Duke. But of my own creation, lady.

Jul. Am I betrayed? Nay, do not play the fool!

Jul. And the attendants who have waited on us

Duke. They were my friends; who, having done ny business,

Are gone about their own.

Jul. Why, then, 'tis clear.

That I was ever born!

What are you, sir?

Duke. I am an honest man

- that may content you.

Young, nor ill-favour'd - should not that content you?
I am your husband, and that must content you.

Jul. I will go home!

८

Duke. You are at home, already.

Jul. I'll not endure it! But remember this

Duke, or no duke, I'll be a duchess, sir!

Duke. A duchess! You shall be a queen, to all Who, by the courtesy, will call you so.

When you have learned to wait upon yourself.

Jul. To wait upon myself! Must I bear this? I could tear out my eyes, that bade you woo me, And bite my tongue in two, for saying yes!

Duke. And if you should, 'twould grow again. I think, to be an honest yeoman's wife

(For such my would-be duchess, you will find me). You were cut out by nature.

Jul You will find, then,

That education, sir, has spoilt me for it.
Why do you think I'll work?

Duke. I think 'twill happen, wife.
Jul. What! Rub and scrub

Your noble palace clean ?

Duke. Those taper fingers

Will do it daintily.

Jul. And dress your victuals

(If there be any)?-Oh! I could go mad!

Duke. And mend my hose, and darn my nightcaps neatly:

Wait, like an echo, till you're spoken to

Jul. Or like a clock, talk only once an hour?

Duke. Or like a dial; for that quietly

Performs its work, and never speaks at all.

Jul. To feed your poultry and your hogs! - Oh, monstrous!

And when I stir abroad, on great occasions

Carry a squeaking tithe pig to the vicar;

Or jolt with higglers' wives the market trot
To sell your eggs and butter!

Duke. Excellent!

How well you sum the duties of a wife!
Why, what a blessing I shall have in you!
Jul. A blessing!

Duke. When they talk of you and me,

Darby and Joan shall no more be remembered:-
We shall be happy!

Duke.

Oh, no! We'll have no vixens,

Jul. I'll not bear it!

I'll to my father's!

Duke. Gently: you forget

You are a perfect stranger to the road.

Jul. My wrongs will find a way, or make one.

Duke. Softly!

You stir not hence, except to take the air;

And then I'll breathe it with you.

Jul. What, confine me?

Duke. 'T would be unsafe to trust you yet abroad.

Jul. Am I a truant schoolboy?

Duke. Nay, not so;

But you must keep your bounds.

The man that lays his hand upon a woman,
Save in the way of kindness, is a wretch
Whom 't were gross flattery to name a coward-
I'll talk to you, lady, but not beat you.

father

Jul. Well, if I may not travel to my
I may write to him, surely! And I will-
If I can meet within your spacious dukedom
Three such unhoped-for miracles at once,
As pens, and ink, and paper.

Duke. You will find them

In the next room. A word, before you go
You are my wife, by every tie that's sacred;
The partner of my fortune-

Jul.

Your fortune!

Duke. Peace! -No fooling, idle woman!
Beneath th' attesting eye of Heaven I've sworn

To love, to honour, cherish, and protect you.
No human power can part us. What remains, then?

To fret, and worry and torment each other,

And give a keener edge to our hard fate

By sharp upbraidings, and perpetual jars?—
Or, like a loving and a patient pair

(Waked from a dream of grandeur, to depend
Upon their daily labor for support),

To soothe the taste of fortune's lowliness

With sweet consent, and mutual fond endearment?

Now to your chamber write whate'er you please;

But pause before you stain the spotless paper,
With words that may inflame, but cannot heal!

Jul. Why, what a patient worm you take me for!
Duke. I took you for a wife; and ere I've done,
I'll know you for a good one.

For a right woman, full of her own sex;

Who, when she suffers wrong, will speak her anger:
Who feels her own prerogative, and scorns,

By the proud reason of superior man,

To be taught patience, when her swelling heart
Cries out revenge! [Exit.

Duke. Why, let the flood rage on!

There is no tide in woman's wildest passion

But hath an ebb. — I've broke the ice, however.

Write to her father! She may write a folio

But if she send it!-'T will divert her spleen,
The flow of ink may save her blood-letting.

Perchance she may have fits! — They are seldom mortal,
Save when the Doctor's sent for.

Though I have heard some husbands say, and wisely,

A woman's honor is her safest guard,

Yet there's some virtue in a lock and key.

So, thus begins our honeymoon.

'Tis well!

For the first fortnight, ruder than March winds,
She'll blow a hurricane. The next, perhaps,

Like April she may wear a changeful face

Of storm and sunshine: and when that is past,

She will break glorious as unclouded May;

And where the thorns grew bare, the spreading blossoms
Meet with no lagging frost to kill their sweetness.

Whilst others, for a month's delirious joy

Buy a dull age of penance, we, more wisely,
Taste first the wholesome bitter of the cup,
That after to the very lees shall relish;
And to the close of this frail life prolong
The pure delights of a well-governed marriage.

John Tobin

When? How? and Why?

When did Johnnie die, birdie

When did Johnnie die?

The earth was aglow with blossoms,
And violets bloomed in the sky.
The scented air was aquiver

With music of countless birds;
And the beautiful, sunlit river
Seemed murmuring loving words.
Fair lambs, like breathing lilies,
Dotted the green hillside;
And earth was filled with beauty,
When little Johnnie died.

How did Johnnie die, birdie?
How did Johnnie die?

His dear, blue eyes, that widened
From long gazing on the sky,
And filled with Heaven's glory,
All suddenly grew dim.
Ah! well we knew the angels

Were looking down on him!
Without one glance at us mortals,
Who knelt in grief by his side,

But with hands outstretched to those angels,
Our little Johnnie died.

Why died our little Johnnie?
Does birdie ask me why?
To show how much of sorrow
One may bear, and yet not die.
To lift our faint hearts upward

To the Gracious One on High,
Who blessed the little children
When He dwelt beneath the sky;
To make us drop all earth props
For the hand of the Crucified,
Ah! not in vain, dear birdie,
Our little Johnnie died!

13

Grace Brown.