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John Wolcott. 1738-1819. (Manual, p. 370.)
252. THE RAZOR Seller. A fellow in a market town, Most musical, cried razors up and down,
And offered twelve for eighteen pence;
As every man would buy, with cash and sense.
That seemed a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose :
It certainly will be a monstrous prize.”
And quickly soaped himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lathered from a dish or tub,
ust like a hedger cutting furze:
“I wish my eighteen pence within my purse.”
Hodge sought the fellow - found him - and begun: “P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives :
With razors just like oyster knives.
“Friend,” quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave:
As for the razors you have bought,
Upon my soul I never thought That they would shave." “Not think they'd shave !" quoth Hodge, with wondering eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell; “What were they made for then, you dog?” he cries :
“Madel” quoth the fellow, with a smile, -"to SELL.”
RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 1751-1816. (Manual,
FROM " THE SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL."
253. THE OLD HUSBAND AND THE YOUNG WIFE.
Sir Peter Teazle. But here comes my helpmate! She appears in great good humor. How happy I should be if I could tease her into loving me, though but a little!
Enter LADY TEAZLE. Lady Teaz. Lud! Sir Peter, I hope you haven't been quarrelling with Maria? It is not using me well to be ill humored when I am not by.
Sir Pet. Ah, Lady Teazle, you might have the power to make me good humored at all times.
Lady Teaz. I am sure I wish I had; for I want you to be in a charming sweet temper at this moment. Do be good humored now, and let me have two hundred pounds, will you?
Sir Pet. Two hundred pounds; what, a'n't I to be in a good humor without paying for it! But speak to me thus, and i' faith there's nothing I could refuse you. You shall have it; but seal me a bond for the repayment. Lady Teaz. O, no- there - my note of hand will do as well.
[Offering her hand. Sir Pet. And you shall no longer reproach me with not giving you an independent settlement. I mean shortly to surprise you: but shall we always live thus, hey?
Lady Teaz. If you please. I'm sure I don't care how soon we leave off quarrelling, provided you'll own you were tired first.
Sir Pet. Well — then let our future contest be, who shall be most obliging.
Lady Teaz. I assure you, Sir Peter, good nature becomes you. You look now as you did before we were married, when you used to walk with me under the elms, and tell me stories of what a gallant you were in your youth, and chuck me under the chin, you would; and ask me if I thought I could love an old fellow, who would deny me nothing
didn't you? Sir Pet. Yes, yes, and you were as kind and attentive
Lady Teaz. Ay, so I was, and would always take your part, when my acquaintance used to abuse you, and turn you into ridicule.
Sir Pet. Indeed!
Lady Teaz. Ay, and when my cousin Sophy has called you a stiff, peevish old bachelor, and laughed at me for thinking of marrying one who might be my father, I have always defended you, and said, I didn't think you so ugly by any means.
Sir Pet. Thank you,
Lady Teaz. And I dared say you'd make a very good sort of a husband.
Sir Pet. And you prophesied right; and we shall now be the happiest couple
Lady Teaz. And never differ again?
Sir Pet. No, never! – though at the same time, indeed, my dear Lady Teazle, you must watch your temper very seriously; for in all our little quarrels, my dear, if you recollect, my love, you always began first.
Lady Teaz. I beg your pardon, my dear Sir Peter; indeed, you always gave the provocation.
Sir Pet. Now see, my angel! take care — contradicting isn't the way to keep friends.
Lady Teaz. Then don't you begin it, my love!
You don't perceive, my love, that you are just doing the very thing which you know lways makes me angry.
Lady Teaz. Nay, you know if you will be angry without any reason, my dear
Sir Pet. There! now you want to quarrel again.
Lady Teaz. Why, you, to be sure. I said nothing — but there's no bearing your temper.
Sir Pet. No, no, madam; the fault's in your own temper.
Lady Teaz. Ay, you are just what my cousin Sophy said you would be.
Sir Pet. Your cousin Sophy is a forward, impertinent gypsy.
Sir Pet. Now may all the plagues of marriage be doubled on me,
and I was a madman to marry you - a pert, rural coquette, that had refused half the honest squires in the neighborhood. Lady Teaz. And I am sure I was a fool to marry you
an old dangling bachelor, who was single at fifty, only because he never could meet with any one who would have him.
Sir Pet. Ay, ay, madam; but you were pleased enough to listen to me: you never had such an offer before.
Lady Teaz. No! didn't I refuse Sir Tivy Terrier, who everybody said would have been a better match? for his estate is just as good as yours, and he has broke his neck since we have been married.
Sir Pet. I have done with you, madam. You are an unfeeling, ungrateful - but there's an end of everything. I believe you capable of everything that is bad. Yes, madam, I now believe the reports relative to you and Charles, madam. Yes, madan, you and Charles are, not without grounds
Lady Teaz. Take care, Sir Peter! you had better not insinuate any such thing! I'll not be suspected without cause, I promise you.
Sir Pet. Very well, madam! very well! A separate maintenance as soon as you please. Yes, madam, or a divorce! I'll make an example of myself for the benefit of all old bachelors. Let us separate, madam.
Lady Teaz. Agreed! agreed! And now, my dear Sir Peter, we are of a mind once more; we may be the happiest couple, and never differ again, you know; ha! ha! ha! Well, you are going to be in a passion, I see, and I shall only interrupt you — so, bye, bye? [Exit.
Sir Pet. Plagues and tortures! can't I make her angry either! O, I am the most miserable fellow! But I'll not bear her presuming to keep her temper: no! she may break my heart, but she shan't keep her temper. [Exit.
1771-1832. (Manual, pp. 376–395.)
FROM "THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL."
254. DESCRIPTION OF MELROSE ABBEY.
255. LOVE OF COUNTRY. Breathes there a man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land?
From wandering on a foreign strand?