University of Virginia Library

CANTO III.

O how I wish that I could sing,
And touch the sweetly sounding string,
In soft harmonious praise to join Of her who claims a source divine,
An offspring of celestial birth And Charity yclep'd on earth;
Where they to whom its spirit's given
Enjoy the best foretaste of Heaven:—
For what in life can mortals know, So sure a balm to human woe,
As that which certain joy imparts,
Or plucks the pang from mourning hearts;
That bids the turbid passions rest
And soothes to peace the troubled breast.
—If Vengeance with its hostile brood
Of stern resolves inflames the blood,
And lifts the hand to strike the blow That meditates an added woe;
—If Malice, with insidious aim, Prepares, in secret, to defame
The virtues of a spotless name;
—If Envy, with distorted eye Does ev'ry failing magnify,
Gleams hatred on superior worth, And fain would bury deep in earth
Each plant that blooms with blossoms fair,
Which Virtue makes her darling care;—
If, 'mid this odious group appears Mild charity that knows no fears;
E'en Vengeance owns a soften'd soul,
And yields to the benign controul:
Malice, the influence kind obeys,
Checks its foul tongue and learns to praise
While Envy does her name belie, By smiles of gen'rous sympathy.
But such is not the only good That by this virtue is pursued;
In many a stream its bounties flow, To ease the weight of human woe;
While it exerts its pow'r to bless, By aiding human happiness.
It gives to pleasure higher aims, It sweetens honour's fairest claims,
And banishes each fretful strife That oft disturbs domestic life.
It gives to manners social ease, And heightens each desire to please:
To ev'ry station adds a grace, And renders cheerful ev'ry face;
As it with changeful charm appears,
Now gives the smile, now dries the tears,
Sees amid foes fair peace restored, And crowns the hospitable board.
'Tis that to Syntax which affords
A welcome not express'd by words;
But which dumb feeling can impart,
When issuing from a gen'rous heart:
For Charity ne'er stands aloof Beneath the comfortable roof
Where Hearty's wishes now attend To give each comfort to his friend;
Where he may find for weeks to come,
If he so please, that he's at home;
For there 'tis Charity we see, In form of Hospitality.
Shakes by the hand and kisses kind,
Told 'tween these friends the mutual mind;
And much warm salutation past,
Then, what had happen'd since they last
Were in that friendly room together,
The state of things and of the weather,
Employ'd them 'till the Minster chime
Announc'd the approaching supper time,
A pleasing sound to strike the ear Of any hungry traveller;
And Syntax was prepar'd to meet With due regard the coming treat.
He seem'd not chang'd in Hearty's view; He eat as he was wont to do;
Nor did he let the bev'rage pass, 'Till he had emptied many a glass.
But to the 'Squire it strange appear'd,
That Dolly's name had not been heard;
The theme of so much lively praise In other times, in former days:
But now of her he had not spoke, Nor turn'd a matrimonial joke,
Nor seem'd inclin'd a tale to swell, Nor sang forth, Vive la Bagatelle.
But though he seem'd not over-glad, His looks did not declare him sad:
Besides, the journey of the day Might check his being very gay.
Though if an appetite e'er prov'd
That a man's hours in comfort mov'd,
'Squire Hearty thought his pleasant friend
Enjoy'd our being's aim and end;
(By which the poet's lines express The character of Happiness )
And that, when he had ceas'd to sup,
The sage would clear the matter up.
By many surely 'tis believ'd, (Though they perhaps may be deceiv'd,)
For on what grounds I cannot see, That, urg'd by Curiosity,
The Ladies look with keener ken, Than the less eager eye of men:
But howsoe'er the truth may prove, This principle began to move
In Madam Hearty's anxious thought,
Why Mrs. Syntax was not brought.
It seem'd so strange and so unkind, That she should thus be left behind.
She might indeed have had an heir, Since she had paid a visit there,
And could not leave so great a joy, As nursing a dear, darling boy:
But wherefore should the Doctor hide
What might be such a source of pride?
She might be ill and could not come;
But then he would not quit his home.
These and a dozen queries more Her doubting fancy brooded o'er:
But howsoe'er her wish might long,
She knew her place and held her tongue,
And left the 'Squire to decree Th'unfolding of this mystery.
The supper done, the chat began, And thus the conversation ran.
'Squire Hearty.—
“Though unexpected you are come,
I'm glad you think my house your home;
And if the proverb says what's true,
Which those old saws are apt to do,
The merry but unlook'd-for guest Full often proves to be the best:
But that's all one 'twixt you and me, And so with all sincerity,
I bid you welcome in my wine, In which your Hostess here will join.”

A thought the Lady now inspir'd; The time was come she so desir'd;
The secret now must be her own,
And what she wish'd to know be known:
—She fill'd her glass then smiling bow'd,
And thus th'expected grace bestow'd.
“My kindest wish I drink to you, And to dear Mrs. Syntax too;
But why when thus abroad you roam,
Leave you your charming wife at home?”
Syntax first gravely shook his head, And then in soften'd accents said,
“My answer, Ma'am, will make you grieve,
Her's is a home she ne'er will leave,
Till the last summons shall be given,
To call the virtuous soul to Heaven.
My Dolly's gone, alas! to rest, Where the green turf lies on her breast,
And as I others teach to bear With patience the inflicted care,
I must a strong example show To stem the roughest tide of woe;
But grateful to that sov'reign power,
Who rules the year, the day, the hour,
That he doth still my passage bless With what I know of happiness;
That now I have within my view,
Such warm, such gen'rous friends as you:
'Tis to my loss that I now owe, The heart-felt kindness you bestow.
To sooth my mind, to calm my grief, In changing scenes I seek relief,
—My former Tour, I grateful tell, In all its views succeeded well.
To ease my state, to fill my purse, I mounted my old Grizzle Horse,
And kindness both by night and day Was the companion of my way:
And ere my present Tour shall end,
I trust that Heaven will prove my friend,
That I again shall reach my home,
With prospects of fair days to come.”
Madam clasp'd both her hands and sigh'd,
When Hearty in firm tone replied:
“I prithee do not play the fool, Nor poke into your ridicule,
To find a 'kerchief to display Your grief by wiping tears away:
If grief by mirth cannot be cur'd, With patience it must be endur'd.
Kind, pleasant friends, and cheerful hours,
Compose the balm which reason pours,
The various rankling wounds to heal
In minds that rage, in hearts that feel.
If fever burns, if gout attacks, If the stone with its torture racks;
If your whole frame the ague shakes, Or the head to distraction aches,
Laughter and joke and wit in vain
Will strive to ease the afflicting pain:
Nor eloquence with all its charm Can one tormenting pang disarm.
The learned Leech must there apply His skill and the Dispensary.
But such a grief, my friend, as yours,
'Tis mirth relieves, 'tis pleasure cures;
Pleasure that reason doth allow,
And mirth that smoothes the wrinkled brow;
Such as our social friends afford, To cheer their hospitable board.
I'll turn Physician, and to-morrow,
Will find a medicine for your sorrow.”
The 'Squire's broad hand then gave a smack
That sounded on the Doctor's back.
“My friend,” he added, “never fear,
We'll find you some amusement here;
And I engage that you leave York, With heart as light as any cork.”
Syntax replied,—“With half an eye, I see your kind Philosophy:
But as I'm with fatigue opprest, I ask the night's refreshing rest:
And, at the morning's breakfast table, I doubt not but I shall be able,
With all fair reas'ning to bestow
What you will find a Quid pro Quo;—
Which I translate for Madam there A Rowland for your Oliver.”
Arm'd with a taper's burning light,
And having wish'd his host good night,
He to his chamber did repair, And found his Valet waiting there:
Who did not for a moment wait To burst forth in his usual prate.
Patrick.—
“Your Rev'rence, wheresoe'er I've been,
O such a house I ne'er have seen;
I trust, in Heaven, that no disaster,
Nor harm will e'er befall its master!
O never should he die, O never! Such men as he should live for ever:
The cellar's full of liquor rare, Which all who come and go may share.
If in the larder you should pop, Of all good things there's such a crop,
You'd think it was a butcher's shop.
Nay, in the pantry should you look, You might expect a pastry-cook.
O such a kitchen for my money! It overflows with milk and honey!
Nay even puss is grown so fat, She would not move to catch a rat.
No place is empty, all are full; Each servant smiling, no one dull.
Now that your Rev'rence is undrest, You'll find the bed like all the rest;
And when into these sheets you creep,
They'll surely prove brimful of sleep.”

—The Doctor smil'd, the curtains drew;—
And soon found Patrick's notions true.
'Twas now past ten, the Doctor gone,
The 'Squire and Ma'am were left alone,
And while he pac'd the parlour floor,
They talk'd their friend the Doctor o'er.
I've said before, the Dame so kind, Was always of her husband's mind;
And did so to his temper suit, That such a thing as a dispute
Had never happen'd from the hour,
When they both bow'd to Hymen's power:
Like Trueman's Cocks, who, at the Pit,
Could boast they never had a hit,
And this was true,—but then 'tis thought,
These self-same game-birds never fought.
To give assent and to obey Was here the order of the day.
For he was gen'rous, kind and free, The soul of hospitality,
And she knew how to give a grace To all the plenty of the place.
“My dear, I have a plan,” he said,
“Which is now working in my head,
And in it you must bear your part.”
Mrs. Hearty.—
That I will do with all my heart.

Hearty.—
The widow who has cast her weeds
Is tired of the life she leads.

Mrs. H.—
That is a truth which I well know,
For she has often told me so.

H.—
And sure she could not better do
Than marry Syntax; what think you?

Mrs. H.—
'Twould be the very thing my love!
Oh, she would fit him like a glove!

H.—
And if I'm not mistaken, he Would love her to idolatry!

Mrs. H.—
She's of the very make and trim
To suit just such a man as him.

H.—
He in his qualities and mind Must rank as of superior kind.
I think him a delightful creature:
But then in outward form and feature,
Say does he that appearance wear,
Which is most cherish'd by the fair?

Mrs. H.—
It is most true, his nut-brown face,
With his long chin devoid of grace,
And his droll manners may not prove, Incentives to a widow's love.

H.—
But who can tell what she may do,
When all his learning's brought in view?

Mrs. H.—
Indeed, my love, that's very true.

H.—
When so much Latin, so much Greek,
Does her approving favour seek;
When all the learning of all ages, Drawn from philosophers and sages,
Who liv'd renown'd in distant climes,
And are the boast of former times,
When they are brought her smiles to greet,
And laid devoutly at her feet;
They with his virtues and his name,
Might in her bosom raise a flame.

Mrs. H.—
O let him but those bellows blow,
And Love would soon be in a glow.

H.—
But after all there's no harm done,
Whether the Dame be lost or won:
Though if we should not lose our labour,
We shall procure a pleasant neighbour.
I love the Doctor,—so do you.

Mrs. H.—
Love him, my dear, aye that I do.

H.—
At least, I think we'll try the scheme,
Perhaps it may not prove a dream.

Mrs. H.—
As for the scheme, I scarce can doubt it;
And, if you please, we'll set about it.

H.—
To-morrow then you will prepare The Lady for her visitor:—
So when we've din'd, I will attend him,
And leave kind Cupid to befriend him.
The morning came, and breakfast done,
Th'important plan was thus begun.

Hearty.—
“I do not to fine words pretend,
But Syntax knows me for his friend.
I feel your loss, and kindly share it, And much I wish you to repair it.
For your late wife your grief to smother,
There's but one way,—why get another:
And I can, as I hope, provide, A comely, rich, accomplish'd bride.
We have a friend within the city, Who is not old, and still is pretty:
She learning loves and learned men,
Reads books, and can employ her pen:
Admires your works, repeats your name,
And with her praise adorns your fame:
Speaks French, and plays upon the lute,
And will your taste exactly suit.
A Lady's age is seldom known: 'Tis said, indeed, she's thirty-one;
But were I ask'd her years to fix, I might suspect them thirty-six;
Nor would she yet be out of date, Supposing she was thirty-eight.
Besides she has a jointure clear, Of full five hundred pounds a year:
The mansion, too, is all her own,
Which might a Bishop's wishes crown.”

Syntax.—
“I thank you, my most valued friend,
For all the good which you intend;
But 'tis the morning of my grief: I look not yet for such relief
As you propose: It is too soon:— O let me wait at least till noon!”

Hearty.—
“What is the honey-moon! The time
When married love is in its prime:
When all the sweets have been enjoy'd,
And many a love-sick pair is cloy'd;
Whose joys are not suppos'd to last,
When that fix'd, stated period's past.
But when th'enliv'ning season's over The husband is no more the lover;
Then common sense assumes its turn,
Cupid's bright torches cease to burn,
And married folk may then jog on,
As I and my good wife have done.
And faith I do not see the reason,
Why sorrow should not have its season:
Why, while a Moon for Joy we borrow,
We may not do the same for Sorrow;
Why a good husband, such as you,
When he has mourn'd a month or two,
Should not then seize the fav'ring hour,
To haste again to Hymen's bower:
'Tis downright folly to refuse it, And your superior sense will chuse it.
Turn the thing over in your mind, And then as soon as we have din'd,
You shall with a Knight-errant spirit,
Which I well know that you inherit,
Go and declare your rightful claim To ask the favour of the dame,
Your speech you, as a lance, will wield,
Your wit will prove a powerful shield,
And I've no doubt you'll gain the field.
But e'en should not the prize be won, No ill ensues, no harm is done.”

—Now there's a feeling, more or less, Which I believe we all possess:
And, if by reason 'tis controul'd, May aid the courage of the bold;
To manners it may add a grace, And with gay smiles adorn the face:
Nay, in its soften'd state impart, A gen'rous impulse to the heart:—
'Tis vanity; which now impress'd Its influence on the Doctor's breast,
And whisper'd to him to attend To the warm counsels of his friend.
Thus Pat was order'd to unfold
All that the trav'lling-trunk could hold;
To shew the drap'ry to the day, And bring the best suit into play,
To give the wig a modish figure, And ev'ry curl becoming vigour.
Pat thus employ'd his utmost art,
And Syntax soon was trim and smart, Prepar'd to play a lover's part:
Nay he was as to outward show, A gay ecclesiastic Beau.
The party now sat down to dine,
The well-dress'd dish, the gen'rous wine,
Cocker'd the Doctor into spirit, And sense of his superior merit.
—The toilet too had done its part, With every fashionable art,
And yielded its cosmetic arms To heighten the fair Widow's charms.
—Thus as the Minster clock struck five, Syntax inspir'd and all alive,
With humble air, that look'd like shame,
Appear'd before th'expecting dame.
But while she did the forms prepare Of who sits here, or who sits there,
The 'Squire had popp'd behind the screen,
To hear what pass'd and not be seen.
“—I see,” she said, “that Hearty's gone,
And means to leave us here alone.
I love him well, he is my friend, But much I wish that he would mend
His antic tricks, his darling fun,
Which men of sterling sense would shun.
On gen'ral conduct we agree, Though his wit is not wit for me.
But we must let, in life's short day,
Those whom we value have their way.
The best are to some failings prone,
And we should try to mend our own.”
Syntax.—
“Madam I came, as 'tis my duty,
To pay my homage to your beauty!
But from the sentiments you deal in, You make in me superior feeling
To that inspir'd by the rose, Which on the cheek of beauty blows:
And I must other thoughts infer To please the fair Philosopher.
Philosophy in various ways Asks of the wise the highest praise.
I mean not that, whose study pries Into those dark obscurities
Of doubtful Science, where the eye Is dimm'd by its uncertainty;
But that, whose search does not prolong,
Beyond what's right and what is wrong;
Which you will think is well defin'd The moral structure of the mind.
Him I pronounce a perfect sage, Of any clime, of any age,
Above all learning he may show
Who does his high-wrought science know;
Who, to all common int'rests blind,
Instructs the conscience of mankind.
—But when we see, though rare the sight,
This happy science shining bright,
And 'neath the warmth of Beauty's ray Beaming around the moral day,
Thus giving to fair virtue's laws,
Those smiles which best support her cause;
It is a vision sweet to view, And such as I behold in you.”
—The widow simper'd, smil'd, and sigh'd,
And bending forward, thus replied:
“—Doctor you clothe your manly sense
In a most winning eloquence:
With ease and energy it flows And bears conviction as it goes.
To your whole reas'ning I incline;— So pray, Sir, take a glass of wine,
And, with this wish, I'll take its brother:—
May we know more, Sir, of each other.”
With his right hand upon his breast,
The Doctor then the Dame address'd—
“Madam, I swear your charms are such,
Of you I could not know too much.”
“O,” she exclaim'd, “I'm all confusion,
You compliment in such profusion!
Pray cool your palate with the fruit,— In the mean time I'll try my lute,
And sing a philosophic air; 'Twill suit your doctrine to a hair:
It was but yesterday I bought it, And I could almost think you wrote it.
I cannot say that I approve The songs that tell of nought but love;
Where Love is here, and Love is there,
In short, where Love is every where;
Which, in soft language, teach our misses
To warble sighs and long for kisses.
To leave it altogether out, Might be an affectation thought;
But Love should not, I do contend, Begin and go on to the end;
Which, for I speak, Sir, as I feel, And for its truth I now appeal
To ev'ry husband, ev'ry wife, Is so unlike the real life.—
—My voice is slender, and I play But in a very common way:
Though well I know that to the sky, You will applaud my melody;
Nay, if in ev'ry note I fail, You'll call me sweetest nightingale.”

Song.

Pat.
“Aye faith, it is, my dearest dear,
And weighs a thousand pounds a year.”

Lucy.
“Have you in many places been?”

P.
“In service, I suppose you mean:
Only two masters I have serv'd, And from my duty never swerv'd.
I serv'd the King, may Heaven bless him,
As, when he dies, it will possess him.
At his command, a gallant rover,
I've travell'd half this wide world over:
I've drawn my sword, and aye, by dozens,
Have cut down Frenchmen and their cousins.
For many a blessed hour I've trod The field, my ancles deep in blood.
O these were sights enough to make A heart like pretty Lucy's ache!”

L.
“And did you e'er receive a wound?”

P.
“Aye faith, I've lain upon the ground
For half a day, when death and life
Were quarrelling like man and wife,
Which should possess itself of Pat; But, in Heav'n's mercy, for all that
I'm here quite well, and stout to view, And ready to make love to you.
I'm nought but scars as you would know,
If I could dare my form to show,—
'Tis hack'd and hew'd from top to toe.”

L.
“Dear Mr. Pat, you melt my heart;
What cut and slash'd in ev'ry part?”

P.
“The trunk, 'tis true, has suffer'd sore,
Nor could it, Beauty, suffer more;
But for the branches of the tree, They're all just as they ought to be:
But for my wounds I have a plaister,
In a most kind and gen'rous master.”

L.
“What children has the Doctor pray?
And may I ask what age are they?”

P.
“Children indeed, why he had five;
But none of them are now alive:
And his sweet wife, our country's pride,
Three months ago in childbed died.
Her death made many a bosom ake Upon the banks of Keswick Lake.
She thought not, as fine ladies do, Of dresses smart, all pink and blue,
Who think to catch the wand'ring eye Of any fool that's passing bye.
Where'er she mov'd, so nice, so fair, All view'd the well-bred lady there:
But more who did my mistress see Saw the mild form of Charity.
—As for my master, he can shew
More learning than e'en Bishops know.
What knowledge lies beneath his hat
And the fine wig that's comb'd by Pat!
No, your great Church does not contain
The treasure lock'd within his brain.”

L.
“But what of that, it will not do,
If here your master comes to woo:
Learning, I'm sure, will never thrive In widows' hearts of thirty-five.”

P.
“Pooh, nonsense, this is all your sporting;
My master comes not here a courting;
O Heaven forbid, says honest Pat,
That he should play a prank like that!
For worse or better should he take
Your mistress, many a heart would break
Of dame or damsel round our lake.
Besides there is a widow, Dear,
With full twelve-hundred pounds a year:
And what I tell you, faith, is true, For to speak lies I could not do
To such a pretty girl as you—
Should he not lead her to the altar,
She'd cure her love-fit with a halter.”

What other powers of Pat's invention,
It might have been our lot to mention;
If nought had stopp'd his tongue's career,
Or clos'd poor Lucy's curious ear,
This John-Trot verse does not profess To tell, or e'en presume to guess.
—But here the upstairs noise and riot
Disturb'd at once the kitchen's quiet.
—The damsels flew and sought the scene
Where Madam, Syntax, and the screen,
The curious medley there display'd, Which has been either sung or said.
Pat, who knew nought of what above Had happen'd or in hate or love,
Thought that whate'er should come to pass,
He might fill up another glass:—
The wine was sweet, the ale was good,
And jug in hand he list'ning stood.
Thus, while attentive to the rout, He heard a voice cry, “turn him out,
Shew the base daring wretch the door, And never let him enter more.”
He heard,—when, with a face all flame,
Down stairs in haste the cook-maid came,
And while, with staring eyes, amaz'd, He on the angry vision gaz'd
Mutt'ring strange words of dire intent Of base design and ravishment,
She seiz'd at once, then plung'd the mop Into a pail of dirty slop,
And, with a scullion's strong-arm'd grace,
Drove it full dash in Patrick's face;
Nor fail'd she with repeated blow, And deep-ton'd tongue, to bid him go.
He, at a loss the rage to shun Of this fierce kitchen Amazon,
Struggled as well as he was able By way of shield to seize the table;
And, in this strange bespatter'd state,
With hasty footsteps sought the gate.
But now 'tis needful to enquire The fate of Syntax and the 'Squire,
And just to settle the arrears Of blasted hopes and rising fears.
If e'er a pair of fine blue eyes Were seen expressive of surprise,
If e'er surprise, chang'd to alarm,
Display'd a face, now pale, now warm,
As these two feelings might impart Their various impulse to the heart;
'Twas when his Hostess did explore The Doctor as he op'd the door;
And, with unusual length of chin, He faintly bow'd and enter'd in.
But ere the Lady found her tongue,
For she saw something had been wrong,
He, in a rather humbler tone, Thus made his serious frolic known:
“To the fair widow I have been, Of course the blessed dame I've seen.
—You must perceive I'm in a ruffle,
For to speak truth, we've had a scuffle:
Nay, I have somewhat more to say, I've been ill-treated in the fray!”
He then told all he did endure, Declar'd his wounds and ask'd a cure.
—Madam now cast a curious eye, To see if she must laugh or cry,
And as a smile from Hearty broke, She turn'd the scuffle to a joke.
“No harm, I trust,” she said, “is done,
'Twas but a piece of Cupid's fun:
That Urchin is a very pickle, And sometimes does his fancy tickle
'Mong lovers thus to make a pother,
T'amuse himself and please his mother;
But these vagaries when they're o'er
Are laugh'd at and disturb no more.”
Hearty seiz'd Syntax by the hand,
And said, “I here the culprit stand;
Nay, I must now your pardon beg, For bruised shin or wounded leg.
'Twas by my awkwardness I own
The clumsy screen was tumbled down;
And for the ill that did attend, You have a right to blame your friend:
But my dear wife, a Doctor she, In all domestic pharmacy,
Will try her utmost skill and care, Your awkward inj'ries to repair;
And by to-morrow you shall lose All feeling of the widow's shoes.
But she, good Sir, must be forgiven, For Charity's the child of Heaven.
If we would calmly pass along, Nor tempt the jostling of the throng,
As in this crowded world we live, We must forget and must forgive.
You will by active duty teach The doctrines you to others preach:
Nor fail to hold up to their view The lesson and th'example too.
To-morrow she shall make amends,
When you shall kiss her and be friends.”
Syntax.—
“Forgive her? aye with all my heart,
For that is ev'ry Christian's part
But no, I never shall forget The kicking I am in her debt.
And all her kissing I oppose, She's mischief's self and my bruis'd toes
Tell me, that she may snap my nose.”

Madam now gave her needful aid, The opodeldoc was display'd,
And busy in her healing scheme The Doctor's feet receiv'd the stream
Of oily fluids, to allay The tumours rising from the fray.
This she perform'd with tender grace,
When Pat appear'd with batter'd face,
And, as she did the poultice spread, Half-tipsy he thus stamm'ring said,
“—How with my master it turn'd out Upstairs, in all that noisy rout;
I cannot now pretend to know. But faith I suffer'd much below;
Where half a score of Abigails Attack'd me with their mops and pails.
Oh, how these furies did ill-treat me And almost to a jelly beat me!
Do but, your Honour, see my head!”
“Be off, good Pat,” the 'Squire said,
“To Anne or Susan now apply, On their kind aid you may rely,
With brandy bathe your forehead's bruise, A medicine of sovereign use,
That never fails to aid the cure Of such a hurt as you endure.”
Says Pat, “my humble thanks to you,
But that same liquid will not do:
Though you are pleas'd its use to teach, It never will my forehead reach,
For sure as North lies straight to South,
Brandy will never pass my mouth.
Whene'er it comes, with gin or whisky,
So near my lips it makes them frisky:
And then my mouth so round and hollow,
O what an itch it has to swallow!”
“Howe'er that be,” 'Squire Hearty said,
“Go and repair your shatter'd head,
Then take your meal, and off to bed.”
The Doctor, on the sofa laid, A solemn train of thought betray'd.
It was not that he suffer'd pain, That he could smile at and disdain,
But calm reproaches play'd their part In the recesses of his heart:
And when the 'Squire began to chide, Syntax, with serious air replied:
“I thank you for your kind intent, But I've deserv'd my punishment.
I have not broke a moral duty In visiting this furious beauty:
But still it was a boyish trick Which now I think on't makes me sick.
Though scarce four months have dragg'd away,
Since I wept through the dismal day,
When my heart's darling and its pride, In all her glow of virtue died,
I sought, as I shall ne'er forget, To play the fool with a coquette.
When I reflect, best shade, on thee, My lost, lamented Dorothy;
When I but think how much I ow'd To that affection you bestow'd;
When by the fondest union known, You but so lately were my own;
By what dark witchcraft was I brought
To cast my darling from my thought!
If that same crape which decks my head,
In honour of the honour'd dead,
Could but speak now, 'twould send a volley
Of loud reproaches at my folly.”
Hearty.—
“My friend, complain not,—ere the sun
Has its next daily circuit run, Again you'll walk and jump and run.

Syntax.—
“Think not, dear Sir, that I complain
Of what no longer gives me pain:
Pain's not the burthen of my song; It is, that I've been doing wrong.
I only wish to-morrow's morn May find no more the rankling thorn,
Which, at this moment doth infest
With its sharp point my conscious breast.
Though, if repentance could but lull My grief for having play'd the fool,
Should well weigh'd hopes these thoughts beguile,
I shall not only run but smile.
But I will now exclaim no more; Soon will your friendly meal be o'er,
And though my mind is so opprest I look not for a wink of rest,
I will into my cabin creep, And there the widow's vigils keep,
Who broke my shins—and murders sleep.”