MRS. FRAMPTON I like not this beginning-- SELBY Pray you, attend. "The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps, And took the youthful pleasures from his days, And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow, That from a rose-cheek'd boy he waned and waned To a pale skeleton of what he was; And would have died, but for one lucky chance." KATHERINE Oh! MRS. FRAMPTON Your wife--she faints--some cordial--smell to this. SELBY Stand off. My sister best will do that office. MRS. FRAMPTON Are all his tempting speeches come to this? [_Aside_.] SELBY What ail'd my wife? KATHERINE A warning faintness, sir, Seized on my spirits, when you came to where You said "a lucky chance." I am better now, Please you go on. SELBY The sequel shall be brief. KATHERINE But brief or long, I feel my fate hangs on it. [_Aside_.] SELBY "One morn the Caliph, in a covert hid, Close by an arbour where the two boys talk'd (As oft, we read, that Eastern sovereigns Would play the eaves-dropper, to learn the truth, Imperfectly received from mouths of slaves,) O'erheard their dialogue; and heard enough To judge aright the cause, and know his cue. The following day a Cadi was dispatched To summon both before the judgment-seat: The lickerish culprit, almost dead with fear, And the informing friend, who readily, Fired with fair promises of large reward, And Caliph's love, the hateful truth disclosed." MRS. FRAMPTON What did the Caliph to the offending boy, That had so grossly err'd? SELBY His sceptred hand He forth in token of forgiveness stretch'd, And clapp'd his cheeks, and courted him with gifts, And he became once more his favourite page. MRS. FRAMPTON But for that other-- SELBY He dismiss'd him straight, From dreams of grandeur and of Caliph's love, To the bare cottage on the withering moor, Where friends, turn'd fiends, and hollow confidants, And widows, hide, who, in a husband's ear, Pour baneful truths, but tell not all the truth; And told him not that Robert Halford died Some moons before _his_ marriage-bells were rung. Too near dishonour hast thou trod, dear wife, And on a dangerous cast our fates were set; But Heav'n, that will'd our wedlock to be blest, Hath interposed to save it gracious too. Your penance is--to dress your cheek in smiles, And to be once again my merry Kate.--