sadness clouded her brow—her eyes were fixed upon the ground, and she now and then uttered a half-repressed sigh. At this juncture, the jolly-looking warder struck up a Bacchanalian stave, the words of which ran as follows:— With my back to the fire and my paunch to the table, Let me eat,—let me drink as long as I am able: Let me eat,—let me drink whate’er I set my whims on, Until my nose is blue, and my jolly visage crimson. The doctor preaches abstinence, and threatens me with dropsy, But such advice, I needn’t say, from drinking never stops ye:— The man who likes good liquor is of nature brisk and brave, boys, So drink away!—drink while you may!— There’s no drinking in the grave, boys! “Well sung, my roystering Pibald,” cried Magog, striding up to him, and delivering him a sounding blow on the back—“thou art ever merry, and hast the most melodious voice and the lustiest lungs of any man within the Tower.” “And thou hast the heaviest hand I ever felt on my shoulder, gigantic Magog,” replied Ribald; “so we are even. But come, pledge me in a brimmer, and we will toss off a lusty measure to the health of our sovereign lady, Queen Jane. What say you, Master Trusbut?—and you, good Hairun—and you, most melancholic Mauger, a cup of claret will bring the colour to your cheeks. A pot of wine, good dame, to drink the Queen’s health in. But whom have we yonder? Is that gallant thy companion, redoubted Magog?” The giant nodded an affirmative. “By my faith he is a well-looking youth,” said Ribald—“but he seems to have eyes for no one excepting fair Mistress Cicely.” 0055