The GOUTY MERCHANT and the STRANGER. In Broad street buildings, (on a winter night,) His feet, rolled up in fleecy hose, The Public Ledger, in whose columns grubbing Gum, galls and groceries, ginger, gin, "Your footman, Sir, has gone his nightly track To the King's Head, And left your door ajar, which I Observed in passing by; And thought it neighbourly to give you notice." Ten thousand thanks-how very few get In time of danger Such kind attentions from a stranger ! Doom'd to a final drop at Newgate: He knows, too, (the unconscionable elf,) He knows that rogues and thieves by scores Even beneath your very nose, Perform his knavish tricks ;- Blow out your candles-thus-and thus, And walk off-thus So said so done he made no more remark, Nor waited for replies, But marched off with his prize, Leaving the gouty merchant in the dark. The FAT ACTOR and the RUSTIC. Cardinal Wolsey was a man "Of an unbounded stomach," Shakspeare says, But had he seen a player of our days, He would have owned that Wolsey's bulk ideal This actor's belt surrounds, Which is, moreover, all alive and real. This player, when the peace enabled shoals To visit every clime between the poles, Must not in this proceeding be mistaken : To see how money might be made, not spent. He found himself at Lille one afternoon, And that he might the breeze enjoy, And catch a peep at the ascending moon Refreshing in the fields his soul With sight of streams and trees and snowy fleeces When we are pleasantly employed, time flies: Until the moon began to shine, On which he gazed awhile, and then Pull'd out his watch and cried, "Past nine! He couldn't gallop, trot or canter, (Those who had seen him, would confess it) he March'd well for one of such obesity. Eyeing his watch and now his forehead mopping, He puff'd and blew along the road, Afraid of meeting, more afraid of stopping; Returning from the town: "Tell me," he panted in a thawing state, Measuring with his eye our bulky wight, Dramatic pieces demand an exercise of almost all the powers of the reader, and seldom receive justice from the most gifted orator. In pronouncing pieces of this description, we must consider the character represented; the circumstances under which he acted; the state of feeling he possessed, and every thing appertaining to the scene with which he was connected. DOUGLAS. SCENE I.-The Court of a Castle surrounded with Woods. Enter LADY RANDOLPH through the castle gates. Lady R. Ye woods and wilds, whose melancholy gloom But Randolph comes, whom fate has made my lord, Enter LORD RANDOLPH. Lord R. Again these weeds of woe! say, dost thou well, To feed a passion which consumes thy life? The living claim some duty; vainly thou Bestow'st thy cares upon the silent dead. Lady R. Silent, alas ! is he for whom I mourn : Childless, without memorial of his name, He only now in my remembrance lives. Lord R. Time, that wears out the trace of deepest anguish, Has past o'er thee in vain. Sure, thou art not the daughter of Sir Malcolm ; my fathers: words. Lord R. Thy grief wrests to its purposes my Lord R. Straight to the camp, Where every warrior on the tip-toe stands Each who arrives, if he is come to tell The Danes are landed. Lady R. O, may adverse winds, Far from the coast of Scotland drive their fleet! And every soldier of both hosts return In peace and safety to his pleasant home! Lord R. Thou speak'st a woman's; hear a warrior's wish : Right from their native land, the stormy north, May the wind blow, till every keel is fix'd Immoveable in Caledonia's strand! Then shall our foes repent their bold invasion, Lady, farewell: I leave thee not alone; Yonder comes one whose love makes duty light. [Exit Enter ANNA. Anna. Forgive the rashness of your Anna's love: Urg'd by affection, I have thus presum❜d To interrupt your solitary thoughts: And warn you of the hours that you neglect, And lose in sadness. Lady R. So to lose my hours Is all the use I wish to make of time. Anna. To blame thee, lady, suits not with my state : What had your sorrows been if you had lost, Anna. Have I distress'd you with officious love, The mind I bear partakes not of my fortune : These piteous tears, I'd throw my life away. Lady R. What pow'r directed thy unconscious tongue To speak as thou hast done? to name Anna. I know not: But since my words have made my mistress tremble, My tears with her's. Lady R. No, thou shalt not be silent. Anna. What means my noble mistress? Lady R. Didst thou not ask what had my sorrows beep, If I in early youth had lost a husband? In the cold bosom of the earth is lodg'd, Mangled with wounds, the husband of my youth; |