“Hold, Sir! at least my reputation spare, 300 And add another falsehood if you dare.”— “Your reputation, Madam!—rest secure: That will all scandal and reproach endure, And be the same in worth; it is like him Who floats, but finds he cannot sink or swim; Half raised above the storm, half sunk below, It just exists, and that is all we know. Such the good name that you so much regard, And yet to keep afloat find somewhat hard. Nay, no reply! in future I decline 310 Dispute, and take my way.”— “And I, Sir, mine.” Oh! happy, happy, happy pair! both sought, Both seeking—catching both [—], and caught! TALE IV. _RACHEL._ It chanced we walk’d upon the heath, and met A wandering woman; her thin clothing wet With morning fog; the little care she took Of things like these was written in her look. Not pain from pinching cold was in her face, But hurrying grief, that knows no resting place— Appearing ever as on business sent, The wandering victim of a fix’d intent; Yet in her fancied consequence and speed, Impell’d to beg assistance for her need. 10 When she beheld my friend and me, with eye And pleading hand she sought our charity; More to engage our friendly thoughts the while, She threw upon her miseries a smile, That, like a varnish on a picture laid, More prominent and bold the figures made; Yet was there sign of joy that we complied, The moment’s wish indulged and gratified. “Where art thou wandering, Rachel? whither stray, From thy poor heath in such unwholesome day?” 20 Ask’d my kind friend, who had familiar grown With Rachel’s grief, and oft compassion shown; Oft to her hovel had in winter sent The means of comfort—oft with comforts went. Him well she knew, and with requests pursued, Though too much lost and spent for gratitude. “Where art thou wandering, Rachel? let me hear?”— “The fleet! the fleet!” she answer’d, “will appear Within the bay, and I shall surely know The news to-night!—turn tide, and breezes blow! 30 For if I lose my time, I must remain Till the next year before they come again!” “What can they tell thee, Rachel?”— “Should I say, I must repent me to my dying day. Then I should lose the pension that they give; For who would trust their secrets to a sieve? I must be gone!”—And with her wild, but keen And crafty look, that would appear to mean, She hurried on; but turn’d again to say, “All will be known; they anchor in the bay; 40 Adieu! be secret!—sailors have no home; Blow wind, turn tide!—Be sure the fleet will come.” Grown wilder still, the frantic creature strode With hurried feet upon the flinty road. On her departing form I gazed with pain— “And should you not,” I cried, “her ways restrain? What hopes the wild deluded wretch to meet?