_Fusbos._ This day is big with fate: just as I set My foot across the threshold, lo! I met A man whose squint terrific struck my view; Another came, and lo! he squinted too; And ere I'd reach'd the corner of the street, Some ten short paces, 'twas my lot to meet A third who squinted more--a fourth, and he Squinted more vilely than the other three. Such omens met the eye when Cæsar fell, But cautioned him in vain; and who can tell Whether those awful notices of fate Are meant for kings or ministers of state; For rich or poor, old, young, or short or tall, The wrestler Love trips up the heels of all. SONG.--"_My Lodging is on the Cold Ground._" My lodging is in Leather Lane, A parlour that's next to the sky; 'Tis exposed to the wind and the rain, But the wind and the rain I defy: Such love warms the coldest of spots, As I feel for Scrubinda the fair; Oh, she lives by the scouring of pots, In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square. Oh, were I a quart, pint, or gill, To be scrubb'd by her delicate hands, Let others possess what they will Of learning, and houses, and lands; My parlour that's next to the sky I'd quit, her blest mansion to share; So happy to live and to die In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square. And oh, would this damsel be mine, No other provision I'd seek; On a look I could breakfast and dine, And feast on a smile for a week. But ah! should she false-hearted prove, Suspended, I'll dangle in air; A victim to delicate love, In Dyot Street, Bloomsbury Square. [_Exit._ _Enter_ BOMBASTES, preceded by a Fifer, playing "Michael Wiggins."_ _Bombas._ Gentle musician, let thy dulcet strain Proceed--play "Michael Wiggins" once again [_he does so_.] Music's the food of love; give o'er, give o'er, For I must batten on that food no more. [_Exit_ FIFER. My happiness is chang'd to doleful dumps, Whilst, merry Michael, all thy cards were trumps. So, should some youth by fortune's blest decrees, Possess at least a pound of Cheshire cheese, And bent some favour'd party to regale, Lay in a kilderkin, or so, of ale; Lo, angry fate! In one unlucky hour Some hungry rats may all the cheese devour, And the loud thunder turn the liquor sour [_forms his sash into a noose_.] Alas! alack! alack! and well-a-day, That ever man should make himself away! That ever man for woman false should die, As many have, and so, and so [_prepares to hang himself, tries the sensation, but disapproves of the result_] won't I! No, I'll go mad! 'gainst all I'll vent my rage, And with this wicked wanton world a woeful war I'll wage!