I see thy steps the mighty Tread-Mill trace,
(The subject of my song,
Delay'd however long,)
And some of thine own race,
Of immortality;
Seeing that clearly
Thy system all is merely
Thou to thy pupils dost such lessons give
With temperance, sobriety, morality,
That from thy school, by force of virtuous deeds,
To keep thee company, thou bring'st with thee Each Tyro now proceeds
FINE merry franions,
Wanton companions,
My days are ev'n banyans
With thinking upon ye!
How Death, that last stinger,
Finis-writer, end-bringer,
Has laid his chill finger,
Or is laying on ye.
There's rich Kitty Wheatley,
With footing it featly
That took me completely,
She sleeps in the Kirk House;
And poor Polly Perkin,
Whose Dad was still firking
The jolly ale firkin,
She's gone to the Work-house;
Fine Gard'ner, Ben Carter
(In ten counties no smarter)
Has ta'en his departure
For Proserpine's orchards :
And Lily, postilion,
With cheeks of vermilion,
Is one of a million
That fill up the church-yards;
And, lusty as Dido,
Fat Clemitson's widow
Flits now a small shadow
By Stygian hid ford;
And good Master Clapton
Has thirty years napt on,
The ground he last hapt on.
Intomb'd by fair Widford;
And gallant Tom Dockwra, Of Nature's finest crockery,
Now but thin air and mockery,
Lurks by Avernus, Whose honest grasp of hand Still, while his life did stand, At friend's or foe's command, Almost did burn us.
And flaunting Miss Waller,
That soon must befall her,
Whence none can recall her,
Though proud once as Juno!
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FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS.
SOME сry up Haydn, some Mozart,
Just as the whim bites; for my part,
I do not care a farthing candle
For either of them, or for Handel. —
Cannot a man live free and easy,
Without admiring Pergolesi?
Or through the world with comfort go,
That never heard of Doctor Blow?
So help me heaven, I hardly have;
And yet I eat, and drink, and shave,
Like other people, if you watch it,
And know no more of stave or crotchet,
Than did the primitive Peruvians;
Or those old ante-queer-diluvians
That lived in the unwash'd world with Jubal,
Before that dirty blacksmith Tubal
By stroke on anvil, or by summ'at,
Found out, to his great surprise, the gamut.
I care no more for Cimarosa,
Than he did for Salvator Rosa,
Being no painter; and bad luck
Be mine, if I can bear that Gluck!
Old Tycho Brahe, and modern Herschel,
Had something in them; but who's Purcel ?
The devil, with his foot so cloven,
For aught I care, may take Beethoven;
And, if the bargain does not suit,
I'll throw him Weber in to boot.
There's not the splitting of a splinter
To choose 'twixt him last named, and Winter.
Of Doctor Pepusch old
queen Dido
Knew just as much, God knows, as I do.
I would not go four miles to visit
Sebastian Bach; (or Batch, which is it?)
No more I would for Bononcini.
As for Novello, or Rossini,
I shall not say a word to grieve 'em,
Because they're living; so I leave 'em.
Selby. Do not too far mistake me, gentlest wife;
I meant to chide your virtues, not yourself,
And those too with allowance. I have not
Been blest by thy fair side with five white years
Of smooth and even wedlock, now to touch
With any strain of harshness on a string
Hath yielded me such music. 'Twas the quality
Of a too grateful nature in my Katherine,
That to the lame performance of some vows,
And common courtesies of man to wife,
Attributing too much, hath sometimes seem'd
To esteem as favours, what in that blest union
Are but reciprocal and trivial dues,
As fairly yours as mine: 'twas this I thought
Gently to reprehend.
The riches we exchange should hold some level,
And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys
Haply did think their company too long;
And over-company, we know by proof,
Is worse than no attendance.
Kath.
You speak this of the widow-
Selby.
At random shot; but if it hit, believe me,
I am most sorry to have wounded you
Through a friend's side. I know not how we have
From our first talk. I was to caution you
Against this fault of a too grateful nature:
Which, for some girlish obligations past,
In that relenting season of the heart,
When slightest favours pass for benefits
Of endless binding, would entail upon you
An iron slavery of obsequious duty
To the proud will of an imperious woman.
Kath. The favours are not slight to her I owe.
Selby. Slight or not slight, the tribute she exacts
[A voice within.
Demand some thanks thrown in. You took me, sir, Cancels all dues-
To that blest haven of my peace, your bosom,
An orphan founder'd in the world's black storm.
Poor, you have made me rich; from lonely maiden,
Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife.
Selby. But to divert the subject: Kate too fond,
I would not wrest your meanings; else that word
Accompanied, and full-accompanied too,
Might raise a doubt in some men, that their wives
even now I hear her call you
In such a tone, as lordliest mistresses
Expect a slave's attendance. Prithee, Kate,
Let her expect a brace of minutes or so.
Say you are busy. Use her by degrees
To some less hard exactions.
Kath.
Detain me not. I will return
Kath.
Selby. Some toilet service-to adjust her head,
Or help to stick a pin in the right place-
Kath. Indeed 'twas none of these.
Selby.
The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen her
Demand such service from thee as her maid,
Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red,
Gall'd am I, and with cause,
And rid to death, yet cannot get a riddance,
Nay, scarce a ride, by this proud Widow's leave.
Lucy. Something you wrote me of a Mistress
Frampton.
Selby. She came at first a meek admitted guest,
Pretending a short stay; her whole deportment
And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool! fond Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk,
And yet my dearest Kate!-This day at least
(It is our wedding-day) we spend in freedom,
And will forget our Widow.-Philip, our coach-
Why weeps my wife? You know, I promised you
An airing o'er the pleasant Hampshire downs
To the blest cottage on the green hill side,
Where first I told my love. I wonder much,
If the crimson parlour hath exchanged its hue
For colours not so welcome. Faded though it be,
It will not show less lovely than the tinge
Of this faint red, contending with the pale,
Where once the full-flush'd health gave to this cheek
An apt resemblance to the fruit's warm side,
That bears my Katherine's name.-
Enter a Servant.
Now, Robin, what make you here?
Servant.
May it please you,
The coachman has driven out with Mrs. Frampton.
Selby. He had no orders-
Servant.
The wardrobe of her scant and ancient clothing,
Bespoke no more. But in few days her dress,
Her looks, were proudly changed. And now she
flaunts it
In jewels stolen or borrow'd from my wife;
Who owes her some strange service, of what nature
I must be kept in ignorance. Katherine's meek
And gentle spirit cowers beneath her eye,
As spell-bound by some witch.
Lucy.
Some mystery hangs on it.
How bears she in her carriage towards yourself?
Selby. As one who fears, and yet not greatly
For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought,
A secret glance would tell me she could love,
If I but gave encouragement. Before me
She keeps some moderation; but is never
Closeted with my wife, but in the end
I find my Katherine in briny tears.
From the small chamber, where she first was lodged,
The gradual fiend by specious wriggling arts
Has now ensconced herself in the best part
None, sir, that I know of, Of this large mansion; calls the left wing her own: But from the lady, who expects some letter Commands my servants, equipage.—I hear At the next Post Town. Her hated tread.
Go, Robin. [Erit Servant.
How is this?
What makes she back so soon?
She does the honours naturally
[Aside. Selby. As if she were the mistress of the house[Aside. Mrs. F. I love to be at home with loving friends. To stand on ceremony with obligations,
Is to restrain the obliger. That old coach, though,
Of yours jumbles one strangely.
Selby.
I shall order
An equipage soon, more easy to you, madam-
Lucy. To drive her and her pride to Lucifer,
I hope he means.
Mrs. F. I must go trim myself; this humbled garb
Would shame a wedding-feast. I have your leave
For a short absence?-and your Katherine-
Selby. You'll find her in her closet-
Mrs. F
Fare you well, then.
[Exit.
Selby. How like you her assurance?
Lucy.
Even so well,
That if this Widow were my guest, not yours,
She should have coach enough, and scope to ride.
My merry groom should in a trice convey her
To Sarum Plain, and set her down at Stonehenge,
To pick her path through those antiques at leisure;
She should take sample of our Wiltshire flints.
O, be not lightly jealous! nor surmise,
That to a wanton bold-faced thing like this
Your modest shrinking Katherine could impart
Secrets of any worth, especially
And sage Duenna to the maids and scullions,
We must have leave to laugh; our brains are younger
And undisturb'd with care of keys and pantries.
We are wild things.
Good Philip, tell us all.
All. Ay, as you live, tell, tell-
Philip. Mad fellows, you shall have it.
The Widow's bell rang lustily and loud
Butler. I think that no one can mistake her ringing. Waiting-maid. Our Lady's ring is soft sweet music to it,
More of entreaty hath it than command.
Philip. I lose my story, if you interrupt me thus.
The bell, I say, rang fiercely; and a voice
More shrill than bell, call'd out for "Coachman
Philip!"
I straight obey'd, as 'tis my name and office.
"Drive me," quoth she, "to the next market town,
Where I have hope of letters." I made haste;
Put to the horses, saw her safely coach'd,
And drove her
Waiting-maid. By the straight high road to
Andover,
Philip. Pray, warrant things within your
knowledge,
Good Mistress Abigail; look to your dressings,
And leave the skill in horses to the coachman.
Butler. He'll have his humour; best not inter-
rupt him.
Philip. 'Tis market-day, thought I; and the poor
beasts,
Meeting such droves of cattle and of people,
May take a fright; so down the lane I trundled,
Where Goodman Dobson's crazy mare was founder'd,
And where the flints were biggest, and ruts widest,
By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking motions
We flounder'd on a furlong, till my madam,
In policy, to save the few joints left her,
Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be aught, Betook her to her feet, and there we parted.
My life upon't, 'tis but some girlish story
Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife
Might modestly deny to a husband's ear,
Much more your timid and too sensitive Katherine.
Selby. I think it is no more; and will dismiss
My further fears, if ever I have had such.
Lucy. Shall we go walk? I'd see your gardens,
brother;
And how the new trees thrive, I recommended.
Your Katherine is engaged now-
Selby.
I'll attend you.
[Exeunt.
Butler. Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should ride.
Waiting-maid. I think she is a witch; I have tired myself out
With sticking pins in her pillow; still she 'scapes them
Butler. And I with helping her to mum for claret,
But never yet could cheat her dainty palate.
Housekeeper. Well, well, she is the guest of our
good Mistress,
And so should be respected. Though, I think
Our master cares not for her company,
He would ill brook we should express so much
By rude discourtesies, and short attendance,
Being but servants. (A Bell rings furiously.)
'Tis her bell speaks now; yourselves: who knows who's
Good, good, bestir
wanted?
Butler. But 'twas
coachman.
a merry trick of Philip [Exeunt.
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