mare this morning refused to eat hay; and, truly. I am afraid
she will not carry you.

Der. O, never fear; I will feed her well with oats on the road.
Scrape. Oats! neighbor; oats are very dear.

Der. Never mind that. When I have a good job in view, I never stand for trifles.

Scrape. But it is very slippery; and I am really afraid she I will fall and break your neck.

Der. Give yourself no uneasiness about that. The mare is certainly sure-footed; and, besides, you were just now talking of galloping her to town.

Scrape. Well, then, to tell you the plain truth, though I wish to oblige you with all my heart, my saddle is torn quite in pieces, and I have just sent my bridle to be mended.

Der. Luckily, I have both a bridle and a saddle hanging up

at home.

Scrape. Ah! that may be; but I am never fit my mare.

sure your saddle will

Der. Why, then I'll borrow neighbor Clodpole's.

Scrape. Clodpole's! his will no more fit than yours will.

Der. At the worst, then, I will go to my friend 'Squire Jones. He has half a score of them; and I am sure he will lend me one that will fit her.

Scrape. You know, friend Derby, that no one is more willing to oblige his neighbors than I am. I do assure you the beast should be at your service, with all my heart; but she has not been curried, I believe, for three weeks past. Her foretop and mane want combing and cutting very much. If any one should see her in her present plight, it would ruin the sale of her.

Der. O a horse is soon curried, and my son Sam shall dispatch her at once.

Scrape. Yes, very likely; but I this moment recollect the creature has no shoes on.

Der. Well, is there not a blacksmith hard by?

Scrape. What! that tinker of a Dobson? I would not trusi such a bungler to shoe a goat! No, no, none but uncle Town Thumper is capable of shoeing my mare.

Der. As good luck would have it, then, I shall pass righ by his door.

Scrape. (Calling off, L.) Timothy! Timothy!

Enter TIMOTHY, L.

Here's neighbor Derby, who wants the loan of the gray ma

to

ride to town to-day. You know the skin was rubbed off her back

MONEY MAKES THE MARE GO.

245

last week a hand's breadth or more. (He gives TIM a wink.) However, I believe she is well enough by this time. (TIM shakes his head.) You know, Tim, how ready I am to oblige my neighbors. And, indeed, we ought to do all the good we can in this world. We must certainly let neighbor Derby have her, if she will possibly answer his purpose. Yes, yes; I see plainly, by Tim's countenance, neighbor Derby, that he's disposed to oblige you. I would not have refused you the mare for the worth of her. If I had, I should have expected you would have refused your turn. None of my neighbors can accuse me of being backward in doing them a kindness. Come, Timothy, what do you say?

me in

Timothy. (L.) What do I say, father? Why, I say, sir, that I am no less ready than you are to do a neighborly kindness. But the mare is too used-up to make the journey to town to-day. About a hand's breadth, did you say, sir? Why, the skin is torn from the poor creature's back of the bigness of your broadbrimmed hat! And, besides, I have promised her, as soon as she is able to travel, to Ned Saunders, to carry a load of apples to the market.

Scrape. (C.) Do you hear that, neighbor? I am very sorry matters turn out thus. I would not have disobliged you for the price of two such mares. Believe me, neighbor Derby, I am really sorry, for your sake, that matters turn out thus.

Der. (R.) And I as much for yours, neighbor Scrapewell; for, to tell you the truth, I received a letter this morning from old Griffin, who tells me, if I will be in town this day, he will give me the refusal of all that lot of timber which he is about cutting down upon the back of Cobblehill; and I intended you should have shared half of it, which would have been not less than fifty dollars in your pocket. But, as your

go

Scrape. Fifty dollars, did you say?

Der. Ay, truly did I; but, as your mare is out of order, I'll and see if I can get old Roan, the blacksmith's horse.

Scrape. Old Roan! My mare is at your service, neighbor. Here, Tim, tell Ned Saunders he can't have the mare. Neighbor Derby wants her; and I won't refuse so good a friend any thing he asks for.

Der. But what are you to do for meal?

Scrape. My wife can do without it this fortnight, if you want the mare so long.

Der. But, then, your saddle is all in pieces.

Scrape. I meant the old one. I have bought a new one since, and you shall have the first use of it.

Der. And you would have me call at Thumper's, and get her shod?

Scrape. No, no! I had forgotten to tell you that I let neighbor Dobson shoe her last week, by way of trial; and, to do him justice, I must own he shoes extremely well.

Der. But, if the poor creature has lost so much skin from off her back

Scrape. Poh, poh! That is just one of our Tim's large stories. I do assure you it was not at first bigger than my thumb-nail; and I am certain it has not grown any since.

Der. At least, however, let her have something she will eat, since she refuses hay.

Scrape. She did, indeed, refuse hay this morning; but the only reason was, that she was crammed full of oats. You have nothing to fear, neighbor; the mare is in perfect trim; and she will skim you over the ground like a bird. I wish you a good journey and a profitable job. Come, come along to the barn. This way, neighbor, this way! (He pulls DERBY off, L., and TIM follows.)

BERQUIN.

XXI. - HOTSPUR AND GLENDOWER.

Enter GLENDOWER, R., PERCY, L.

Glendower. Hail, good cousin Percy! hail, good cousin
Hotspur !-

For, by that name, as oft as Lancaster

Doth speak of you, his cheeks look pale, and, with

A rising sigh, he wisheth you in heaven.

Hotspur. And you— in the other place, as often as he hears

Owen Glendower spoken of.

Glen. I can not blame him.

At my nativity

The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes,

Of burning cressets; and at my birth

The frame and huge foundation of the earth
Shaked like a coward.

Hot. Why, so it would have done

At the same season if your mother's cat

Had but kittened, though yourself had never been born.
Glen. I say, the earth did shake when I was born.
Hot. And I say, the earth was not of my mind,

If you suppose as fearing you it shook.

Glen. The heavens were all on fire; the earth did tremble.
Hot. O then the earth shook to see the heavens on fire,

HOTSPUR AND GLENDOWER.

And not in fear of your nativity.

Diseased nature oftentimes breaks forth
In strange eruptions; oft the teeming earth
Is with a kind of colic pinched and vexed
By the imprisonment of unruly wind
Within her held, which, for enlargement striving,
Shakes the old beldamed earth, and topples down
Steeples and moss-grown towers. At your birth,
Our grandam earth, having this distemperature,
In passion shook.

Glen. Cousin, of many men I do not bear these crossings.

Give me leave
To tell you once again, that at my birth
The front of heaven was full of fiery shapes;
The goats ran from the mountains, and the herds
Were strangely clamorous in the frighted fields.
These signs have marked me extraordinary,
And all the courses of my life do show
I am not in the roll of common men.

Where is he living, - clipped in with the sea

That chides the banks of England, Wales, or Scotland, –
Who calls me pupil, or hath read to me?

And bring him out that is but woman's son
Can trace me in the tedious ways of art,

Or hold me pace in deep experiments.

Hot. I think there is no man speaks better Welsh.
Glen. I can speak English, lord, as well as you;

For I was trained up in the English court,

Where, being but young, I framed to the harp

Many an English ditty, lovely well,

And gave the tongue a helpful ornament,

A virtue that was never seen in you.

Hot. Marry, and I'm glad of it, with all my heart.

I had rather be a kitten, and cry mew!

Than one of those same meter ballad-mongers;

I'd rather hear a brazen candlestick turned,

Or a dry wheel grate on an axle-tree;
And that would set my teeth nothing on edge,
Nothing so much as mincing poetry.

'Tis like the forced gate of a shuffling nag!

247

Glen. (Crosses to L.) I can call spirits from the vasty deep. Hot. (Crosses to R.) Why, so can I, or so can any man :

But will they come, when you do call for them?

Glen. Why, I can teach you to command the devil.

Hot. And I can teach thee, coz, to shame the devil
By telling truth: Tell truth and shame the devil.
If thou have power to raise him, bring him hither,
And I'll be sworn I have power to shame him hence.
O! while you live, Tell truth, and shame the devil.
Glen. Čome, come! (Crosses to R.)
No more of this unprofitable chat.

(Exit, R.)

Hot. No more, and welcome, Owen Glendower! (Laughing.) He can "call spirits from the vasty deep!" I'd like to see him do it. I tell you what,

He held me last night at the least nine hours

In reckoning up the several devils' names

That were his lackeys: I cried "humph," and "well, go to,"
But marked him not a word. O! he's as tedious
As is a tired horse, a railing wife;

Worse than a smoky house; I had rather live
With cheese and garlic, in a windmill, far,
Than feed on cates, and have him talk to me,
In any summer-house in Christendom!

(Exit, L.)

SHAKSPEARE (altered).

XXII. — DAVID AND GOLIAH.

Enter GOLIAII, L.

Goliah. Where is the mighty man of war, who dares
Accept the challenge of Philistia's chief?

What victor-king, what general drenched in blood,
Claims this high privilege? What are his rights?
What proud credentials does the boaster bring
To prove his claim? What cities laid in ashes,
What ruined provinces, what slaughtered realms,
What heads of heroes, or what hearts of kings,
In battle killed, or at his altars slain,

Has he to boast? Is his bright armory

Thick set with spears, and swords, and coats of mail,
Of vanquished nations, by his single arm

Subdued? Where is the mortal man so bold,

So much a wretch, so out of love with life,

To dare the weight of this uplifted spear? Come, advance! Philistia's gods to Israel's! Sound, my herald,

Sound for the battle straight!

Enter DAVID, R.

David. Behold thy foe!

Gol. I see him not.