judge of his deeds, than absorbed and buried with | This black attire, abstraction from society, 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 sun-set. 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) Good thoughts, and frequent sighs, and seldom A cleaving sadness native to the brow, These pictures must be taken down: How have To hear Sir Walter, with an old man's pride, John: Telling me, I must be famous John.) Must I grow proud upon our house's pride. MARGARET enters. John. Comes Margaret here to witness my disgrace? O, lady, I have suffer'd loss, And diminution of my honour's brightness. Marg. Old times should never be forgotten, John. I came to talk about them with my friend. Marg. If John rejected Margaret in his pride, (As who does not, being splenetic, refuse O Woodvil, those were happy days, With what a coy reserve and seldom speech. I kept the honours of my maiden pride? John. O Margaret, Margaret! These your submissions to my low estate, And cleavings to the fates of sunken Woodvil, My day of shame, when all the world forsake me, JOHN is discovered kneeling.-MARGARET standing over him. To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, Marg. Dost yet remember the green arbour, John, And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold In the south gardens of my father's house, Where we have seen the summer sun go down, "Like hermit poor In pensive place obscure," And tell your Ave Maries by the curls Aside, like an old fashion. John. O lady, poor and abject are my thoughts; This earth holds not alive so poor a thing as I am. [Weeps. Thou noble nature, Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak! I can smile too, and I almost begin To understand what kind of creature Hope is. John. Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth Marg. Nay, never fear. I will be mistress of your humours, And all my maidens gave my heart for lost. Marg. That John would think more nobly of Did John salute his love, being newly seen! Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty, 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. John. St. Mary Ottery, my native village In the sweet shire of Devon. The bells are only now ringing for morning service, | Tears like a river flooded all my face, 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) 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." From my chamber window, where I can see the sun So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd rise; And the first object I discern'd Was the glistening spire of St. Mary Ottery. 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 should'st offend the eyes of Christian people With unwash'd hands, and lips unused to the offices?" detection, Or was about to act unlawful business I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open (Whether by negligence I knew not, Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsafed, John. So entering in, not without fear, And covering up my eyes for shame, A docile infant by Sir Walter's side; 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 So saying, she departed, chanced, Was pacing to and fro in the avenue That westward fronts our house, Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name. The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate, Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate She look'd at him as one that meant to blast him, ('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, 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 nine-fold withering curse: For that shall come to thee that will undo thee, Both all that thou fearest and worse. Leaving Sir Francis like a man, beneath Stranger. A terrible curse! What follow'd? Servant. Nothing immediate, but some two months after, Young Philip Fairford suddenly fell sick, ALBUM VERSES. WITH A FEW OTHERS. DEDICATION. DEAR MOXON, TO THE PUBLISHER. 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, entrusted 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. I It is not for me, nor you, to allude in public to the kindness of our honoured 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! 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, The hands of famous Lawyers TO DORA W ON BEING ASKED BY HER FATHER TO WRITE IN HER ALBUM. AN Album is a Banquet: from the store, To set a Salad forth, more rich than that A zealous, meek, contributory LAMB. IN THE ALBUM OF A CLERGYMAN'S LADY. * Acetaria, a Discourse of Sallets, by J. E. 1706. |