_Selby._ He dismissed 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 Robin Halford died Some moons before _his_ marriage-bells were rung. Too near dishonor 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.-- Sister, your hand. Your wager won makes me a happy man, Though poorer, Heav'n knows, by a thousand pounds. The sky clears up after a dubious day. Widow, your hand. I read a penitence In this dejected brow; and in this shame Your fault is buried. You shall in with us, And, if it please you, taste our nuptial fare: For, till this moment, I can joyful say, Was never truly Selby's Wedding Day.