_P._ Such were the MAN and MASTER—and I now Would know if they together live, and how. To such enquiries, thus my Friend replied:— 100 _F._ The Wife was slain—or, say at least, she died. But there are murders that the human eye Cannot detect—which human laws defy. There are the wrongs insulted fondness feels, In many a secret wound that never heals; The Savage murders with a single blow; Murders like this are secret and are slow. Yet, when his victim lay upon her bier, There were who witness’d that he dropt a tear; Nay, more, he praised the woman he had lost, 110 And undisputed paid the funeral cost. The Favourite now, her lord and master freed, Prepared to wed, and be a wife indeed. The day, ’twas said, was fix’d, the robes were bought, A feast was order’d; but a cold was caught, And pain ensued, with fever—grievous pain, With the mind’s anguish that disturb’d the brain— Till nature ceased to struggle, and the mind Saw clearly death before, and sin behind. Priests and physicians gave what they could give; 120 She turn’d away, and, shuddering, ceased to live. The Dealer now appeared awhile as one Lost, with but little of his race to run, And that in sorrow; men with one consent, And one kind hope, said, “Bonner will repent.” Alas! we saw not what his fate would be, But this we fear’d—no penitence had he; Nor time for penitence, nor any time, So quick the summons, to look back on crime. When he the partner of his sin entomb’d, 130 He paused awhile, and then the way resumed, Ev’n as before; yet was he not the same: The tempter once, he now the dupe became. John long had left him, nor did one remain Who would his harlot in her course refrain; Obsequious, humble, studious of his ease, The present Phœbe only sought to please. “With one so artless, what,” said he, “to fear, Or what to doubt, in one who holds me dear? Friends she may have, but me she will not wrong; 140 If weak her judgment, yet her love is strong; And I am lucky now in age to find A friend so trusty, and a nurse so kind.” Yet neither party was in peace; the man Had restless nights, and in the morn began To cough and tremble; he was hot and cold— He had a nervous fever, he was told. His dreams—’twas strange, for none reflected less On his past life—were frightful to excess; His favourite dinners were no more enjoy’d, 150 And, in a word, his spirits were destroy’d. And what of Phœbe? She her measures plann’d; All but his money was at her command; All would be hers, when Heav’n her Friend should call; But Heav’n was slow, and much she long’d for all:— “Mine when he dies, mean wretch! and why not mine, When it would prove him generous to resign What he enjoys not!”—Phœbe, at command, Gave him his brandy with a liberal hand. A way more quick and safe she did not know, 160