I don't approve this hawid waw;Those dweadful bannahs hawt my eyes;And guns and drums are such a baw—Why don't the pawties compwamise?
Of cawce, the twoilet has its chawms;But why must all the vulgah crowdPawsist in spawting uniformsIn cullaws so extremely loud?
And then the ladies—precious deahs!—I mawk the change on ev'wy bwow;Bai Jove! I really have my feahsThey wathah like the howid wow!
To hear the chawming cweatures talk,Like patwons of the bloody wing,Of waw and all its dawty wark?—It does n't seem a pwappah thing!
I called at Mrs. Gween's last night,To see her niece, Miss Mary Hertz,And found her making—cwushing sight!—The weddest kind of flannel shirts!Of cawce I wose and saught the daw,With fewy flashing from my eyes!I can't approve this hawid waw;—Why don't the parties compromise?Vanity Fair.
Many a long, long year ago,Nantucket skippers had a planOf finding out, though "lying low,"How near New York their schooners ran.
They greased the lead before it fell,And then, by sounding through the night,Knowing the soil that stuck, so well,They always guessed their reckoning right.
A skipper gray, whose eye's were dim,Could tell by tasting, just the spot,And so below, he'd "dowse the glim,"—After, of course, his "something hot."
Snug in his berth, at eight o'clock,This ancient skipper might be found;No matter how his craft would rock,He slept,—for skippers' naps are sound!
The watch on deck would now and thenRun down and wake him, with the lead;He'd up and taste, and tell the menHow many miles they went ahead.
One night, 't was Jotham Marden's watch,A curious wag,—the pedler's son;And so he mused (the wanton wretch),"To-night I'll have a grain of fun.
"We're all a set of stupid fools,To think the skipper knows by tasting,What ground he's on; Nantucket schoolsDon't teach such stuff; with all their basting!"
And so he took the well-greased lead,And rubbed it o'er a box of earthThat stood on deck—(a parsnip bed),—And then he sought the skipper's berth.
"Where are we now, sir, please to taste."The skipper yawned, put out his tongue,Then oped his eyes in wondrous haste,And then upon the floor he sprung!
The skipper stormed, and tore his hair,Thrust on his boots, and roared to Marden,—"Nantucket 's sunk, and here we areRight over old Marm Hackett's garden!"J. T. Fields.
It was an honest fisherman,I knew him passing well;And he lived by a little pond,Within a little dell.
A grave and quiet man was he,Who loved his hook and rod;So even ran his line of lifeHis neighbors thought it odd.
For science and for books, he saidHe never had a wish;No school to him was worth a fig,Except a school of fish.
In short, this honest fisherman,All other tools forsook;And though no vagrant man was he,He lived by hook and crook.
He ne'er aspired to rank or wealth,Nor cared about a name;For though much famed for fish was he,He never fished for fame!
To charm the fish he never spoke,Although his voice was fine;He found the most convenient wayWas just to drop a line!
And many a gudgeon of the pond,If they could speak to-day,Would own, with grief, the angler hadA mighty taking way!
One day, while fishing on a log,He mourned his want of luck,—When suddenly, he felt a bite,And jerking—caught a duck!
Alas! that day this fishermanHad taken too much grog;And being but a landsman, too,He could n't keep the log!
'T was all in vain with might and mainHe strove to reach the shore;Down, down he went, to feed the fishHe'd baited oft before!
The jury gave their verdict, that'T was nothing else but gin,That caused the fisherman to beSo sadly taken in;
Though one stood out upon a whim,And said the angler's slaughter,To be exact about the fact,Was clearly gin-and-water.
The moral of this mournful tale,To all is plain and clear,—That drinking habits bring a manToo often to his bier;
And he who scorns to "take the pledge,"And keep the promise fast,May be, in spite of fate, a stiffCold-water man, at last!J. G. Saxe.
The Yankee boy, before he's sent to school,Well knows the mysteries of that magic tool,The pocket-knife. To that his wistful eyeTurns, while he hears his mother's lullaby;His hoarded cents he gladly gives to get it,Then leaves no stone unturned till he can whet it;And, in the education of the lad,No little part that implement hath had,—His pocket-knife to the young whittler bringsA growing knowledge of material things.
Projectiles, music, and the sculptor's art,His chestnut whistle and his shingle dart,His elder pop-gun with its hickory rod,its sharp explosion and rebounding wad,His corn-stalk fiddle, and the deeper toneThat murmurs from his pumpkin-stalk trombone,Conspire to teach the boy. To these succeedHis bow, his arrow of a feathered reed,His windmill, raised the passing breeze to win,His water-wheel, that turns upon a pin;Or, if his father lives upon the shore,You'll see his ship, "beam ends upon the floor,"Full rigged, with raking masts, and timbers stanchAnd waiting, near the wash-tub, for a launch.
Thus, by his genius and his jack-knife driven,Ere long he'll solve you any problem given;Make any jim-crack, musical or mute,A plough, a couch, an organ or a flute;Make you a locomotive or a clock,Cut a canal, or build a floating dock,Or lead forth Beauty from a marble block;—Make anything, in short, for sea or shore,From a child's rattle, to a seventy-four;—Make it, said I?—Ay, when he undertakes it,He'll make the thing, and the machine that makes it.
And when the thing is made, whether it beTo move on earth, in air, or on the sea;Whether on water, o'er the waves to glide,Or, upon land to roll, revolve, or slide;Whether to whirl or jar, to strike or ring,Whether it be a piston or a spring,Wheel, pulley, tube sonorous, wood or brass,The thing designed shall surely come to pass;For, when his hand 's upon it, you may knowThat there's go in it, and he'll make it go.J. Pierpont.
My liege, I did deny no prisoners.But, I remember, when the fight was done,When I was dry with rage and extreme toil,Breathless and faint, leaning upon my sword,Came there a certain lord, neat, trimly dressed,Fresh as a bridegroom; and his chin, new reaped,Showed like a stubble land at harvest-home.He was perfumed like a milliner;And. 'twixt his finger and his thumb, he heldA pouncet-box, which ever and anon,He gave his nose, and took 't away again;—And still he smiled and talked;And, as the soldiers bore dead bodies by,He called them—untaught knaves, unmannerly,To bring a slovenly unhandsome corseBetwixt the wind and his nobility.With many holiday and lady termsHe questioned me; among the rest, demandedMy prisoners, in your majesty's behalf.I then, all smarting, with my wounds being cold,To be so pestered with a popinjay,Out of my grief and my impatience,Answered neglectingly, I know not what;He should, or he should not;—for he made me mad.To see him shine so brisk, and smell so sweet,And talk so like a waiting-gentlewoman,Of guns, and drums, and wounds; (God save the mark!)And telling me, the sovereign'st thing on earthWas parmaceti for an inward bruise;And that it was a great pity, so it was,This villainous saltpetre should be diggedOut of the bowels of the harmless earth,Which many a good tall fellow had destroyedSo cowardly; and, but for these vile guns,He would himself have been a soldier.This bald, unjointed chat of his, my lord,I answered indirectly, as I said;And, I beseech you, let not this reportCome current for an accusationBetwixt my love and your high majesty.Shakespeare.
Hard by a poet's attic lived a chemist,Or alchemist, who had a mightyFaith in the elixir vitæ;And, though unflattered by the dimmestGlimpse of success, kept credulously gropingAnd grubbing in his dark vocation;Stupidly hopingTo onto the art of changing metals,And so coin guineas, from his pots and kettles,By mystery of transmutation.
Our starving poet took occasionTo seek this conjurer's abode;Not with encomiastic ode,Of laudatory dedication,But with an offer to impart,For twenty pounds, the secret artWhich should procure, without the painOf metals, chemistry, and fire,What he so long had sought in vain,And gratify his heart's desire.
The money paid, our bard was hurriedTo the philosopher's sanctorum,Who, as it were sublimed and flurriedOut of his chemical decorum,Crowed, capered, giggled, seemed to spurn hisCrucibles, retort, and furnace,And cried, as he secured the door,And carefully put to the shutter,"Now, now, the secret, I implore!For heaven's sake, speak, discover, utter!"
With grave and solemn air the poetCried: "List! O, list, for thus I show it:Let this plain truth those ingrates strike,Who still, though blessed, new blessings crave;THAT WE MAY ALL HAVE WHAT WE LIKE,SIMPLY BY LIKING WHAT WE HAVE!"Horace Smith.
Two honest tradesmen meeting in the Strand,One took the other briskly by the hand:"Hark ye," said he, "'tis an odd story this,About the crows!"—"I don't know what it is,"Replied his friend.—"No? I'm surprised at that;Where I came from 't is the common chat;But you shall hear: an odd affair indeed!And that it happened, they are all agreed.Not to detain you from a thing so strange,A gentleman, that lives not far from 'Change,This week, in short, as all the alley knows,Taking a puke, has thrown up three black crows.""Impossible!"—"Nay, but it 's really true;I had it from good hands, and so may you.""From whose, I pray?" So having named the man,Straight to inquire his curious comrade ran."Sir, did you tell?"—relating the affair—"Yes, sir, I did; and if it's worth you care,Ask Mr. Such-a-one; he told it me;But, by-the-by, 't was two black crows, not three."Resolved to trace so wondrous an event,Whip to the third, the virtuoso went."Sir,"—and so forth—"Why, yes; the thing is fact,Though in regard to number not exact;It was not two black crows; 't was only one;The truth of that you may depends upon,The gentleman himself told me the case.""Where may I find him?"—"Why, in such a place."Away he goes, and having found him out—"Sir, be so good as to resolve a doubt."
Then to his last informant he referred,And begged to know if true what he had heard."Did you, sir, throw up a black crow?"—"Not I!"—"Bless me! how people propagate a lie!Black crows have been thrown up, three, two, and one,And here I find at last all comes to none!Did you say nothing of a crow at all?""Crow—crow—perhaps I might, now I recallThe matter over."—"And pray, sir, what was 't?""Why, I was horrid sick, and, at the last,I did throw up, and told my neighbor so,Something that was as black, sir, as a crow."Byrom.
A certain artist—I've forgot his name—Had got, for making spectacles, a fame,Or, "helps to read," as, when they first were sold,Was writ upon his glaring sign in gold;And, for all uses to be had from glass,His were allowed by readers to surpass.There came a man into his shop one day—"Are you the spectacle contriver, pray?""Yes Sir," said he, "I can in that affairContrive to please you, if you want a pair.""Can you? pray do, then." So at first he choseTo place a youngish pair upon his nose;And, book produced, to see how they would fit,Asked how he liked them. "Like 'em!—not a bit.""Then, sir, I fancy, if you please to tryThese in my hand will better suit your eye?"—"No, but they don't."—"Well come, sir, if you please,Here is another sort; we'll e'en try these;Still somewhat more they magnify the letter,Now, sir?"—"Why, now, I'm not a bit the better."—"No! here, take these which magnify still more,—How do they fit"?—"Like all the rest before!"In short, they tried a whole assortment through,But all in vain, for none of them would do.The operator, much surprised to findSo odd a case, thought, sure the man is blind!"What sort of eyes can you have got?" said he."Why very good ones, friend, as you may see.""Yes, I perceive the clearness of the ball.Pray let me ask you Can you read at all?""No! you great blockhead!—If I could, what needOf paying you for any 'helps to read?'"And so he left the maker in a heat,Resolved to post him for an arrant cheat.Byrom.
HUB. Heat me these irons hot; and look thou standWithin the arras; when I strike my footUpon the bosom of the ground rush forth,And bind the boy which you shall find with me,Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.1 Att. I hope your warrant will bear out the deed.Hub. Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to it.[Exeunt Attendants.]Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you. [Enter Arth.]Arth. Good morrow, Hubert.Hub. Good morrow, little prince.Arth. As little prince (having so great a titleTo be more prince) as may be.—You are sad.Hub. Indeed, I have been merrier.Arth. Mercy on me!Methinks nobody should be sad but I:Yet, I remember, when I was in France,Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,Only for wantonness. By my Christendom,So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,I should be merry as the day is long;And so I would be here, but that I doubtMy uncle practices more harm to me.He is afraid of me, and I of him.Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?No, indeed, is 't not; and I would to Heaven,I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.Hub. If I talk to him, with his innocent prate,He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:Therefore I will be sudden, and despatch. [Aside.]Arth. Are you sick, Hubert? You look pale to-day.In sooth, I would you were a little sick,That I might, sit all night, and watch with you.I warrant, I love you more than you do me.Hub. His words do take possession of my bosom.—Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now,foolish rheum. [Aside.]Turning dispiteous torture out of door!I must be brief, lest resolution dropOut at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.—Can you not read it? Is it not fair writ?Arth. Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect.Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?Hub. Young boy, I must.Arth. And will you?Hub. And I will.Arth. Have you the heart? When your head did but ache,I knit my handkerchief about your brows,(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)And I did never ask it you again;And with my hand at midnight held your head;And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,Still and anon cheered up the heavy time;Saying, What lack you? and Where lies your grief?Or, What good love may I perform for you?Many a poor man's son would have lain still,And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you:But you at your sick service had a prince.Nay, you may think my love was a crafty love,And call it cunning: do, and if you will:If Heaven be pleased that you should use me ill,Why, then you must. Will you put out mine eyes?—These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,So much as frown on you?Hub. I have sworn to do it;And with hot irons must I burn them out.Arth. Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!The iron of itself, though heat red-hot,Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,And quench its fiery indignation,Even in the matter of mine innocence:Nay, after that, consume away in rust,But for containing fire to harm mine eye.Are you more stubborn-hard than hammered iron?An if an angel should have come to me,And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,I would not have believed him; no tongue, but Hubert's.Hub. Come forth. [Stamps.—Reënter Attendants.]Do as I bid you.Arth. O, save me, Hubert, save me! My eyes are out,Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.Hub. Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.Arth. Alas! what need you be so boisterous rough?I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.For Heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,Nor look upon the irons angrily.Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,Whatever torment you do put me to.Hub. Go, stand within; let me alone with him.1 Att. I am best pleased to be away from such a deed.[Exeunt Attendants.]Arth. Alas! I then have chid away my friend:He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart.Let him come back, that his compassion mayGive life to yours.Hub. Come, boy, prepare yourself.Arth. Is there no remedy?Hub. None, but to lose your eyes.Arth. O, Heaven! that there were but a mote in yours,A grain, a dust, a gnat, a meandering hair,Any annoyance in that precious sense!Then, feeling what small things are boisterous there,Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.Hub. Is this your promise? Go to, hold your tongue.Arth. Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tonguesMust needs want pleading for a pair of eyes.Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert!Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue,So I may keep mine eyes; O, spare mine eyes,Though to no use, but still to look on you!Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,And would not harm me.Hub. I can heat it, boy.Arth. No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief—Being create for comfort,—to be usedIn undeserved extremes. See else yourself:There is no malice in this burning coal;The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,And strewed repentant ashes on his head.Hub. But with my breath I can revive it, boy.Arth. And if you do, you will but make it blush,And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert;Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes,And, like a dog, that is compelled to fight,Snatch at his master that does tarre him on.All things that you should use to do me wrong,Deny their office: only you do lackThat mercy, which fierce fire, and iron, extends,—Creatures of note for mercy-lacking uses.Hub. Well, see to live; I will not touch thine eyesFor all the treasure that thine uncle owes.Yet I am sworn, and I did purpose, boy,With this same very iron to burn them out.Arth. O, now you look like Hubert! all this whileYou were disguised.Hub. Peace; no more: Adieu!—Your uncle must not know but you are dead;I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports.And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secureThat Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,Will not offend thee.Arth. O, Heaven!—I thank you, Hubert.Hub. Silence: no more. Go closely in with me:Much danger do I undergo for thee.Shakespeare.
Cassius. That you have wronged me, doth appear inthis:You have condemned and noted Lucius PellaFor taking bribes here of the Sardians;Wherein, my letters, praying on his side,Because I knew the man, were slighted off.Brutus. You wronged yourself to write in such a case.Cas. At such a time as this, it is not meetThat every nice offence should bear its comment.Bru. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourselfAre much condemned to have an itching palm;To sell and mart your offices for gold,To undeservers.Cas. I an itching palm?You know that you are Brutus that speak this,Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last!Bru. The name of Cassius honors this corruption,And chastisement doth therefore hide his head.Cas. Chastisement!Bru. Remember March, the Ides of March remember!Did not great Julius bleed for justice' sake?What villain touched his body, that did stab,And not for justice?—What! shall one of us,That struck the foremost man of all this world,But for supporting robbers,—shall we nowContaminate our fingers with base bribes,And sell the mighty space of our large honorsFor so much trash as may be graspéd thus?—I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,Than such a Roman!Cas. Brutus, bay not me!I'll not endure it. You forget yourself,To hedge me in; I am a soldier, I,Older in practice, abler than yourselfTo make conditions.Bru. Go to; you are not, Cassius.Cas. I am.Bru. I say you are not.Cas. Urge me no more: I shall forget myself;Have mind upon your health; tempt me no farther!Bru. Away, slight man!Cas. Is 't possible?Bru. Hear me, for I will speak.Must I give way and room to your rash choler?Shall I be frighted when a madman stares?Cas O ye gods! ye gods! Must I endure all this?Bru. All this? ay, more! Fret till your proud heart break;Go, show your slaves how choleric you are,And make your bondmen tremble! Must I budge?Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouchUnder your testy humor? By the gods,You shall digest the venom of your spleen,Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,I'll use you for my mirth,—yea for my laughter,When you are waspish!Cas. Is it come to this?Bru. You say, you are a better soldier:Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,And it shall please me well. For mine own part,I shall be glad to learn of noble men.Cas. You wrong me every way; you wrong me, Brutus:I said, an elder soldier, not a better.Did I say, better?Bru. If you did, I care not.Cas. When Cæsar lived, he durst not thus have moved me.Bru. Peace, peace; you durst not so have tempted him!Cas. I durst not?Bru. No.Cas. What? durst not tempt him?Bru. For your life, you durst not!Cas. Do not presume too much upon my love;I may do that I shall be sorry for.Bru. You have done that you should be sorry for.There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats;For I am armed so strong in honesty,That they pass by me as the idle wind,Which I respect not. I did send to youFor certain sums of gold, which you denied me;—For I can raise no money by vile means:By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart,And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wringFrom the hard hands of peasants their vile trashBy any indirection! I did sendTo you for gold to pay my legions,Which you denied me. Was that done like Cassius?Should I have answered Caius Cassius so?When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,To lock such rascal counters from his friends,Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,Dash him to pieces!Can. I denied you not.Bru. You did.Cas. I did not;—he was but a foolThat brought my answer back.—Brutus hath rived my heart;A friend should bear his friend's infirmities,But Brutus makes mine greater than they are.Bru. I do not, till you practise them on me.Cas. You love me not.Bru. I do not like your faults.Cas. A friendly eye could never see such faults.Bru. A flatterer's would not, though they do appearAs huge as high Olympus.Cas. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,For Cassius is aweary of the world;Hated by one he loves; braved by his brother;Checked like a bondman; all his faults observed,Set in a note-book, learned, and conned by rote,To cast into my teeth. O, I could weepMy spirit from mine eyes!—There is my dagger,And here my naked breast; within a heartDearer than Plutus' mine,—richer than gold;If that thou be'st a Roman, take it forth;I that denied thee gold, will give my heart:Strike as thou didst at Cæsar; for, I know,When thou didst hate him worst, then lovedst him betterThan ever thou lovedst Cassius!Brat. Sheathe your dagger;Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;Do what you will, dishonor shall be humor.O Cassius, you are yokéd with a lambThat carries anger, as the flint bears fire;Who, much enforcéd, shows a hasty spark,And straight is cold again.Cas. Hath Cassius livedTo be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,When grief and blood ill-tempered, vexeth him?Bru. When I spoke that, I was ill-tempered, too.Cas. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.Bru. And my heart too.Cas. O, Brutus!Bru. What's the matter?Cas. Have you not love enough to bear with me,When that rash humor, which my mother gave me,Makes me forgetful?Bru. Yes, Cassius; and, from henceforth,When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,He'll think your mother chides, and leave you so.Shakespeare.
Dog. Are you good men and true? Ver. Yea, or else it were a pity but they should suffer salvation, body and soul. Dog. Nay, that were a punishment too good for them, if they should have any allegiance in them, being chosen for the prince's watch. Ver. Well, give them their charge, neighbor Dogberry. Dog. First, who think you the most desartless man to be constable? 1 Watch. Hugh Oatcake, sir, or George Seacoal; for they can write and read. Dog. Come hither, neighbor Seacoal. God hath blessed you with a good name: to be a well-favored man is the gift of fortune, but to write and read comes by nature. 2 Watch. Both which, master constable,— Dog. You have; I knew it would be your answer. Well, for your favor, sir, why, give God thanks, and make no boast of it; and for your writing and reading, let that appear when there is no need of such vanity. You are thought here to be the most senseless and fit man for the constable of the watch; therefore, bear you the lantern. This is your charge;—you shall comprehend all vagrom men; you are to bid any man stand, in the prince's name. 2 Watch. How, if he will not stand? Dog. Why, then, take no note of him, but let him go; and presently call the rest of the watch together, and thank God you are rid of a knave. Ver. If he will not stand when he is bidden he is none of the prince's subjects. Dog. True, and they are to meddle with none but the prince's subjects.—You shall also make no noise in the streets: for, for the watch to babble and talk, is most tolerable, and not to be endured. 2 Watch. We will rather sleep than talk: we know what belongs to a watch. Dog. Why, you speak like an ancient and most quiet watchman; for I cannot see how sleeping should offend: only, have a care that your bills be not stolen.—Well, you are to call at all the ale-houses, and bid those that are drunk get them to bed. 2 Watch. How, if they will not? Dog. Why, then, let them alone till they are sober; if they make you not then the better answer, you may say, they are not the men you took them for. 2 Watch. Well, sir. Dog. If you meet a thief, you may suspect him, by virtue of your office, to be no true man; and, for such kind of men, the less you meddle or make with them, why, the more is for your honesty. 2 Watch. If we know him to be a thief, shall we not lay hands on him? Dog. Truly, by your office, you may; but, I think, they that touch pitch will be defiled: the most peaceable way for you, if you do take a thief, is, to let him show himself what he is, and steal out of your company. Ver. You have been always called a merciful man, partner. Dog. Truly, I would not hang a dog, by my will; much more a man who hath any honesty in him. Ver. If you hear a child cry in the night, you must call to the nurse, and bid her still it. 2 Watch. How, if the nurse be asleep, and will not hear us. Dog. Why, then, depart in peace, and let the child wake her with crying: for the ewe that will not hear her lamb when it baes, will never answer a calf when it bleats. Ver. 'T is very true. Dog. This is the end of the charge. You, constable, are to present the prince's own person: if you meet the prince in the night, you may stay him. Ver. Nay, by 'r lady, that, I think, he cannot. Dog. Five shillings to one on 't, with any man that knows the statues, he may stay him: marry, not without the prince be willing: for, indeed, the watch ought to offend no man, and it is an offence to stay a man against his will. Ver. By 'r lady, I think, it be so. Dog. Ha, ha, ha! Well, masters, good night: an there be any matter of weight chances, call up me: keep your fellows' counsels and your own, and good-night.—Come, neighbor. 2 Watch. Well, masters, we hear our charge: let us go sit here upon the church-bench till two, and then all to bed. Dog. One word more, honest neighbors: I pray you, watch about Signior Leonato's door, for the wedding being there tomorrow there is a great coil to-night.—Adieu; be vigilant, I beseech you. Shakespeare.
Pa. Good morning, Dr. Gregory! I'm just come into Edinburg about some law business, and I thought when I was here, at any rate, I might just as weel take your advice, sir, about my trouble. Dr. Pray, sir, sit down. And now, my good sir, what may your trouble be? Pa. Indeed, Doctor, I'm not very sure; but I'm thinking it's a kind of weakness that makes me dizzy at times, and a kind of pickling about my stomachs;—I'm just na right. Dr. You are from the West country, I should suppose, sir? Pa. Yes, sir, from Glasgow. Dr. Ay; pray, sir, are you a glutton? Pa. God forbid, sir; I'm one of the plainest men living in all the West country. Dr. Then, perhaps, you are a drunkard? Pa. No, Dr. Gregory; thank God, no one can accuse me of that. I'm of the Dissenting persuasion, Doctor, and an Elder; so you may suppose I'm na drunkard. Dr. I'll suppose no such thing till you tell me your mode of life. I'm so much puzzled with your symptoms, sir, that I would wish to hear in detail what you do eat and drink. When do you breakfast, and what do you take at it? Pa. I breakfast at nine o'clock; take a cup of coffee, and one or two cups of tea, a couple of eggs, and a bit of ham or kipper salmon, or, may be, both, if they're good, and two or three rolls and butter. Dr. Do you eat no honey, or jelly, or jam, at breakfast? Pa. Oh, yes, sir! but I don't count that as anything. Dr. Come, this is a very moderate breakfast. What kind of a dinner do you make? Pa. Oh, sir, I eat a very plain dinner indeed; some soup, and some fish, and a little plain roast or boiled; for I dinna care for made dishes; I think, some way, they never satisfy the appetite. Dr. You take a little pudding, teens and afterwards some cheese. Pa. Oh, yes! though I don't care much about them. Dr. You take a glass of ale and porter with your cheese? Pa. Yes, one or the other; but seldom both. Dr. You West-country people generally take a glass of Highland whiskey after dinner. Pa. Yes, we do; it as good for digestion. Dr. Do you take any wine during dinner? Pa. Yes, a glass or two of sherry; but I'm indifferent as to wine during dinner. I drink a good deal of beer Dr. What quantity of port do you drink? Pa. Oh, very little; not above half a dozen glasses or so. Dr. In the West country it is impossible, I hear to dine without punch? Pa. Yes, sir, indeed, 't is punch we drink chiefly; but for myself unless I happen to have a friend with me, I never take more than a couple of tumblers or so, and that's moderate. Dr. Oh, exceedingly moderate indeed! You then, after this slight repast, take some tea and bread and butter? Pa. Yes, before I go to the counting-house to read the evening letters. Dr. And on your return you take supper, I suppose. Pa. No, sir, I canna be said to take supper; just something before going to bed;—a rizzard haddock, or a bit of toasted cheese, or a half-hundred of oysters: or the like o' that and may be, two thirds of a bottle of ale; but I take no regular supper. Dr. But you take a little more punch after that? Pa. No, sir, punch does not agree with me at bedtime. I take a tumbler of warm whiskey-toddy at night; it is lighter to sleep on. Dr. So it must be, no doubt. This, you say, is your every day life; but, upon great occasions, you perhaps exceed a little? Pa. No, sir, except when a friend or two dine with me, or I dine out, which, as I am a sober family man, does not often happen. Dr. Not above twice a week? Pa. No; not oftener. Dr. Of course you sleep well and have a good appetite? Pa. Yes, sir, thank God, I have; indeed, any ill-health that I have is about meal-time. Dr. [Assuming a severe look, knitting his brow, and lowering his eyebrows.] Now, sir, you are a very pretty fellow indeed. You come here and tell me you are a moderate man; but upon examination, I find by your own showing that you are a most voracious glutton. You said you were a sober man; yet, by your own showing, you are a beer-swiller, a dram-drinker, a wine-bibber, and a guzzler of punch. You tell me you eat indigestible suppers, and swill toddy to force sleep. I see that you chew tobacco. Now, sir, what human stomach can stand this? Go home, sir, and leave your present [course of ] riotous living, and there are hopes that your stomach may recover its tone, and you be in good health, like your neighbors. Pa. I'm sure, Doctor, I 'm very much obliged to you [taking out a bundle of bank-notes], I shall endeavor to. Dr. Sir, you are not obliged to me:—put up your money, sir. Do you think I 'll take a fee for telling you what you know as well as myself? Though you 're no physician, sir, you are not altogether a fool. Go home, sir, and reform, or, take my word for it, your life is not worth half a year's purchase.
[Alexander THE great, in his tent. A man with a fiercecountenance, chained and fettered, brought before him.]Alex. What! art thou the Thracian robber, of whoseexploits I have heard so much?Rob. I am a Thracian, and a soldier.Alex. A soldier!—a thief, a plunderer, an assassin! thepest of the country! I could honor thy courage; but I mustdetest and punish thy crimes.Rob. What have I done of which you can complain?Alex. Hast thou not set at defiance my authority; violatedthe public peace, and passed thy life in injuring the persons andthe properties of thy fellow-subjects?Rob. Alexander, I am your captive I must hear what youplease to say, and endure what you please to inflict. But mysoul is unconquered; and if I reply at all to your reproaches, Iwill reply like a free man.Alex. Speak freely. Far be it for me take the advantage ofmy power, to silence those with whom I deign to converse.Rob. I must; then, answer your question by another. Howhave you passed your life?Alex. Like a hero. Ask Fame, and she will tell you.Among the brave, I have been the bravest; among sovereigns,the noblest; among conquerors, the mightiest.Rob. And does not Fame speak of me, too? Was thereever a bolder captain of a more valiant band? Was there ever—but I scorn to boast. You yourself know that I have not beeneasily subdued.Alex. Still, what are you, but a robber—a base dishonestrobber?Rob. And what is a conqueror? Have not you, too goneabout the earth like an evil genius: blasting the fair fruits ofpeace and industry; plundering, ravaging, killing without law,without justice, merely to gratify an insatiable lust for dominion?All that I have done to a single district, with a hundred followersyou have done to whole nations, with a hundred thousand.If I have stripped individuals, you have ruined kings and princes.If I have burned a few hamlets, you have desolated themost flourishing kingdoms and cities of the earth. What is thenthe difference, but that as you were born a king, and I a privateman, you have been able to become a mightier robber than I?Alex. But if I have taken like a king, I have given like aking. If I have subverted empires, I have founded greater. Ihave cherished arts, commerce, and philosophy.Rob. I, too, have freely given to the poor what I took fromthe rich. I have established order and discipline among themost ferocious of mankind; and I have stretched out my protectingarm over the oppressed. I know, indeed, little of the philosphyyou talk of; but I believe neither you nor I shall everatone to the world for the mischief we have done it.Alex. Leave me.—Take off his chains, and use him well.Are we, then, so much alike? Alexander to a robber?—Letme reflect.Dr. Aiken.
Love. Where have you been? I have wanted youabove an hour.James. Whom do you want, sir,—your coachman or yourcook? for I am both one and t' other.Love. I want my cook.James. I thought, indeed, it was not your coachman; for youhave had no great occasion for him since your last pair of horseswere starved; but your cook, sir, shall wait upon you in aninstant. [ Puts off his coachman's great-coat and appears as acook.] Now sir, I am ready for your commands.Love. I am engaged this evening to give a supper.James. A supper, sir! I have not heard the word this half-year;a dinner, indeed, now and then; but, for a supper, I'malmost afraid, for want of practice, my hand is out.Love. Leave off your saucy jesting, and see that you providea good supper.James. That may be done with a good deal of money, sir.Love. Is the mischief in you? Always money! Can yousay nothing else but money, money, money? My children, myservants, my relations, can pronounce nothing but money.James. Well, sir; but how many will there be at table?love. About eight or ten; but I will have supper dressedbut for eight; for if there be enough for eight, there is enoughfor ten.James. Suppose, sir, at one end, a handsome soup; at theother, a fine Westphalia ham and chickens; on one side, a filletof veal; on the other, a turkey, or rather a bustard, which maybe had for about a guinea—Love. Zounds! is the fellow providing an entertainment formy lord mayor and the court of aldermen?James. Then a ragout—Love. I'll have no ragout. Would you burst the good peopleyou dog?James. Then pray, sir, what will you have?Love. Why, see and provide something to cloy their stomachs:let there be two good dishes of soup-maigre; a large suet pudding;some dainty, fat pork-pie, very fat; a fine, small leanbreast of mutton, and a large dish with two artichokes. There;that's plenty and variety.James. O, dear—Love. Plenty and variety.James. But, sir, you must have some poultry.Love. No; I'll have none.James. Indeed, sir, you should.Love. Well, then,—kill the old hen, for she has done laying.James. Mercy! sir, how the folks will talk of it; indeed,people say enough of you already.Love. Eh! why, what do the people say, pray?James. Oh, sir, if I could be assured you would not be angry.Love. Not at all; for I'm always glad to hear what theworld says of me.James. Why, sir, since you will have it, then, they make ajest of you everywhere; nay, of your servants, on your account.One says, you pick a quarrel with them quarterly, in order tofind an excuse to pay them no wages.Love. Poh! poh!James. Another says, you were taken one night stealingyour own oats from your own horses.Love. That must be a lie; for I never allow them any.James. In a word, you are the bye-word everywhere; andyou are never mentioned, but by the names of covetous, stingy,scraping, old—Love. Get along, you impudent villain!James. Nay, sir, you said you would n't be angry.Love. Get out, you dog! you—Fielding.
SQUIRE EGAN AND HIS NEW IRISH SERVANT, ANDY.Squire. Well, Andy, you went to the postoffice, as Iordered you?Andy. Yis, sir.Squire. Well, what did you find?Andy. A most impertinent fellow indade, sir.Squire. How so?Andy Says I, as decent like as a gentleman, "I want a letther,sir, if you plase." "Who do you want it for?" said theposth-masther, as ye call him. "I want a letter, sir, if youplase," said I "And whom do you want it for?" said heagain. "And what 's that to you?" said I.Squire. You blockhead, what did he say to that?Andy. He laughed at me, sir, and said he could not tell whatleather to give me, unless I told him the direction.Squire. Well, you told him then, did you?Andy. "The directions I got," said I "was to get a leatherhere,—that 's the directions." "Who gave you the directions?"says he. "The masther" said I. "And who 's yourmasther?" said he. "What consarn is that of yours?" said I.Squire. Did he break your head, then?Andy. No sir. "Why you stupid rascal," said he, "if youdon't tell me his name, how can I give you his leather?" "Youcould give it, if you liked," said I; "only you are fond of axingimpudent questions, because you think I'm simple." "Get outo' this!" said he. "Your masther must be as great a goose asyourself, to send such a missenger."Squire. Well, how did you save my honor, Andy?Andy. "Bad luck to your impudence!" said I. "Is it SquireEgan you dare say goose to?" "O Squire Egan's your masther?"said he. "Yes," says I; "Have you anything to sayagin it?"Squire. You got the letter, then, did you?Andy. "Here 's a leather for the squire," says he. "Youare to pay me eleven pence posthage." "What 'ud I pay 'levenpencefor?" said I "For posthage," said he. "Did n't I seeyou give that gentlewoman a leather for four-pence, this blessedminit?" said I; "and a bigger letther than this? Do you thinkI 'm a fool?" says I? "Here 's a four-pence for you, and giveme the letther."Squire. I wonder he did n't break your skull, and let somelight into it.Andy. "Go along, you stupid thafe!" says he, because Iwould n't let him chate your honor.Square. Well, well; give me the letter.Andy. I have n't it, sir. He would n't give it to me, sir.Squire. Who would n't give it to you?Andy. That old chate beyant in the town.Square. Did n't you pay what he asked?Andy. Arrah, sir, why would I let you be chated, when hewas selling them before my face for four-pence a-piece?Squire. Go back, you scoundrel, or I'll horsewhip you.Andy. He'll murther me, if I say another word to him aboutthe leather; he swore he would.Squire. I'll do it, if he don't, if you are not back in less thanan hour. [Exit]Andy. O, that the like of me should be murthered for defendingthe charrackter of my masther! It's not I'll go to dalewith that bloody chate again. I'll off to Dublin, and let theleather rot on his dirty hands, bad luck to him!Anonymous.
Frenchman. Ha! my friend! I have met one verystrange name in my lesson. Vat you call H-o-u-g-h,—eh?Tutor. "Huff."Fr. Très bien, "huff;" and snuff you spell s-n-o-u-p-h?Tut. Oh! no, no! "Snuff" is spelled s-n-u-f-f. In fact,words in o-u-g-h are a little irregular.Fr. Ah, very good!—'t is beautiful language! H-o-u-g-his "huff." I will remember; and of course, c-o-u-g-h is "cuff."I have a bad "cuff,"—eh?Tut. No, that is wrong; we say "kauff,"—not "cuff"Fr. "Kauff," eh? "Huff," and "kauff;" and, pardonnez-moi,how you call d-o-u-g-h—"duff,"—eh? is it "duff?"Tut. No, not "duff."Fr. Not "duff!" Ah oui; I understand, it is "dauff,"—eh?Tut. No; d-o-u-g-h spells "doe."Fr. "Doe!" It 's ver' fine! Wonderful language! It is"doe;" and t-o-u-g-h is "toe," certainement. My beefsteak isvery "toe."Tut. Oh! no, no! You should say "tuff."Fr. "Tuff!" And the thing the farmer uses, how youcall him, p-l-o-u-g-h,—"pluff," is it? Ha! you smile. I seethat I am wrong; it must be "plaff." No? then it is "ploe,"like "doe?" It is one beautiful language! ver' fine! "ploe!"Tut. You are still wrong, my friend; it is "plow."Fr. "Plow!" Wonderful language! I shall understandver' soon. "Plow" "doe" "kauff;" and one more r-o-u-g-h—what you call General Taylor,—"Rauff and Ready?"No? then "Row and Ready?"Tut. No; r-o-u-g-h spells "ruff."Fr. "Ruff," ha? Let me not forget. R-o-u-g-h is "ruff,"and b-o-u-g-h is "buff,"—ha?Tut. No; "bow."Fr. Ah! 't is ver' simple! Wonderful language! But Ihave had vat you call e-n-o-u-g-h,—ha? Vat you call him?—Ha! ha! ha!Anonymous.
Mr. H.—Steward.
Mr. H. Ha! Steward, How are you, my old boy? Howdo things go on at home?Steward. Bad enough, your honor; the magpie's dead.Mr. H. Poor mag! so he's gone. How came he to die?Stew. Over-ate himself sir.Mr. H. Did he, faith? a greedy dog; why, what did he gethe liked so well?Stew. Horse-flesh, sir; he died of eating horse-flesh.Mr. H. How came he to get so much horse-flesh?Stew. All your father's horses, sir.Mr. H. What! Are they dead, too?Stew. Ay, sir; they died of over-work.Mr. H. And why were they over-worked, pray?Stew. To carry water, sir.Mr. H. To carry water! and what were they carrying waterfor?Stew. Sure, sir, to put out the fire.Mr. H. Fire! what fire?Stew. Oh, sir, your father's house is burned down to theground.Mr. H. My father's house burned down! and how came itset on fire?Stew. I think, sir, it must have been the torches.Mr. H. Torches! what torches?Stew. At your mother's funeral.Mr. H. My mother dead!Stem. Ah, poor lady, she never looked up after it.Mr. H. After what?Stew. The loss of your father.Mr. H. My father gone too?Stew. Yes, poor gentleman, he took to his bed as soon as heheard of it.Mr. H. Heard of what?Stew. The bad news, sir, and please your Honor.Mr. H. What! more miseries! more bad news?Stew. Yes, sir, your bank has failed, and your credit is lost,and you are not worth a shilling in the world. I made bold, sir,to come to wait on you about it, for I thought you would like tohear the news.Anonymous.