret! These your submissions to my low estate, And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil, Write bitter things 'gainst my unworthiness. Thou perfect pattern of thy slander'd sex, Whom miseries of mine could never alienate, Nor change of fortune shake; whom injuries, And slights (the worst of injuries) which moved Thy nature to return scorn with like scorn, Then when you left in virtuous pride this house, Could not so separate, but now in this My day of shame, when all the world forsake me, You only visit me, love, and forgive me.

Marg. Dost yet remember the green arbor. John, In the south gardens of my father's house, Where we have seen the summer sun go down, Exchanging true love's vows without restraint? And that old wood, you call'd your wilderness, And vow'd in sport to build a chapel in it, There dwell

"Like hermit poor In pensive place obscure."

And tell your Ave Maries by the curls (Dropping like golden beads) of Margaret's hair; And make confession seven times a day Of every thought that stray'd from love and Margaret; And I your saint the penance should appoint— Believe me, sir, I will not now be laid Aside, like an old fashion.

John. O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts; My pride is cured, my hopes are under clouds, I have no part in any good man's love, In all earth's pleasures portion have I none, I fade and wither in my own esteem, This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am. I was not always thus. [Weeps.

Marg. Thou noble nature, Which lion-like didst awe the inferior creatures, Now trampled on by beasts of basest quality, My dear heart's lord, life's pride, soul-honor'd John! Upon her knees (regard her poor request) Your favorite, once beloved Margaret, kneels.

John. What would'st thou, lady, ever honor'd Margaret?

Marg. That John would think more nobly of himself, More worthily of high Heaven; And not for one misfortune, child of chance, No crime, but unforeseen, and sent to punish The less offence, with image of the greater, Thereby to work the soul's humility, (Which end hath happily not been frustrate quite,) O not for one offence mistrust Heaven's mercy, Nor quit thy hope of happy days to come— John yet has many happy days to live; To live and make atonement.

John. Excellent lady, Whose suit hath drawn this softness from my eyes, Not the world's scorn, nor falling off of friends, Could ever do. Will you go with me, Margaret?

Marg. (rising). Go whither, John?

John. Go in with me And pray for the peace of our unquiet minds?

Marg. That I will, John.

[Exeunt.

SCENE.—An inner Apartment.

JOHN is discovered kneeling.—MARGARET standing over him.

John (rises). I cannot bear To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, ('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

Marg. John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so. O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, (You know you gave me leave to call you so,) And I must chide these pestilent humors from you.

John. They are gone.— Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak! I can smile too, and I almost begin To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

Marg. Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.

John. Yet tell me, if I overact my mirth, (Being but a novice, I may fall into that error.) That were a sad indecency, you know.

Marg. Nay, never fear. I will be mistress of your humors, And you shall frown or smile by the book. And herein I shall be most peremptory, Cry, "This shows well, but that inclines to levity; This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it, But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."

John. How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!

Marg. To give you in your stead a better self! Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery, Sir Rowland my father's gift, And all my maidens gave my heart for lost. I was a young thing then, being newly come Home from my convent education, where Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France: Returning home true protestant, you call'd me Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful Did John salute his love, being newly seen! Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty, And praised it in a youth.

John. Now Margaret weeps herself.

(A noise of bells heard.)

Marg. Hark the bells, John.

John. Those are the church-bells of St. Mary Ottery.

Marg. I know it.

John. St. Mary Ottery, my native village In the sweet shire of Devon. Those are the bells.

Marg. Wilt go to church, John?

John. I have been there already.

Marg. How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, And hast thou been at church already?

John. I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise; And the first object I discern'd Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.

Marg. Well, John.

John. Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath day. Immediately a wish arose in my mind, To go to church and pray with Christian people. And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, "Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past, (Not having been at church in all that time,) And is it fit, that now for the first time Thou shouldst offend the eyes of Christian people With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer? Thou wouldst but discompose their pious thoughts, And do thyself no good: for how couldst thou pray, With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?" And then I at my own presumption smiled; And then I wept that I should smile at all, Having such cause of grief! I wept outright: Tears like a river flooded all my face, And I began to pray, and found I could pray; And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church. "Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it." So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection, Or was about to act unlawful business At that dead time of dawn, I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open. (Whether by negligence I knew not, Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed, For all things felt like mystery.)

Marg. Yes.

John. So entering in, not without fear, I passed into the family pew, And covering up my eyes for shame, And deep perception of unworthiness, Upon the little hassock knelt me down, Where I so oft had kneel'd, A docile infant by Sir Walter's side; And, thinking so, I wept a second flood More poignant than the first; But afterwards was greatly comforted. It seem'd the guilt of blood was passing from me Even in the act and agony of tears, And all my sins forgiven.



THE WITCH;

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.

* * * * *

CHARACTERS.

OLD SERVANT in the Family of SIR FRANCIS FAIRFORD. STRANGER.

* * * * *

Servant. One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced, Was pacing to and fro in the avenue That westward fronts our house, Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted Three hundred years ago, By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name. Being o'ertasked in thought, he heeded not The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate, And begg'd an alms. Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate With angry chiding; but I can never think (Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it) That he could use a woman, an old woman, With such discourtesy; but he refused her— And better had he met a lion in his path Than that old woman that night; For she was one who practised the black arts, And serv'd the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft. She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him, And with a frightful noise, ('Twas partly like a woman's voice, And partly like the hissing of a snake,) She nothing said but this (Sir Francis told the words):—

A mischief, mischief, mischief, And a nine-times killing curse, By day and by night, to the caitiff wight, Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door, And shuts up the womb of his purse. And still she cried—

A mischief, And a ninefold withering curse: For that shall come to thee that will undo thee, Both all that thou fearest and worse.

So saying, she departed, Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath Whose feet a scaffolding was suddenly falling; So he described it.

Stranger. A terrible curse! What follow'd?

Servant. Nothing immediate, but some two months after, Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick, And none could tell what ail'd him; for he lay, And pined, and pined, till all his hair fell off, And he, that was full-flesh'd, became as thin As a two-months' babe that has been starved in the nursing. And sure I think He bore his death-wound like a little child; With such rare sweetness of dumb melancholy He strove to clothe his agony in smiles, Which he would force up in his poor pale cheeks, Like ill-timed guests that had no proper dwelling there; And, when they ask'd him his complaint, he laid His hand upon his heart to show the place, Where Susan came to him a-nights, he said, And prick'd him with a pin.— And thereupon Sir Francis call'd to mind The beggar-witch that stood by the gateway And begg'd an alms.

Stranger. But did the witch confess?

Servant. All this and more at her death.

Stranger. I do not love to credit tales of magic. Heaven's music, which is Order, seems unstrung, And this brave world (The mystery of God) unbeautified, Disorder'd, marr'd, where such strange things are acted.



ALBUM VERSES,

WITH A FEW OTHERS.



DEDICATION.

* * * * *

TO THE PUBLISHER.

DEAR MOXON,

I do not know to whom a Dedication of these Trifles is more properly due than to yourself. You suggested the printing of them. You were desirous of exhibiting a specimen of the manner in which Publications, intrusted to your future care, would appear. With more propriety, perhaps, the "Christmas," or some other of your own simple, unpretending Compositions, might have served this purpose. But I forget—you have bid a long adieu to the Muses. I had on my hands sundry Copies of Verses written for Albums—

Those books kept by modern young Ladies for show Of which their plain Grandmothers nothing did know—

or otherwise floating about in Periodicals; which you have chosen in this manner to embody. I feel little interest in their publication. They are simply—Advertisement Verses.

It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our honored Friend, under whose auspices you are become a Publisher. May that fine-minded Veteran in Verse enjoy life long enough to see his patronage justified? I venture to predict that your habits of industry, and your cheerful spirit, will carry you through the world.

I am, Dear Moxon,

Your Friend and sincere Well-Wisher,

CHARLES LAMB.

ENFIELD, 1st June, 1839.



ALBUM VERSES

WITH A FEW OTHERS.

* * * * *

IN THE AUTOGRAPH BOOK OF MRS. SERGEANT W——.

* * * * *

Had I a power, Lady, to my will, You should not want Hand Writings. I would fill Your leaves with Autographs—resplendent names Of Knights and Squires of old, and courtly Dames, Kings, Emperors, Popes. Next under these should stand The hands of famous Lawyers—a grave band— Who in their Courts of Law or Equity Have best upheld Freedom and Property. These should moot cases in your book, and vie To show their reading and their Sergeantry. But I have none of these; nor can I send The notes by Bullen to her Tyrant penn'd In her authentic hand; nor in soft hours Lines writ by Rosamund in Clifford's bowers. The lack of curious Signatures I moan, And want the courage to subscribe my own.

* * * * *

TO DORA W——.

ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM.

An Album is a Banquet: from the store, In his intelligential Orchard growing, Your Sire might heap your board to overflowing: One shaking of the Tree—'twould ask no more To set a Salad forth, more rich than that Which Evelyn[1] in his princely cookery fancied: Or that more rare, by Eve's neat hands enhanced, Where, a pleased guest, the Angelic Virtue sat. But like the all-grasping Founder of the Feast, Whom Nathan to the sinning king did tax, From his less wealthy neighbors he exacts; Spares his own flocks, and takes the poor man's beast. Obedient to his bidding, lo, I am, A zealous, meek, contributory LAMB.

[Footnote 1: Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706.]

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY.

An Album is a Garden, not for show Planted, but use; where wholesome herbs should grow. A Cabinet of curious porcelain, where No fancy enters, but what's rich or rare. A Chapel, where mere ornamental things Are pure as crowns of saints, or angels' wings. A List of living friends; a holier Room For names of some since mouldering in the tomb, Whose blooming memories life's cold laws survive; And, dead elsewhere, they here yet speak and live. Such, and so tender, should an Album be; And, Lady, such I wish this book to thee.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF EDITH S——.

In Christian world MARY the garland wears! REBECCA sweetens on a Hebrew's ear; Quakers for pure PRISCILLA are more clear; And the light Gaul by amorous NINON swears. Among the lesser lights how LUCY shines! What air of fragrance ROSAMOND throws round! How like a hymn doth sweet CECILIA sound! Of MARTHAS, and of ABIGAILS, few lines Have bragg'd in verse. Of coarsest household stuff Should homely JOAN be fashion'd. But can You BARBARA resist, or MARIAN? And is not CLARE for love excuse enough? Yet, by my faith in numbers, I profess, These all, than Saxon EDITH, please me less.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF ROTHA Q——.

A passing glance was all I caught of thee, In my own Enfield haunts at random roving. Old friends of ours were with thee, faces loving; Time short: and salutations cursory, Though deep, and hearty. The familiar Name Of you, yet unfamiliar, raised in me Thoughts—what the daughter of that Man should be, Who call'd our Wordsworth friend. My thoughts did frame A growing Maiden, who, from day to day Advancing still in stature, and in grace, Would all her lonely Father's griefs efface, And his paternal cares with usury pay. I still retain the phantom, as I can; And call the gentle image—Quillinan.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF CATHERINE ORKNEY.

CANADIA! boast no more the toils Of hunters for the furry spoils; Your whitest ermines are but foils To brighter Catherine Orkney.

That such a flower should ever burst From climes with rigorous winter curst!— We bless you, that so kindly nurst This flower, this Catherine Orkney.

We envy not your proud display Of lake—wood—vast Niagara; Your greatest pride we've borne away. How spared you Catherine Orkney?

That Wolfe on Heights of Abraham fell, To your reproach no more we tell: Canadia, you repaid us well With rearing Catherine Orkney.

O Britain, guard with tenderest care The charge allotted to your share: You've scarce a native maid so fair, So good, as Catherine Orkney.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF LUCY BARTON.

Little Book, surnamed of white, Clean as yet, and fair to sight, Keep thy attribution right.

Never disproportion'd scrawl; Ugly blot, that's worse than all; On thy maiden clearness fall!

In each letter, here design'd, Let the reader emblem'd find Neatness of the owner's mind.

Gilded margins count a sin, Let thy leaves attraction win By the golden rules within;

Sayings fetch'd from sages old; Laws which Holy Writ unfold, Worthy to be graved in gold:

Lighter fancies not excluding: Blameless wit, with nothing rude in, Sometimes mildly interluding

Amid strains of graver measure: Virtue's self hath oft her pleasure In sweet Muses' groves of leisure.

Riddles dark, perplexing sense; Darker meanings of offence; What but shades—be banish'd hence.

Whitest thoughts in whitest dress, Candid meanings, best express Mind of quiet Quakeress.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF MRS. JANE TOWERS.

Lady Unknown, who crav'st from me Unknown The trifle of a verse these leaves to grace, How shall I find fit matter? with what face Address a face that ne'er to me was shown? Thy looks, tones, gesture, manners, and what not, Conjecturing, I wander in the dark. I know thee only Sister to Charles Clarke! But at that name my cold muse waxes hot, And swears that thou art such a one as he, Warm, laughter-loving, with a touch of madness, Wild, glee-provoking, pouring oil of gladness From frank heart without guile. And, if thou be The pure reverse of this, and I mistake— Demure one, I will like thee for his sake.

* * * * *

IN THE ALBUM OF MISS ——.

I.

Such goodness in your face doth shine, With modest look without design, That I despair, poor pen of mine Can e'er express it. To give it words I feebly try; My spirits fail me to supply Befitting language for't, and I Can only bless it!

II.

But stop, rash verse! and don't abuse A bashful Maiden's ear with news Of her own virtues. She'll refuse Praise sung so loudly. Of that same goodness you admire, The best part is, she don't aspire To praise—nor of herself desire To think too proudly.

* * * * *

IN MY OWN ALBUM.

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white, A young probationer of light, Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care, And friend and foe, in foul or fair, Have "written strange defeatures" there;

And Time with heaviest hand of all, Like that fierce writing on the wall, Hath stamp'd sad dates—he can't recall;

And error gilding worst designs— Like speckled snake that strays and shines— Betrays his path by crooked lines;

And vice hath left his ugly blot; And good resolves, a moment hot, Fairly began—but finish'd not;

And fruitless, late remorse doth trace— Like Hebrew lore a backward pace— Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers; sense unknit Huge reams of folly, shreds of wit; Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook Upon this ink-blurr'd thing to look— Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.



MISCELLANEOUS.

* * * * *

ANGEL HELP[1]

[Footnote 1: Suggested by a drawing in the possession of Charles Aders, Esq., in which is represented the legend of a poor female Saint; who, having spun past midnight, to maintain a bedrid mother, has fallen asleep from fatigue, and Angels are finishing her work. In another part of the chamber, an angel is tending a lily, the emblem of purity.]

This rare tablet doth include Poverty with sanctitude. Past midnight this poor maid hath spun, And yet the work is not half done, Which must supply from earnings scant A feeble bedrid parent's want. Her sleep-charged eyes exemption ask, And Holy hands take up the task; Unseen the rock and spindle ply, And do her earthly drudgery. Sleep, saintly poor one! sleep, sleep on; And, waking, find thy labors done. Perchance she knows it by her dreams; Her eye hath caught the golden gleams, Angelic presence testifying, That round her everywhere are flying; Ostents from which she may presume, That much of heaven is in the room. Skirting her own bright hair they run, And to the sunny add more sun: Now on that aged face they fix, Streaming from the Crucifix; The flesh-clogg'd spirit disabusing, Death-disarming sleeps infusing, Prelibations, foretastes high, And equal thoughts to live or die. Gardener bright from Eden's bower, Tend with care that lily flower; To its leaves and root infuse Heaven's sunshine, Heaven's dews. 'Tis a type, and 'tis a pledge, Of a crowning privilege. Careful as that lily flower, This maid must keep her precious dower; Live a sainted maid, or die Martyr to virginity.

* * * * *

ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN.

I saw where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature's work. A flow'ret crushed in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying; Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: So soon to exhange the imprisoning womb For darker closets of the tomb! She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut For the long dark: ne'er more to see Through glasses of mortality. Riddle of destiny, who can show What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below? Shall we say, that Nature blind Check'd her hand, and changed her mind, Just when she had exactly wrought A finish'd pattern without fault? Could she flag, or could she tire, Or lack'd she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons' long workings sicken'd) That should thy little limbs have quicken'd? Limbs so firm, they seem'd to assure Life of health and days mature: Woman's self in miniature! Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make Beauty by. Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry, That babe or mother, one must die; So in mercy left the stock, And cut the branch; to save the shock Of young years widow'd; and the pain, When Single State comes back again To the lone man who, 'reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimed life? The economy of Heaven is dark; And wisest clerks have miss'd the mark, Why Human Buds, like this, should fall, More brief than fly ephemeral, That has his day; while shrivell'd crones Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; And crabbed use the conscience sears In sinners of an hundred years. Mother's prattle, mother's kiss, Baby fond, thou ne'er wilt miss. Rites, which custom does impose, Silver bells and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips, Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infants' glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want'st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them. Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave; And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie, A more harmless vanity?

* * * * *

THE CHRISTENING.

Array'd—a half-angelic sight— In vests of pure Baptismal white, The mother to the Font doth bring The little helpless nameless thing, With hushes soft and mild caressing, At once to get—a name and blessing. Close by the babe the Priest doth stand, The Cleansing Water at his hand, Which must assoil the soul within From every stain of Adam's sin. The Infant eyes the mystic scenes, Nor knows what all this wonder means; And now he smiles, as if to say "I am a Christian made this day;" Now frighted clings to Nurse's hold, Shrinking from the water cold, Whose virtues, rightly understood, Are, as Bethesda's waters, good. Strange words—The World, The Flesh, The Devil— Poor Babe, what can it know of evil? But we must silently adore Mysterious truths, and not explore. Enough for him, in after-times, When he shall read these artless rhymes, If, looking back upon this day With quiet conscience, he can say— "I have in part redeem'd the pledge Of my Baptismal privilege; And more and more will strive to flee All which my Sponsors kind did then renounce for me."

* * * * *

THE YOUNG CATECHIST[1]

[Footnote 1: A picture by Henry Meyer, Esq.]

While this tawny Ethiop prayeth, Painter, who is she that stayeth By, with skin of whitest lustre, Sunny locks, a shining cluster, Saint-like seeming to direct him To the Power that must protect him? Is she of the Heaven-born Three, Meek Hope, strong Faith, sweet Charity; Or some Cherub?—

They you mention Far transcend my weak invention. 'Tis a simple Christian child, Missionary young and mild, From her stock of Scriptural knowledge, Bible-taught without a college, Which by reading she could gather Teaches him to say OUR FATHER To the common Parent, who Color not respects, nor hue. White and black in Him have part, Who looks not to the skin, but heart.

* * * * *

TO A YOUNG FRIEND,

ON HER TWENTY-FIRST BIRTHDAY.

Crown me a cheerful goblet, while I pray A blessing on thy years, young Isola; Young, but no more a child. How swift have flown To me thy girlish times, a woman grown Beneath my heedless eyes! in vain I rack My fancy to believe the almanac, That speaks thee Twenty-One. Thou shouldst have still Remain'd a child, and at thy sovereign will Gambol'd about our house, as in times past. Ungrateful Emma, to grow up so fast, Hastening to leave thy friends!—for which intent, Fond Runagate, be this thy punishment: After some thirty years, spent in such bliss As this earth can afford, where still we miss Something of joy entire, may'st thou grow old As we whom thou hast left! That wish was cold. O far more aged and wrinkled, till folks say, Looking upon thee reverend in decay, "This Dame, for length of days, and virtues rare, With her respected Grandsire may compare." Grandchild of that respected Isola, Thou shouldst have had about thee on this day Kind looks of Parents, to congratulate Their Pride grown up to woman's grave estate. But they have died, and left thee, to advance Thy fortunes how thou may'st, and owe to chance The friends which nature grudged. And thou wilt find, Or make such, Emma, if I am not blind To thee and thy deservings. That last strain Had too much sorrow in it. Fill again Another cheerful goblet, while I say "Health, and twice health, to our lost Isola."