“_A._ When Britons bold, bedded of old, Sandals were backward thrown; The pair to tell, that, ill or well, The act was all their own.” If a more satisfactory explanation of the custom could be found, it should be at the reader’s service. The practice prevails on the continent as well as in this country, but its origin is involved in obscurity. [79] Note to the Bridal of Caölchairn, by J. H. Allan, Esq. * * * * * ~Garrick Plays.~ No. VII. [From “Fortune by Land and Sea,” a Comedy, by T. Heywood, and W. Rowley, 1655.] _Old Forest forbids his Son to sup with some riotous gallants; who goes notwithstanding, and is slain._ _Scene, a Tavern._ _Rainsworth, Foster, Goodwin. To them enters Frank Forest._ _Rain._ Now, Frank, how stole you from your father’s arms? You have been school’d, no doubt. Fie, fie upon’t. Ere I would live in such base servitude To an old greybeard; ’sfoot, I’d hang myself. A man cannot be merry, and drink drunk, But he must be control’d by gravity. _Frank._ O pardon him; you know, he is my father, And what he doth is but paternal love. Though I be wild, I’m not yet so past reason His person to despise, though I his counsel Cannot severely follow. _Rain._ ’Sfoot, he is a fool. _Frank._ A fool! you are a a-- _Fost._ Nay, gentlemen-- _Frank._ Yet I restrain my tongue. Hoping you speak out of some spleenful rashness, And no deliberate malice; and it may be You are sorry that a word so unreverent, To wrong so good an aged gentleman, Should pass you unawares. _Rain._ Sorry, Sir Boy! you will not take exceptions? _Frank._ Not against you with willingness, whom I Have loved so long. Yet you might think me a Most dutiless and ungracious son to give Smooth countenance unto my father’s wrong. Come, I dare swear ’Twas not your malice, and I take it so. Let’s frame some other talk. Hear, gentlemen-- _Rain._ But hear me, Boy! it seems, Sir, you are angry-- _Frank._ Not thoroughly yet-- _Rain._ Then what would anger thee? _Frank._ Nothing from you. _Rain._ Of all things under heaven What would’st thou loathest have me do? _Frank._ I would Not have you wrong my reverent father; and I hope you will not. _Rain._ Thy father’s an old dotard. _Frank._ I would not brook this at a monarch’s hand, Much less at thine. _Rain._ Aye, Boy? then take you that. _Frank._ Oh I am slain. _Good._ Sweet Cuz, what have you done? Shift for yourself. _Rain._ Away.-- _Exeunt._ _Enter Two Drawers._ _1st Dr._ Stay the gentlemen, they have killed a man. O sweet Mr. Francis. One run to his father’s. _2d Dr._ Hark, hark, I hear his father’s voice below ’tis ten to one he is come to fetch him home to supper and now he may carry him home to his grave.