upon the face of the earth, all things considered, than myself. Never was man freer from jealousy, or more careful to step aside at the time of visit: for I was ever against the spoiling of sport, when I could make none myself. I confess I was not so charitable to the poor as I might have been; the truth of’t is, I watched them as a cat would do a mouse, for I did not love them. But then in requital, I could have out-snorted the Seven Sleepers, when any of the better sort came to have a word in private with my wife. The short on’t is, we agreed blessedly well together, she and I; for I did whatever she would have me; and she would say a thousand and a thousand times ‘Long live my poor Diego, the best conditioned, the most complaisant husband in the world; whatever I do is well done, and he never so much as opens his mouth good or bad.’ But by her leave that was little to my credit, and the jade when she said it was beside the cushion. For many and many a time have I said ‘This is well,’ and ‘That’s ill.’ When there came any poets to our house, fiddlers or morrice-dancers, I would say, ‘This is not well.’ But when the rich merchants came ‘Oh, very good,’ would I say, ‘this is as well as well can be.’ Sometimes we had the hap to be visited by some penniless courtier, or low-country officer perchance; then should I take her aside, and rattle her to some tune: ‘Sweetheart,’ would I say, ‘pray’e what ha’ we to do with these frippery fellows and damme boys. Shake them off, I’d advise ye, and take this for a warning.’ But when any came that had to do with the mint or exchequer, and spent freely (for lightly come, lightly go), ‘I marry, my dear,’ quoth I, ‘there’s nothing to be lost by keeping such company.’ And what hurt in all this now? Nay, on the contrary, my poor wife enjoyed herself happily under the protection of my shadow, and being a _femme couverte_, not an officer durst come near her. Why should then this buffoon of a poetaster make me still the ridiculous entertainment of all his interludes and farces, and the fool in the play?” “By your favour,” quoth I, “we are not yet upon even terms; and before we part, you shall know what ’tis to provoke a poet. If thou wert but now alive, I’d write thee to death, as Archilocus did Lycambes. And I’m resolved to put the history of thy life in a satire, as sharp as vinegar, and give it the name of The Life and Death of Don Diego Moreno.” “It shall go hard,” quoth he, “but I’ll prevent that,” and so we fell to’t again, hand and foot, till at length the very fancy of a scuffle waked me, and I found myself as weary, as if it had been a real combat. I began then to reflect upon the particulars of my dream, and to consider what advantage I might draw from it: for the dead are past fooling, and those are the soundest counsels which we receive from such as advise us without either passion or interest. * * * * * THE END OF THE SECOND VISION