HOW anxious are the creeping hours till fair Tu­lippa's mine; yet let me not complain since her kind, tho' delicate reception of my vows, raises me above a monarch's fortune—My artless muse having tacked together some feeble rhimes, expressive of my heart, I' [...] hang them on this friendly bough

where they may speak more plainly to her sight, than my diffident, unpractic'd tongue can to her ear.

Not even slumber's leaden mace can remove from my distracted mind, the severe treatment of scornful, cruel Psyche;—shall I, who dispense love or hate upon the points of leaden or golden darts, be made her sport? Shall rural nymphs and swains enjoy a happiness un­known to Cupid? It must not be;—no! I'll exert my­self to work confusion amongst them.

How pleasingly those spray-perch'd warblers chaunt throughout the grove; how sweetly rising flowrets scent the vernal Air, these few selected with a careful hand, and pearl'd with honey'd dew, shall adorn the faithful bosom of my Amaranthus.—Where can he be wand'ring? Time stands still when he is absent, but imps his wings with double speed, when the dear object of my doating eyes is near.

What's here—one of love's packets—The explana­tion of some timorous swain or bashful maid who, fear­ing speech, has given thought to paper.—Ha! the character of Amaranthus; quick let my eager sight de­vour the sweet contents.

What do I read? Love's warmest effusion pour­ed forth to Verna—The milky softness leaves my breast, and gall of jealousy flows in—Ah, foolish eyes, in­dulge not idle tears!—Ah, simple heart, thy fruitless throbbing cease—it will not be; how nature's beauties wither in my sight, false, false Amaranthus!

But see he comes, perhaps to meet with Verna—his new mistress—If so—long as I can bear, behind this arbour, I'll see the painful interview.

To search so long, and not to find her.

Oh, Sir, your new fangled passion's impatient.

The paper gone! Sure it has reach'd the beauteous hand I wish.

Perhaps not.

Having convey'd this faint, but honest picture of my heart—

And a pretty one it is, truly.

I shall henceforth be able to address her with more confidence.

Confidence enough, no doubt.—I must indulge my swelling spleen, and show myself.—So thoughtful, swain.

Ha! my Tulippa here!

Your Tulippa!

Yes! my Tulippa, that is to be—I hope.

Flattering hope, like flattering swains, carries much deceit with it.

What agitates my lovely fair? Why swim her eyes with tears? Why flies the bloom from off those cheeks, where dimpled beauty always fits.

Because my heart so much detests falsehood, that even my features must speak truth.

You speak in riddles, and cloud me with astonish­ment.

Haste from these honest plains, to cities haste, where double-fac'd hypocrisy is found in every class; where virtue and constancy are laugh'd out of countenance, and love is nothing but a name.

These plains indeed I'll fly, if my Tulippa proves un­kind; but why should I be exil'd from that rural simpli­city, and all my soul admires.

False swain, think on the bitter fruit I plucked from yonder bough, and repeat that question if you can.

Fruit! if the produce of my poor brain deserves that name, I hope, tho' it cannot boast the richness of ge­nius, it may claim the flavour of sincerity.

Sincerity!—Verna!—

What of her!—Verna!—I know she is esteemed fair, but—

I know thee false, without a but—so traitor, fare­wel forever.

Falsehood! Traitor! Verna! What a game of con­fusion! what cross purposes—That falsehood which, I suppose, has waver'd her own heart, she would artfully charge upon mine.

A fine young fellow, I protest—and wonderfully good, they say—How active and firm he treads—Such a husband would be charmingly comfortable to a person of my years and circumstances—But I suppose he's for some flirting young minx—Who knows, all youth are not fools, and properly talk'd to, he may comply;—I'll try however, for as they say, ‘"a faint heart never won a fair lady,"’ so a bashful face can never gain a brisk husband.—Fair smile the spring upon you, master Amaranthus.

Good morrow, mother.

Mother! Nay, young swain, tho' day-light and I have been long acquainted, not long enough for that, neither; but you are a handsome, sensible young man, and should have all imaginable liberty—I protest I speak as I think—I need not tell you, that Autumn is a much richer and kindlier season than spring.

It may be so.

May be! it so, I have pass'd the flirting, and am just entering into the sober, sensible time of life.—Do you never think of matrimony, master Amaranthus.

Truly, I have thought of it till I began to fear enter­ing upon so dangerous a connection.

Very true, it is a dangerous state, indeed, but not with a prudent partner.—Lack-a-day, you seem mighty uneasy—a good wife would certainly comfort you—methinks you and I would make a very happy couple.

How, match with you!

Me! why not, shepherd—You'll be safe from any dishonour to your family; my virtue will guard against that—Then I'll be as loving and constant as a turtle dove.

Ay, stick like a blister, no doubt.

Then I'll be as merry as a Jay, and make life one entire holiday—Difference of a few years is an idle, a very idle distinction.

How this beldam increases my perplexity.

Sure nothing can be more painful, especially in my state of mind, than a forward, fulsome, amorous old woman.

Well, young swain, and what say you? Good offers don't come often; when they do, to refuse them is stand­ing in one's own light.—Sir Gregory Greybeard, exa­miner and licencer of marriages for this district, sits to­day, [Page 11] so we may be settled for life—and I love to follow that excellent maxim, ‘"strike while the Iron is hot."’

Well, Well, give me half an hour to think, and you shall have my determination.

So far so good—Well, I vow he's a sweet creature—ay, and sensible too—When I have him all to my­self, the gilflirts of the plain will so envy me—But I must stick close, fools only are mealy-mouth'd.

I will sing for all you, and all day too, if I like.

Ay, ay, you make a noise like a false fellow, as you are, to stop my mouth; but if you call it singing, screech-owls shall turn teachers of music, and ravens vocal performers.

My bad singing, is better than your loud scolding.

Have I not reason?

Nimble tongues find ready excuse for wagging.

And fickle hearts prove false without any excuse at all—did not you promise to marry me, varlet?

What then? Greater folks than I make promises they never mean to keep—Moreover, than that, I lov'd you then, but I don't now.

You don't! And why not, scape-grace?

Why! because my mind's chang'd.

Mighty well, fashionable Sir, I suppose, since you have got that mon'strous fine tail to your crow's-nest hair, your large tossel'd cane, and that carving knife, to apologize for a sword, at your side, you are setting up for some flauntier body, than a plain, honest, industrious cook-maid.

You have hit it.

I have—then, sirrah, henceforth I banish you the kitchen—Never shall your hungry jaws be liquor'd with sops i'th' pan.

If you sop yourself there, Mrs. Culina, I shan't burn my fingers to take you out.

Provoking knave, I have much ado to keep my hands off your ugly face.

Ugly face, thank you for that; you'd give all the shoes in your shop to be half so handsome; then, as to fistycuffs, I'm as pretty a bit of flesh as in all Arcadia, [Page 14] so if I should draw a tooth, or paint an eye, blame yourself.

Our master, Sir Gregory, shall know what a knave you are—If I had believ'd all you said, I might have lost all my vartue; but I'll put a spoke in your wheel—and since you won't have me, you shall have nobody else.

Why, the woman chatters worse than ten couple of magpies in pairing time, or two score gossips half seas over at a christening—Are you any thing the worse of my wear.

Sirrah, sirrah, I'd have you to know I can get a bet­ter husband than ever stood on your shanks for holding up a finger; but to be slighted by such a pitiful sap­skull'd fellow—Sir Gregory, Sir Gregory, sirrah, shall bring you to your marrow-bones.

I'm glad she's gone—If I had not spoke a little stoutly of tooth drawing, she would have claw'd me.—I'm not the first brave fellow who has saved broken bones by big words—Boh—and arms a kimbo, have often pass'd for courage—When she talked of the drip­ping-pan, the basting ladle could not be far off—Oh! here comes Mrs. Tulippa, the very sight of her has turn'd my heart upside down, like a Shrove-tide pan­cake, and made it jump, for all the world, like a new [Page 15] caught squirrel in a bell-cage.—Shall I speak to her, or do the business with ogling—both's best, I believe—ut I' l listen to find what humour she is in.

A fine day, fair mistress.

Agreeable enough to those who can enjoy it.

But I believe there's going to be a change, for last night the man in the moon had got his beard on—Old Mother Grazy complained of the rheumatice, our cat washed her face over the left ear, and I have a corn that shoots like any thing.

Heigho!

Nay, you need not be sorry for the corn—I have a worser pain than that.

It may be so.

Ay, a pain in the heart.

If so, indeed I pity you.

Then you know what makes it.

Not I, indeed.

But you can guess.

No, truly.

Was you—can't you see something in in my eyes—was you ever in love, Mrs. Tulippa?

Why do you ask?

Because, because I want to know what it feels like.

That you had better never know.

Ay, but what if I know against my will? I dream'd such a dream last night about bride-cake drawn through a gold ring, throwing the stocking, whip sullabbubs, sweethearts, and pin-cushions, that I thinks, as how, I am in love with you.

Have you any other reason to think so?

Oh, yes, for my eyes have glisten'd ever fince I saw you, like dry whitings in a dark night; and when you turn'd the corner just now, my heart began to dance a horn-pipe without music.

Yonder I see Amaranthus coming—List'ning to, and giving this simpleton encouragement, will at least shew how light he is in my esteem, and if he has any spirit, mortify him.

May I hope.

Did you ever make love to any body before?

What, this wretch her gallant.

Oh, yes, to one—but lack-a-day, she is no more to be compar'd to you, than a cowslip to a cabbage, or a pancake to a plumb-pudding.

If I was sure you did not flatter—

This is too much to bear.

Flatter! no, no, I'm not scholar enough for that.

Then here's my hand.

You have made my heart as light as a merry duck­ling in a fish-pond.

Oh, Mr. Amaranthus, you are luckily come to wit­ness our bargain.

Mrs. Tulippa, any bargain you think proper to make, I shall readily agree to.

No doubt—you are a most condescending creature.

Very good-natured and descending, indeed, Mr. Amaranthus.

I find no great pleasure in the praise of a fool.

Oh, sweet Sir, an honest fool is much better than a sensible knave.

If so be I am a fool, my family is very old and nu­merous, with many near relations among people of fashion.

I hope when this charming match takes place, you'll now and then lend that gingling cap to your lady, it will add much to her charms.

Wonderfully smart.

She's handsome enough without—but now you talk of that, master Amaranthus, if every fool was to wear such a cap, would not it cause rare trade for bell­makers—I can't help laughing to think how many great folks, who seldom say more than aye, or no, would then make a very considerable noise—How many pulpits would then ring almost as loud as the church steeple, and how many physicians would toll the knell of those patients they had kill'd.

So, so, I have overtaken you at last; its almost Sir Gregory's sitting time, and I would not miss the day for any thing, because it would delay us a whole month.

Well, I am ready to attend you there; I have now no further occasion for liberty; marriage and the grave are equally indifferent.

The grave! good lack, I would not think of such a place for ever so much—I'll soon put better thoughts in your head young swain.

And is that the Lady of your choice?

Prudent age is better than deceitful youth.

Master Amaranthus, shall I lend you my cap, or get a new one made for you?

HOW goes the day, Register?

Both sun and clocks agree, that it approacheth the mid hour, Sir.

Register, tho' you have been my clerk some time, yet I don't recollect ever telling you how I came to the dignity of marriage-licencer for this district.

Your Worship never did.

Because I travelled much—not like many modern travellers to go out a fool, and return a coxcomb—not to discover useless countries, or pick up unintelligible cu­riosities, but to study mankind east, west, north, and south.

Then no doubt your Worship has seen wonderful strange things.

Ay, strange enough—in France I found light hearts with empty pockets—in Italy much religion, with little morality—in Spain indolent pride, with wretched po­verty—in Germany great courage, small sobriety—and in Holland strict oeconomy, with pitiful spirit—but of all places, Great Britain produces the most singular and extensive variety.

And what may that be, your Worship?

Why a wonderful mixture of good sense and folly; industry, and extravagance; discontent and negligence; place-hunting and patriotism; elegance and frippery; plenty and want; selfishness and humanity.

Surprising mixtures in truth, Sir Gregory.

And then, Register, they have a favourite amongst them, called fashion, almost as changeable as their cli­mate—One month their men stride forth with such closs trimm'd skirts, that they resemble so many curlews, all legs and no bodies; the next they are so lengthened, that petit maitres waddle forth like ducks, all bodies and no legs.

At that rate, Sir Gregory, one can't be sure of know­ing an acquaintance three months together—Do they marry there?

Yes, yes, they have the word, marriage, and a cere­mony amongst them; but mutual inclination is seldom consulted—This makes a place, they call Doctors Com­mons, thrive vastly.

And what do they do there, Sir?

Divorce—that is, unmarry those couples who are tired of one another.

I don't know, your Worship, whether such a shop would not have pretty business here.

Here! simpleton—to be sure we have some jarring—but all Arcadia would not supply one English [Page 24] proctor with beef and pudding, exclusive of claret and a carriage—No, no, we have not quality enough among us for that.

I see a young shepherdess approaching.

Then I'll proceed to business, which magistrates should never delay when it can be attended to.

Now, fair maid, what have you to propose?

Not much, an please your Worship—Only a young shepherd made love to me—

And you liked that he should do so—I could almost make love to her myself.

Why, it was pleasant enough among the rest.

What roguish eyes she has!

Among the rest! So then you have had variety of sweet-hearts?

As many as most of my neighbours—Not less than twenty or so.

And I could make one more.

But how can you manage so many?

So many! Oh la, your Worship, I could manage as many more.

That voice; those lips; those eyes;—in short, the young jade has scorch'd me to a cinder!

—Well, but as to the young shepherd you mentioned—what of him?

So please your Worship, he courted me full three months; and because, as how, I would not have him, he first threatened to put himself away with a pistol, then with a rope, then with a razor, and last of all in the mill-pond: he frighten'd me, that's for sure, as thinking how his ghost might haunt me; but all would not do, till he proved first of all my sweethearts that came into my father's house last May-day morning—besides, that very self same night, a snail wrote the first letters of his name on our pantry-wall; so, your Worship, thinking, as how, he was fated for me, I consented.

And what follow'd?

I hope he likes some­body else hetter.

Why, after all was settled, and we were setting out this morning to ask your Worship's consent, he turned his back upon me.

Ay!

True, as your Worship is a wise man—So I hopes your Worship won't let him have any body else—and I'll take care he shall never have me;—between ourselves, I valu'd him no more than an old slipper—but to be affronted so! I want to be revenged of his falseness.

And thou shalt to thy wish—I am glad she don't like him.

Ay, ay, let me alone, I'll trim the young rogue, I warrant you—Give my clerk the par­ticulars, and he'll minute them down—Upon my word, Sir Greg. thou hast made a fine kettle of fish on't at sixty-three, to fall plump in love with twenty-three.—Hark ye, fair maid—what's your name?

Frisketta, Sir.

Frisketta! truly a merry name for a gamesome lass—What think you, as there is no dependance on young, could you like a little advance of age?

Oh, dear, your Worship—sixty-three has a very whimsical sound in my ears—and I—but here comes my false swain.

Well, you little leering rogue, we'll talk more of this matter presently—Now, must I shew authority; but I hope it won't frighten him.

So, young shepherd, here's a fair maid complains that you are false to her.

Why, an I be, I can't help it, your Worship.

Lo, you there now, he dare not deny it.

Not help it! why so?

Why so! your Worship does not like one thing al­ways—Why may not minds change, as well as the weather? I could not help loving her once, and now I can't help loving another.

Mighty modest!

Another! who's that?

Tulippa, an like your Worship.

Ha, ha, ha, ha!

Ya, ya, ya! and what do you laugh at, Mistress?

To think how Amaranthus would baste your bones, if he heard you say so.

He baste my bones! no, nor your lubberly brother to help him—whey-face.

My lubberly brother—butter-chops.

I snap my fingers at your tongue, and his fists, tho' he's so fine, and thinks himself cock of the game—I've escap'd your mouse-trap—so you may bait it for some other fool.

Ha' done both—None of your mouse-traps, sirrah, as you fear my cane.

I've done, your Worship.

And I too, Sir.

You confess deceiving this shepherdess?

May hap I might.

Might you so! Register put down this Varlet in the list of batchelors for life.

With all my heart, I can take care of one, so a fig for matrimony.

A light-hearted fellow that—Well, little Frisketta, and where do you dwell.

Your Worship knows the silver current, which pur­ling over glistening pebbles, winds along the bottom of the vale, and skirts the grove of poplars:—upon its flowery bank, beneath their shade, I dwell.

I know the place—ah, many a time have I fished there for trouts with burnish'd scales—perhaps I may soon angle near it for something else—Well, my pretty dear, I'll call to see you, and provide a good hus­band some way.

I thank your Worship heartily, but I would rather provide one myself.

Adad, she's as harmonious as a nightingale, as beau­tiful as a flower-garden, and luscious as a rich grape ri­pened by the sun's kindliest beams—I must have her—and to countenance my own o [...] match, I'll give con­sent to all who come before me this day, however ill coupled they may be.

An please your Worship, Sir Gregory, this young shepherd—I may say this handsome young shepherd, fearing a girlish marriage, has prudently made choice of me, and we are come to ask your Worship's approba­tion.

That shan't be wanting, if you are both agreed—What says the young man?

Now stand I on the brink, yet dare not leap in—What an extensive gloom hangs over the prospect—Why, Sir, I must confess I came here for the purpose she mentions; and as I never was, so I never will be false to my word, but—

Well, well, you seem an honest lad; step aside with the good-woman, and settle the matter perfectly.

How, my man Ninny! What are you upon?

Why, an like your Worship, this young shepherdess having taken a great liking to my parts, and I to her's—We want to make a match—that's all.

That's all! Has the fair maid agreed?

I can't say, your Worship, but I have—There was a swain I lov'd most dearly, but he proved false—and once I t hought it would have broke my heart; now my minds quite changed, and I fully agree to this sweet­heart's proposal.

We have quite agreed, so please your Worship.

Ha, Tulippa here! so disengag'd! so fond! every negligent feature speaks her falsehood, and confirms the contempt of my resentment—Yes, Sir Gregory, I am, I am most thoroughly determined.

'Tis well—But stay till all parties who come are settled, and then my approbation shall ensue.

Oh, Mr. Amaranthus, you have for once kept your word.

That's once more than you would wish to do.

So, Aunt Silver-locks, though you have lost all the test, I see the colt's tooth stands fast yet.

Ah, ungracious, you want no other proof of folly, but your impertinent tongue.

Come, come, no wrangling in my presence.—Re­gister, enter these two [...]ouple, paying proper fees, for marriage, and when the day's business is done, I'll ratify the whole.

Hey day, old Blunderbuss, what are you about here? joining winter and summer, frost and fire together—You are a hopeful judge indeed.

How now, jackanapes, dare you impeach my autho­rity—a gosling face an eagle.

A buzzard, an owl you mean, that can't face the light.

Light! I'll light you—here—where are my fellows—secure that urchin, and give him the correction of an impudent school-boy.

Ay, ay, you may strive, but 'tis all in vain—Think not, foolish mortals, of withstanding the god of Love.

What, are you the little great blind boy, that shoots arrows about, and makes riddles of folks hearts.

Yes; but not so great a boy, nor so blind as you.

Mayhap not—your eyes look well enough—but what then? Though my grand-mother was as blind as a beetle, you might see your face in her dark peepers—But, master Cupid, suppose you was to lend me your bow and arrows, I could knock down half a dozen yel­low hammers in a trice—and that would be rare sport, I can tell you.

My shafts are of more importance and danger than to be trusted in such hands as yours—Look not all so amazed, nor wonder that you have been turn'd topsy­turvy—Psyche's cruelty forced me to throw this con­fusion among ye; but a dispatch by one of my mother Ve­nus's doves having brought me favourable advices, you shall all come right at last.

What mists have vanish'd from my eyes? Methinks Tulippa is more fair and kind than ever.

And to my restor'd senses, Amaranthus appears more engaging, more constant than ever.

For my part I begin to think my kitchen compa­nion fitter for me than this fair weather nosegay—So an you please, Sir Greg. I'll have my old sweetheart again.

What a wonderful change I feel in myself too! all of a sudden I find that Hyema is more suitable to me, than Frisketta; as the young one has left you, what say you, old Dame, to me?

Say! why, I say if we can't get what we would, we must take what we can; and tho' I would rather have a husband twenty or thirty years younger, yet to be Lady Greybeard is something.

An please your Worship, the strangest thing—as Do­rilas and I were scolding tooth and nail, and ready to claw one another, something gave me a flap o'the heart, and then gave him a flap o'the heart—so we made all up, and with your Worship's leave we would—

As the wind's changed into the warm corner, come to a close bargain, Sir Gregory.

With all my heart; well, I believe by every one's looks matters are better settled than if we had been left to ourselves—So by way of merry example, I'll chaunt a stave of rejoicing, and let those who are pleased follow me.