GREG. I'll beat her when I please; and will not beat her when I do not please. She's my wife, and not yours. SQ. ROB. Certainly, certainly, beat her DOR. [very much enraged]. Give me the stick, dear husband. SQ. ROB. Well, if ever I attempt to part husband and wife again, may I be beaten myself! [Exit.] SCENE 3. GREG. Come, my dear, let us be friends. DOR. [pouting]. What, after beating me so? GREG. "Twas but in jest. DOR. [indignant]. I desire you will crack your jests on your own bones, not on mine! GREG. Pshaw! you know you and I are one; and I beat onehalf of myself when I beat you. DOR. Yes; but for the future I desire you will beat the other half of yourself. GREG. [caressingly]. Come, my pretty dear, I ask pardon; sorry fort. Forgive, and I promise- I am DOR. Never to do so again? Well, for once I pardon you; but you shall pay for't. GREG. Pshaw! pshaw! child; these are only little affairs, necessary in friendship; four or five good blows with a cudgel between very fond couples only tend to heighten the affections I'll now to the wood, and I promise thee to make a hundred fagots before I come home. [Exit.] DOR. [shaking fist at him as he goes]. If I am not revenged on those blows of yours, niy name is not Dorcas! Oh, that I could but think of some method to be revenged on him! Hang the rogue, he is quite insensible! Oh, that I could find out some invention to get him well drubbed, and be even with him! I will! I will! [Leaves in great excitement.] THE COUNCIL OF THE RATS. JEAN DE LA FONTAINE. LD Rodillard, a certain cat, OLD Such havoc of the rats had made 'Twas difficult to find a rat With nature's debt unpaid. The few that did remain, To leave their holes afraid, Now, on a day, this dread rat-eater Thought best, and better soon than late, That, when he took his hunting round, At once confessed Their minds were with the dean's. No better plan they all believed No doubt the thing would work right well, If any one would hang the bell. But, one by one, said every rat: "I'm not so big a fool as that!" The council closed without effect. Then, cold, and hot, and moist, and dry, In order to their stations leap, And Music's power obey. From harmony, from heavenly harmony, This universal frame began; From harmony to harmony, Through all the compass of the notes it ran, The diapason closing full in man. What passion cannot music raise and quell? When Jubal struck the chorded shell, His listening brethren stood around, And, wondering, on their faces fell To worship that celestial sound. Less than a god they thought there could not dwell Within the hollow of that shell, That spoke so sweetly and so well, What passion cannot music raise and quell? The trumpet's loud clangor Excites us to arms, With shrill notes of anger, And mortal alarms. The double, double, double beat Of the thundering drum Cries, "Hark, the foes come! Charge, charge ! 'tis too late to retreat." The soft, complaining flute In dying notes discovers The woes of hapless lovers, Whose dirge is whispered by the warbling lute. Sharp violins proclaim Their jealous pangs, and desperation, Fury, frantic indignation, Depth of pains and height of passion, For the fair, disdainful dame. But O! what art can teach, Notes that wing their heavenly ways Orpheus could lead the savage race; But bright Cecilia raised the wonder higher, Mistaking earth for Heaven. As from the power of sacred lays And sung the great Creator's praise So, when the last and dreadful hour BAUCIS AND PHILEMON. JONATHAN SWIFT. IN ancient times, as story tells, The saints would often leave their cells Having through all the village passed, t; Where dwelt a good old honest yeoman, |