_Crab._ Well, for my part, I believe there never was a scandalous tale without some foundation. _Lady Sneer._ Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards in the next room? _Enter_ Servant, _who whispers_ Sir Peter. _Sir Pet._ I'll be with them directly.--[_Exit_ SERVANT.] I'll get away unperceived. [_Aside._ _Lady Sneer._ Sir Peter, you are not going to leave us? _Sir Pet._ Your ladyship must excuse me; I'm called away by particular business. But I leave my character behind me. [_Exit._ _Sir Ben._ Well--certainly, Lady Teazle, that lord of yours is a strange being: I could tell you some stories of him would make you laugh heartily if he were not your husband. _Lady Teaz._ Oh, pray, don't mind that; come, do let's hear them. [_Exeunt all but_ JOSEPH SURFACE _and_ MARIA. _Jos. Surf._ Maria, I see you have no satisfaction in this society. _Mar._ How is it possible I should? If to raise malicious smiles at the infirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured us be the province of wit or humor, Heaven grant me a double portion of dulness! _Jos. Surf._ Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are; they have no malice at heart. _Mar._ Then is their conduct still more contemptible; for, in my opinion, nothing could excuse the intemperance of their tongues but a natural and uncontrollable bitterness of mind. FOOTNOTES: [G] For the sake of brevity a part of the first scene has been excised. It subsequently appears that Lady Teazle abandons the society of the scandal-mongers, and she and her fond but somewhat irascible husband become happily reconciled. * * * * * _Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us To see oursel's as others see us! It wad frae monie a blunder free us And foolish notion: What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, And e'en devotion!_ ROBERT BURNS. XXVIII. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.[H] ROBERT BURNS.--1759-1796. Let not Ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor. GRAY. My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend! No mercenary bard his homage pays; With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,-- My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise: To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; What Aiken in a cottage would have been; Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.