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And Lily, postilion,

With cheeks of vermilion,

Is one of a million

That fill up the church-yards;

IV.

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;

V.

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.

VI.

Roger de Coverley

Not more good man than he;
Yet has he equally

Push'd for Cocytus,

With drivelling Worral,
And wicked old Dorrell,

'Gainst whom I've a quarrel,
Whose end might affright us !—

VII,

Kindly hearts have I known;
Kindly hearts, they are flown;
Here and there if but one

Linger yet uneffaced,
Imbecile tottering elves,
Soon to be wreck'd on shelves,
These scarce are half themselves,
With age and care crazed.

VIII.

But this day Fanny Hutton
Her last dress has put on;
Her fine lessons forgotten,

She died, as the dunce died;
And prim Betsy Chambers,
Decay'd in her members,
No longer remembers

Things, as she once did;

IX.

And prudent Miss Wither
Not in jest now doth wither,
And soon must go—whither

Nor I well, nor you know;
And flaunting Miss Waller,
That soon must befall her,
Whence none can recall her,
Though proud once as Juno!

FREE THOUGHTS ON SEVERAL EMINENT COMPOSERS.

SOME Cry 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 inore 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.

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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.

Kath. In friendship's barter The riches we exchange should hold some level, And corresponding worth. Jewels for toys Demand some thanks thrown in. You took me, sir,

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
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.

I must guess,

"Twas a bolt

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 swerved

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

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, Cancels all dues-
Your cherish'd and your full-accompanied wife.

[4 voice within. even now I hear her call you

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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.

Or new vamp up

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Sister! I know you are come to welcome
This day's return. 'Twas well done.
Lucy.

The tarnish'd cloak she came in. I have seen In years gone by this day was used to be

her

Demand such service from thee, as her maid,
Twice told to do it, would blush angry-red,
And pack her few clothes up. Poor fool! fond

slave !

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.-

The smoothest of the year.
So soon to gall?

You seem ruffled.

Your honey turn'd

Selby.
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
Seem'd as of one obliged. A slender trunk,
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, 1
As spell-bound by some witch.
Lucy.

Some mystery hangs on it.
Our carriage, Philip. How bears she in her carriage towards yourself?
Selby. As one who fears, and yet not greatly

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.

cares

For my displeasure. Sometimes I have thought,
A secret glance would tell me she could love,
If I but gave encouragement. Before me

None, sir, that I know of, She keeps some moderation; but is never
Closeted with my wife, but in the end

But from the lady, who expects some letter

I find my Katherine in briny tears.

She should have coach enough, and scope to ride.

From the small chamber, where she first was My merry groom should in a trice convey her

lodged,

The gradual fiend by specious wriggling arts
Has now ensconced herself in the best part
Of this large mansion; calls the left wing her

own;

Commands my servants, equipage.—I hear
Her hated tread. What makes she back so soon?

Enter MRS. FRAMPTON.

Mrs. F. O, I am jolter'd, bruised, and shook to death,

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

Secrets that touch'd your peace. If there be
aught,

My life upon't, 'tis but some girlish story With your vile Wiltshire roads. The villain Of a First Love; which even the boldest wife Philip

Chose, on my conscience, the perversest tracks,
And stoniest hard lanes in all the county,
Till I was fain get out, and so walk back,
My errand unperform'd at Andover.

Lucy. And I shall love the knave for ever after.
[Aside.

Mrs. F. A friend with you!
Selby.

My eldest sister, Lucy,
Come to congratulate this returning morn.
Sister, my wife's friend, Mistress Frampton.

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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.

[Aside.

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;

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SCENE-Servants' Hall.

HOUSEKEEPER, PHILIP, and others, laughing.

Housekeeper. Our Lady's guest, since her short

And somewhat in disorder.

ride, seems ruffled,

Philip, Philip,

I do suspect some roguery. Your mad tricks
Will some day cost you a good place, I warrant.
Philip. Good Mistress Jane, our serious house.
keeper,

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.

Butler.

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,

Mrs. F. I must go trim myself; this humbled More of entreaty hath it than command.
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.

[Exit.

Fare you well, then.

Selby. How like you her assurance?
Lucy.
Even so well,
That if this Widow were my guest, not yours,

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,

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Good Mistress Abigail; look to your dressings,
And leave the skill in horses to the coachman.
Butler. He'll have his humour; best not
interrupt him.

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Philip. 'Tis market-day, thought I; and the But I could make a shift to thread a smaller.
poor beasts,
A cable or a camel might go through this,
And never strain for the passage.
Kath.
Intolerable tyranny!

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,

Mrs. F.

I will fit you.

[Aside.

Quick, quick;

And where the flints were biggest, and ruts You were not once so slack.—As I was saying,
widest,
Not a young thing among ye, but observed me
By ups and downs, and such bone-cracking Above the mistress. Who but I was sought to

motions

We flounder'd on a furlong, till my madam,
In policy, to save the few joints left her,
Betook her to her feet, and there we parted.
All. Ha ha ha!

In all your dangers, all your little difficulties,
Your girlish scrapes? I was the scapegoat still,
To fetch you off; kept all your secrets, some,
Perhaps, since then-
Kath.
No more of that, for mercy,

Butler. Hang her, 'tis pity such as she should If you'd not have me, sinking at your feet,
ride.
Cleave the cold earth for comfort.
Mrs. F.

Waiting-maid. I think she is a witch; I have
tired myself out

[Kneels. This to me! This posture to your friend had better suited

With sticking pins in her pillow; still she 'scapes The orphan Katherine in her humble school-days themTo the then rich heiress, than the wife of Selby,

Butler. And I with helping her to mum for Of wealthy Mr. Selby, 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;
Good, good, bestir yourselves: who knows who's
wanted?
Butler. But 'twas a merry trick of Philip
[Exeunt.

coachman.

SCENE.-Mrs. Selby's Chamber.

MRS. FRAMPTON, KATHERINE, working.

To the poor widow Frampton, sunk as she is.
Come, come,

'Twas something, or 'twas nothing, that I said;
I did not mean to fright you, sweetest bed-fellow !
You once were so, but Selby now engrosses you.
I'll make him give you up a night or so;
In faith I will: that we may lie, and talk
Old tricks of school-days over.

Kath.

Mrs. F. Not by that name.
Kath.

And saviour of my honour!
Mrs. F.

You still shall find me such.
Kath.

Hear me, madam-
Your friend-
My truest friend,

This sounds better;

That you have graced
Our poor house with your presence hitherto,
Has been my greatest comfort, the sole solace
Of my forlorn and hardly guess'd estate.

Mrs. F. I am thinking, child, how contrary our You have been pleased fates

To accept some trivial hospitalities,

Have traced our lots through life.-Another In part of payment of a long arrear

needle,

This works untowardly.-An heiress born
To splendid prospects, at our common school
I was as one above you all, not of you;
Hal my distinct prerogatives; my freedoms,

I owe to you, no less than for my life.

Mrs. P. You speak my services too large.
Kath.
Nay, less;

For what an abject thing were life to me
Without your silence on my dreadful secret !

T T

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