Eustace allowed that she was a very good woman, though he could well spare her putting him to rights, as she called it, quite so often. He fancied, too, he knew some people more agreeable.--Isabel thought when women were young, they always liked to be called handsome, and recollected she often heard her aunt say, that before she had the small-pox, she was thought very comely, and had many lovers. Eustace burst into a loud laugh, and said so many provoking things on the misfortune of old maids being reduced to record their own victories, that his companions protested they would be very angry, and not speak to him till he sung them a song of his own composition, by way of penance. He submitted cheerfully to the punishment, and caroled the following canzonet, as they proceeded in safety to the borders of Yorkshire:-- Once Beauty bade the God of Wit Appease her anger with his songs; Love thought the sacrifice unfit, And cried, "The task to me belongs." Light flow'd the strain of wayward smiles. Of blushes and of tears he sung, Of mournful swains arrang'd in files, And hearts on eye-shot arrows hung. But Beauty frown'd; "This lay from thee! Proud rebel, dost thou break thy chain? Wit may devise a sportive glee, But Love should languish and complain." To whom the God: "When you disguise Your charms with spleen's fantastic shade, Insulted Love to Wit applies, And goes like you in masquerade." [1] Life of Bishop Sanderson. CHAP. X. The noble mind stands a siege against adversity, while the little spirit capitulates at once. Murphy's Tacitus.