GRIZZLE, HUNCAMUNCA. _Griz_. Where has my Huncamunca been? See here. The licence in my hand! _Hunc_. Alas! Tom Thumb. _Griz_. Why dost thou mention him? _Hunc_. Ah, me! Tom Thumb. _Griz_. What means my lovely Huncamunca? _Hunc_. Hum! _Griz_. Oh! speak. _Hunc_. Hum! _Griz_. Ha! your every word is hum: [1] You force me still to answer you, Tom Thumb. Tom Thumb--I'm on the rack--I'm in a flame. [2]Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb, Tom Thumb--you love the name; So pleasing is that sound, that were you dumb, You still would find a voice to cry Tom Thumb. [Footnote 1: Your every answer still so ends in that, You force me still to answer you Morat. --_Aurengzebe_. ] [Footnote 2: Morat, Morat, Morat! you love the name.--_Aurengzebe_.] _Hunc_. Oh! be not hasty to proclaim my doom! My ample heart for more than one has room: A maid like me Heaven form'd at least for two. [1]I married him, and now I'll marry you. [Footnote 1: "Here is a sentiment for the virtuous Huncamunca!" says Mr D----s. And yet, with the leave of this great man, the virtuous Panthea, in Cyrus, hath an heart every whit as ample: For two I must confess are gods to me, Which is my Abradatus first, and thee.--_Cyrus the Great_. Nor is the lady in Love Triumphant more reserved, though not so intelligible: I am so divided, That I grieve most for both, and love both most. ] _Griz_. Ha! dost thou own thy falsehood to my face? Think'st thou that I will share thy husband's place? Since to that office one cannot suffice, And since you scorn to dine one single dish on, Go, get your husband put into commission. Commissioners to discharge (ye gods! it fine is) The duty of a husband to your highness. Yet think not long I will my rival bear, Or unrevenged the slighted willow wear; The gloomy, brooding tempest, now confined Within the hollow caverns of my mind, In dreadful whirl shall roll along the coasts, Shall thin the land of all the men it boasts, [1] And cram up ev'ry chink of hell with ghosts. [2] So have I seen, in some dark winter's day, A sudden storm rush down the sky's highway, Sweep through the streets with terrible ding-dong, Gush through the spouts, and wash whole crouds along. The crouded shops the thronging vermin skreen, Together cram the dirty and the clean, And not one shoe-boy in the street is seen. [Footnote 1: A ridiculous supposition to any one who considers the great and extensive largeness of hell, says a commentator; but not so to those who consider the great expansion of immaterial substance. Mr Banks makes one soul to be so expanded, that heaven could not contain it: The heavens are all too narrow for her soul. --_Virtue Betrayed_. The Persian Princess hath a passage not unlike the author of this: We will send such shoals of murder'd slaves, Shall glut hell's empty regions.