(_John is discovered kneeling.--Margaret standing over him_.)

JOHN (_rises_) I cannot bear To see you waste that youth and excellent beauty, ('Tis now the golden time of the day with you,) In tending such a broken wretch as I am.

MARGARET John will break Margaret's heart, if he speak so.

O sir, sir, sir, you are too melancholy, And I must call it caprice. I am somewhat bold Perhaps in this. But you are now my patient, (You know you gave me leave to call you so,) And I must chide these pestilent humours from you.

JOHN They are gone.-- Mark, love, how cheerfully I speak!

I can smile too, and I almost begin To understand what kind of creature Hope is.

MARGARET Now this is better, this mirth becomes you, John.

JOHN Yet tell me, if I over-act my mirth.

(Being but a novice, I may fall into that error,) That were a sad indecency, you know.

MARGARET Nay, never fear.

I will be mistress of your humours, And you shall frown or smile by the book.

And herein I shall be most peremptory, Cry, "this shews well, but that inclines to levity, This frown has too much of the Woodvil in it, But that fine sunshine has redeem'd it quite."

JOHN How sweetly Margaret robs me of myself!

MARGARET To give you in your stead a better self!

Such as you were, when these eyes first beheld You mounted on your sprightly steed, White Margery, Sir Rowland my father's gift, And all my maidens gave my heart for lost.

I was a young thing then, being newly come Home from my convent education, where Seven years I had wasted in the bosom of France: Returning home true protestant, you call'd me Your little heretic nun. How timid-bashful Did John salute his love, being newly seen.

Sir Rowland term'd it a rare modesty, And prais'd it in a youth.

JOHN Now Margaret weeps herself.

(_A noise of bells heard_.)

MARGARET Hark the bells, John.

JOHN Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery.

MARGARET I know it.

JOHN Saint Mary Ottery, my native village In the sweet shire of Devon.

Those are the bells.

MARGARET Wilt go to church, John?

JOHN I have been there already.

MARGARET How canst say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already?

JOHN I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise; And the first object I discern'd Was the glistering spire of St. Mary Ottery.

MARGARET Well, John.

JOHN Then I remember'd 'twas the sabbath-day.

Immediately a wish arose in my mind, To go to church and pray with Christian people.

And then I check'd myself, and said to myself, "Thou hast been a heathen, John, these two years past, (Not having been at church in all that time,) And is it fit, that now for the first time Thou should'st offend the eyes of Christian people With a murderer's presence in the house of prayer?

Thou would'st but discompose their pious thoughts, And do thyself no good: for how could'st thou pray, With unwash'd hands, and lips unus'd to the offices?"

And then I at my own presumption smiled; And then I wept that I should smile at all, Having such cause of grief! I wept outright; Tears like a river flooded all my face, And I began to pray, and found I could pray; And still I yearn'd to say my prayers in the church.

"Doubtless (said I) one might find comfort in it."

So stealing down the stairs, like one that fear'd detection, Or was about to act unlawful business At that dead time of dawn, I flew to the church, and found the doors wide open, (Whether by negligence I knew not, Or some peculiar grace to me vouchsaf'd, For all things felt like mystery).

MARGARET Yes.

JOHN So entering in, not without fear, I past into the family pew, And covering up my eyes for shame, And deep perception of unworthiness, Upon the little ha.s.sock knelt me down, Where I so oft had kneel'd, A docile infant by Sir Walter's side; And, thinking so, I wept a second flood More poignant than the first; But afterwards was greatly comforted.

It seem'd, the guilt of blood was pa.s.sing from me Even in the act and agony of tears, And all my sins forgiven.

THE WITCH

A DRAMATIC SKETCH OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY (1798)

CHARACTERS

_Old Servant in the Family of Sir Francis Pairford. Stranger._

SERVANT One summer night Sir Francis, as it chanced, Was pacing to and fro in the avenue That westward fronts our house, Among those aged oaks, said to have been planted Three hundred years ago By a neighb'ring prior of the Fairford name.

Being o'er-task'd in thought, he heeded not The importunate suit of one who stood by the gate, And begged an alms.

Some say he shoved her rudely from the gate With angry chiding; but I can never think (Our master's nature hath a sweetness in it) That he could use a woman, an old woman, With such discourtesy: but he refused her-- And better had he met a lion in his path Than that old woman that night; For she was one who practised the black arts, And served the devil, being since burnt for witchcraft.

She looked at him as one that meant to blast him, And with a frightful noise, ('Twas partly like a woman's voice, And partly like the hissing of a snake,) She nothing said but this:-- (Sir Francis told the words)

_A mischief, mischief, mischief, And a nine-times-killing curse, By day and by night, to the caitiff wight, Who shakes the poor like snakes from his door, And shuts up the womb of his purse_.

And still she cried