expect? 'Tis now six months since Lady Teazle made me the happiest of
men--and I have been the most miserable dog ever since. We tiffed a
little going to church, and fairly quarrelled before the bells had done
ringing. I was more than once nearly choked with gall during the
honeymoon, and had lost all comfort in life before my friends had done
wishing me joy. Yet I chose with caution--a girl bred wholly in the
country, who never knew luxury beyond one silk gown, nor dissipation
above the annual gala of a race ball. Yet she now plays her part in all
the extravagant fopperies of fashion and the town with as ready a grace
as if she never had seen a bush or a grass-plot out of Grosvenor Square!
I am sneered at by all my acquaintance, and paragraphed in the
newspapers. She dissipates my fortune, and contradicts all my humors;
yet the worst of it is, I doubt I love her, or I should never bear all
this. However, I'll never be weak enough to own it. But I meet with
nothing but crosses and vexations--and the fault is entirely hers. I am,
myself, the sweetest-tempered man alive, and hate a teasing temper; and
so I tell her a hundred times a day.--Ay! and what is very
extraordinary, in all our disputes she is always in the wrong. But Lady
Sneerwell, and the set she meets at her house, encourage the
perverseness of her disposition. Then, to complete my vexation, Maria,
my ward, whom I ought to have the power of a father over, is determined
to turn rebel too, and absolutely refuses the man whom I have long
resolved on for her husband--
_Enter_ LADY TEAZLE.
Lady Teazle, Lady Teazle, I'll not bear it!
_Lady Teaz._ Sir Peter, Sir Peter, you may bear it or not, as you
please; but I ought to have my own way in everything, and, what's more,
I will too. What! though I was educated in the country, I know very well
that women of fashion in London are accountable to nobody after they are
married.
_Sir Pet._ Very well, ma'am, very well; so a husband is to have no
influence, no authority?
_Lady Teaz._ Authority! No, to be sure. If you wanted authority over me,
you should have adopted me, and not married me: I am sure you were old
enough.
_Sir Pet._ Old enough!--ay, there it is. Well, well, Lady Teazle, though
my life may be made unhappy by your temper, I'll not be ruined by your
extravagance!
_Lady Teaz._ My extravagance! I'm sure I'm not more extravagant than a
woman of fashion ought to be.
_Sir Pet._ No, no, madam, you shall throw away no more sums on such
unmeaning luxury. Such wastefulness! to spend as much to furnish your
dressing-room with flowers in winter as would suffice to turn the
Pantheon into a greenhouse, and give a _fete champetre_ at Christmas.
_Lady Teaz._ And am I to blame, Sir Peter, because flowers are dear in
cold weather? You should find fault with the climate, and not with me.
For my part, I'm sure I wish it was spring all the year round, and that
roses grew under our feet.
_Sir Pet._ Oons! madam--if you had been born to this, I shouldn't wonder
at your talking thus; but you forget what your situation was when I
married you.
_Lady Teaz._ No, no, I don't; 'twas a very disagreeable one, or I should
never have married you.
_Sir Pet._ Yes, yes, madam, you were then in somewhat a humbler
style--the daughter of a plain country squire. Recollect, Lady Teazle,
when I saw you first sitting at your tambour, in a pretty figured linen
gown, with a bunch of keys at your side, your hair combed smooth over a
roll, and your apartment hung round with fruits in worsted, of your own
working.
_Lady Teaz._ Oh, yes! I remember it very well, and a curious life I led.
My daily occupation--to inspect the dairy, superintend the poultry, make
extracts from the family receipt-book, and comb my aunt Deborah's
lap-dog.
_Sir Pet._ Yes, yes, ma'am, 'twas so indeed.
_Lady Teaz._ And then you know my evening amusements! To draw patterns
for ruffles, which I had not materials to make up; to play Pope Joan
with the curate; to read a sermon to my aunt; or to be stuck down to an
old spinet to strum my father to sleep after a fox-chase.
_Sir Pet._ I am glad you have so good a memory. Yes, madam, these were
the recreations I took you from; but now you must have your
coach--_vis-a-vis_--and three powdered footmen before your chair; and,
in the summer, a pair of white cats to draw you to Kensington Gardens.
No recollection, I suppose, when you were content to ride double, behind
the butler, on a docked coach-horse.
_Lady Teaz._ No--I vow I never did that: I deny the butler and the
coach-horse.
_Sir Pet._ This, madam, was your situation; and what have I done for
you? I have made you a woman of fashion, of fortune, of rank--in short,
I have made you my wife.
_Lady Teaz._ Well, then, and there is but one thing more you can make me
to add to the obligation, that is----
_Sir Pet._ My widow, I suppose?
_Lady Teaz._ Hem! hem!
_Sir Pet._ I thank you, madam--but don't flatter yourself; for, though
your ill conduct may disturb my peace of mind, it shall never break my
heart, I promise you: however, I am equally obliged to you for the hint.
_Lady Teaz._ Then why will you endeavor to make yourself so disagreeable
to me, and thwart me in every little elegant expense?
_Sir Pet._ Madam, I say, had you any of these little elegant expenses
when you married me?
_Lady Teaz._ Sir Peter! would you have me be out of the fashion?
_Sir Pet._ The fashion, indeed! what had you to do with the fashion
before you married me?
_Lady Teaz._ For my part, I should think you would like to have your
wife thought a woman of taste.
_Sir Pet._ Ay--there again--taste! Zounds! madam, you had no taste when
you married me!
_Lady Teaz._ That's very true, indeed, Sir Peter! and after having
married you, I should never pretend to taste again, I allow. But now,
Sir Peter, since we have finished our daily jangle, I presume I may go
to my engagement at Lady Sneerwell's.
_Sir Pet._ Ay, there's another precious circumstance--a charming set of
acquaintances you have made there!
_Lady Teaz._ Nay, Sir Peter, they are all people of rank and fortune,
and remarkably tenacious of reputation.
_Sir Pet._ Yes, they are tenacious of reputation with a vengeance; for
they don't choose anybody should have a character but themselves! Such a
crew! Ah! many a wretch has rid on a hurdle who has done less mischief
than these utterers of forged tales; coiners of scandal, and clippers of
reputation.
_Lady Teaz._ What, would you restrain the freedom of speech?
_Sir Pet._ Ah! they have made you just as bad as any one of the society.
_Lady Teaz._ Why, I believe I do bear a part with a tolerable grace.
_Sir Pet._ Grace, indeed!
_Lady Teaz._ But I vow I bear no malice against the people I abuse; when
I say an ill-natured thing, 'tis out of pure good humor; and I take it
for granted they deal exactly in the same manner with me. But, Sir
Peter, you know you promised to come to Lady Sneerwell's too.
_Sir Pet._ Well, well, I'll call in, just to look after my own
character.
_Lady Teaz._ Then, indeed, you must make haste after me, or you'll be
too late. So good-bye to ye. [_Exit._
_Sir Pet._ So--I have gained much by my intended expostulation! Yet with
what a charming air she contradicts everything I say; and how pleasantly
she shows her contempt for my authority! Well, though I can't make her
love me; there is great satisfaction in quarrelling with her; and I
think she never appears to such advantage as when she is doing
everything in her power to plague me. [_Exit_.
SCENE.--_A room in_ LADY SNEERWELL'S _House._
LADY SNEERWELL, MRS. CANDOUR, CRABTREE, SIR BENJAMIN BACKBITE, _and_
JOSEPH SURFACE, _discovered_.
_Enter_ LADY TEAZLE _and_ MARIA.
_Lady Sneer._ Lady Teazle, I hope we shall see Sir Peter?
_Lady Teaz._ I believe he'll wait on your ladyship presently.
_Lady Sneer._ Maria, my love, you look grave. Come, you shall sit down
to piquet with Mr. Surface.
_Mar._ I take very little pleasure in cards--however, I'll do as your
ladyship pleases.
_Mrs. Can._ Now I'll die; but you are so scandalous, I'll forswear your
society.
_Lady Teaz._ What's the matter, Mrs. Candour?
_Mrs. Can._ They'll not allow our friend Miss Vermillion to be handsome.
_Lady Sneer._ Oh, surely she is a pretty woman.
_Crab._ I am very glad you think so, ma'am.
_Mrs. Can._ She has a charming fresh color.
_Lady Teaz._ Yes, when it is fresh put on.
_Mrs. Can._ Oh, fie! Her color is natural: I have seen it come and go!
_Lady Teaz._ I dare say you have, ma'am: it goes off at night, and comes
again in the morning.
_Sir Ben._ True, ma'am, it not only comes and goes; but, what's more,
her maid can fetch and carry it!
_Mrs. Can._ Ha! ha! ha! how I hate to hear you talk so! But surely now,
her sister is, or was, very handsome.
_Crab._ Who? Mrs. Evergreen? Oh! she's six-and-fifty if she's an hour!
_Mrs. Can._ Now positively you wrong her; fifty-two or fifty-three is
the utmost--and I don't think she looks more.
_Sir Ben._ Ah! there's no judging by her looks, unless one could see her
face.
_Lady Sneer._ Well, well, if Mrs. Evergreen does take some pains to
repair the ravages of time, you must allow she effects it with great
ingenuity; and surely that's better than the careless manner in which
the widow Ochre caulks her wrinkles.
_Sir Ben._ Nay, now, Lady Sneerwell, you are severe upon the widow.
Come, come, 'tis not that she paints so ill--but, when she has finished
her face, she joins it on so badly to her neck, that she looks like a
mended statue, in which the connoisseur may see at once that the head is
modern, though the trunk's antique.
_Crab._ Ha! ha! ha! Well said, nephew!
_Mrs. Can._ Ha! ha! ha! Well, you make me laugh; but I vow I hate you
for it. What do you think of Miss Simper?
_Sir Ben._ Why, she has very pretty teeth.
_Lady Teaz._ Yes, and on that account, when she is neither speaking nor
laughing (which very seldom happens), she never absolutely shuts her
mouth, but leaves it always on a-jar, as it were--thus.
[_Shows her teeth._
_Mrs. Can._ How can you be so ill-natured?
_Lady Teaz._ Nay, I allow even that's better than the pains Mrs. Prim
takes to conceal her losses in front. She draws her mouth till it
positively resembles the aperture of a poor's-box, and all her words
appear to slide out edgewise as it were--thus: _How do you do, madam?
Yes, madam._ [_Mimics._
_Lady Sneer._ Very well, Lady Teazle; I see you can be a little severe.
_Lady Teaz._ In defence of a friend it is but justice. But here comes
Sir Peter to spoil our pleasantry.
_Enter_ SIR PETER TEAZLE.
_Sir Pet._ Ladies, your most obedient.--[_Aside,_] Mercy on me, here is
the whole set! a character dead at every word, I suppose.
_Mrs. Can._ I am rejoiced you are come, Sir Peter. They have been so
censorious--and Lady Teazle as bad as any one.
_Sir Pet._ That must be very distressing to you, indeed, Mrs. Candour.
_Mrs. Can._ Oh, they will allow good qualities to nobody: not even good
nature to our friend Mrs. Pursy.
_Lady Teaz._ What, the fat dowager who was at Mrs. Quadrille's last
night?
_Mrs. Can._ Nay, her bulk is her misfortune; and, when she takes so much
pains to get rid of it, you ought not to reflect on her.
_Lady Sneer._ That's very true, indeed.
_Lady Teaz._ Yes, I know she almost lives on acids and small whey; laces
herself by pulleys; and often, in the hottest noon in summer, you may
see her on a little squat pony, with her hair plaited up behind like a
drummer's, and puffing round the ring on a full trot.
_Mrs. Can._ I thank you, Lady Teazle, for defending her.
_Sir Pet._ Yes, a good defence, truly.
_Mrs. Can._ Truly, Lady Teazle is as censorious as Miss Sallow.
_Crab._ Yes, and she is a curious being to pretend to be censorious--an
awkward thing, without any one good point under the sun.
_Mrs. Can._ Positively you shall not be so very severe. Miss Sallow is a
near relation of mine by marriage, and, as for her person, great
allowance is to be made; for, let me tell you, a woman labors under many
disadvantages who tries to pass for a girl of six-and-thirty.
_Lady Sneer._ Though, surely, she is handsome still--and for the
weakness in her eyes, considering how much she reads by candlelight, it
is not to be wondered at.
_Mrs. Can._ True, and then as to her manner; upon my word I think it is
particularly graceful, considering she never had the least education;
for you know her mother was a Welsh milliner, and her father a
sugar-baker at Bristol.
_Sir Ben._ Ah! you are both of you too good-natured!
_Sir Pet._ Yes, distressingly good-natured! This their own relation!
Mercy on me! [_Aside._
_Mrs. Can._ For my part, I own I cannot bear to hear a friend ill-spoken
of.
_Sir Pet._ No, to be sure!
_Sir Ben._ Oh! you are of a moral turn. Mrs. Candour and I can sit for
an hour and hear Lady Stucco talk sentiment.
_Lady Teas._ Nay, I vow Lady Stucco is very well with the dessert after
dinner; for she's just like the French fruit one cracks for
mottoes--made up of paint and proverb.
_Mrs. Can._ Well, I will never join in ridiculing a friend; and so I
constantly tell my cousin Ogle, and you all know what pretensions she
has to be critical on beauty.
_Crab._ Oh, to be sure! she has herself the oddest countenance that ever
was seen; 'tis a collection of features from all the different countries
of the globe.
_Sir Ben._ So she has, indeed--an Irish front----
_Crab._ Caledonian locks----
_Sir Ben._ Dutch nose----
_Crab._ Austrian lips----
_Sir Ben._ Complexion of a Spaniard----
_Crab._ And teeth _a la Chinoise_.
_Sir Ben._ In short, her face resembles a _table d'hote_ at Spa--where
no two guests are of a nation----
_Crab._ Or a congress at the close of a general war--wherein all the
members, even to her eyes, appear to have a different interest, and her
nose and chin are the only parties likely to join issue.
_Mrs. Can._ Ha! ha! ha!
_Sir Pet._ Mercy on my life!--a person they dine with twice a
week! [_Aside._
_Mrs. Can._ Nay, but I vow you shall not carry the laugh off so--for
give me leave to say that Mrs. Ogle----
_Sir Pet._ Madam, madam, I beg your pardon--there's no stopping these
good gentlemen's tongues. But when I tell you, Mrs. Candour, that the
lady they are abusing is a particular friend of mine, I hope you'll not
take her part.
_Lady Sneer._ Ha! ha! ha! well said, Sir Peter! but you are a cruel
creature--too phlegmatic yourself for a jest, and too peevish to allow
wit in others.
_Sir Pet._ Ah, madam, true wit is more nearly allied to good nature than
your ladyship is aware of.
_Lady Teas._ True, Sir Peter; I believe they are so near akin that they
can never be united.
_Sir Ben._ Or rather, suppose them man and wife, because one seldom sees
them together.
_Lady Teaz._ But Sir Peter is such an enemy to scandal, I believe he
would have it put down by parliament.
_Sir Pet._ Positively, madam, if they were to consider the sporting with
reputation of as much importance as poaching on manors, and pass an act
for the preservation of fame, as well as game, I believe many would
thank them for the bill.
_Lady Sneer._ Why! Sir Peter; would you deprive us of our privileges?
_Sir Pet._ Ay, madam; and then no person should be permitted to kill
characters and run down reputations but qualified old maids and
disappointed widows.
_Lady Sneer._ Go, you monster!
_Mrs. Can._ But, surely, you would not be quite so severe on those who
only report what they hear?
_Sir Pet._ Yes, madam, I would have law merchant for them too; and in
all cases of slander currency, whenever the drawer of the lie was not to
be found, the injured parties should have a right to come on any of the
indorsers.
_Crab._ Well, for my part, I believe there never was a scandalous tale
without some foundation.
_Lady Sneer._ Come, ladies, shall we sit down to cards in the next room?
_Enter_ Servant, _who whispers_ Sir Peter.
_Sir Pet._ I'll be with them directly.--[_Exit_ SERVANT.] I'll get away
unperceived. [_Aside._
_Lady Sneer._ Sir Peter, you are not going to leave us?
_Sir Pet._ Your ladyship must excuse me; I'm called away by particular
business. But I leave my character behind me. [_Exit._
_Sir Ben._ Well--certainly, Lady Teazle, that lord of yours is a strange
being: I could tell you some stories of him would make you laugh
heartily if he were not your husband.
_Lady Teaz._ Oh, pray, don't mind that; come, do let's hear
them. [_Exeunt all but_ JOSEPH SURFACE _and_ MARIA.
_Jos. Surf._ Maria, I see you have no satisfaction in this society.
_Mar._ How is it possible I should? If to raise malicious smiles at the
infirmities or misfortunes of those who have never injured us be the
province of wit or humor, Heaven grant me a double portion of dulness!
_Jos. Surf._ Yet they appear more ill-natured than they are; they have
no malice at heart.
_Mar._ Then is their conduct still more contemptible; for, in my
opinion, nothing could excuse the intemperance of their tongues but a
natural and uncontrollable bitterness of mind.
FOOTNOTES:
[G] For the sake of brevity a part of the first scene has been
excised. It subsequently appears that Lady Teazle abandons the
society of the scandal-mongers, and she and her fond but somewhat
irascible husband become happily reconciled.
* * * * *
_Oh, wad some power the giftie gie us
To see oursel's as others see us!
It wad frae monie a blunder free us
And foolish notion:
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us,
And e'en devotion!_
ROBERT BURNS.
XXVIII. THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.[H]
ROBERT BURNS.--1759-1796.
Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,
Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;
Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smile
The short and simple annals of the poor.
GRAY.
My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected friend!
No mercenary bard his homage pays;
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end,--
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays,
The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene;
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;
What Aiken in a cottage would have been;
Ah! though his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween.
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;[1]
The short'ning winter-day is near a close;
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh;
The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose:
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes--
This night his weekly moil is at an end,--
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes,
Hoping the morn[2] in ease and rest to spend,
And, weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,
Beneath the shelter of an aged tree;
The expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher[3] through,
To meet their dad, wi' flichterin[4] noise an' glee.
His wee bit ingle,[5] blinkin bonnily,
His clean hearth-stane, his thriftie wifie's smile,
The lisping infant prattling on his knee,
Does a' his weary carking cares beguile,
An' makes him quite forget his labor an' his toil.
Belyve,[6] the elder bairns come drapping in,
At service out, amang the farmers roun';
Some ca'[7] the pleugh, some herd, some tentie[8] rin
A canny[9] errand to a neebor town:
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,
In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,
Comes hame, perhaps, to show a braw[10] new gown,
Or deposite[11] her sair-won[12] penny-fee,[13]
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
Wi' joy unfeign'd, brothers and sisters meet
And each for other's welfare kindly spiers:[14]
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnoticed fleet;
Each tells the uncos[15] that he sees or hears;
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;
Anticipation forward points the view.
The mother, wi' her needle an' her shears,
Gars[16] auld claes look amaist as weel's the new;
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due.
Their master's an' their mistress's command
The younkers a' are warned to obey;
An' mind their labors wi' an eydent[17] hand,
An' ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk[18] or play:
"An' oh! be sure to fear the Lord alway,
An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night!
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray,
Implore His counsel and assisting might:
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!"
But, hark! a rap comes gently to the door;
Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same,
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor
To do some errands, and convoy her hame.
The wily mother sees the conscious flame
Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, an' flush her cheek;
Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,
While Jenny hafflins[19] is afraid to speak;
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, worthless rake.
Wi' kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;[20]
A strappan youth; he taks the mother's eye;
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en;
The father cracks[21] of horses, pleughs, and kye.
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,
But, blate[22] an' laithfu',[23] scarce can weel behave;
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave;
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like the lave.[24]
O happy love! where love like this is found!
O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!
I've paced much this weary, mortal round,
And sage experience bids me this declare--
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare,
One cordial in this melancholy vale,
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair,
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale,
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the evening gale."
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart--
A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art,
Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth?
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling smooth!
Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exil'd?
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,
Points to the parents fondling o'er their child?
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild!
But now the supper crowns their simple board,
The halesome parritch, chief of Scotia's food
The soupe[25] their only hawkie[26] does afford,
That 'yont the hallan[27] snugly chows her cood;
The dame brings forth, in complimental mood,
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd[28] kebbuck,[29] fell,[30]
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid:
The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell
How 'twas a towmond[31] auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.[32]
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face,
They, round the ingle, form a circle wide;
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace,
The big ha'-Bible,[33] ance his father's pride:
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside,
His lyart[34] haffets[35] wearing thin an' bare;
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,
He wales[36] a portion with judicious care;
And "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise;
They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim:
Perhaps "Dundee's" wild warbling measures rise,
Or plaintive "Martyrs," worthy of the name;
Or noble "Elgin" beets[37] the heavenward flame,
The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays:
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame;
The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise;
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.
The priest-like father reads the sacred page--
How Abram was the friend of God on high;
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage
With Amalek's ungracious progeny;
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie
Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry;
Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire;
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme--
How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name,
Had not on earth whereon to lay His head;
How His first followers and servants sped;
The precepts sage they wrote to many a land;
How he, who lone in Patmos banished,
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand;
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounced by Heaven's command.
Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King,
The saint, the father, and the husband prays:
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"
That thus they all shall meet in future days:
There ever bask in uncreated rays,
No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear;
Together hymning their Creator's praise,
In such society, yet still more dear;
While circling time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride,
In all the pomp of method, and of art,
When men display to congregations wide
Devotion's every grace, except the heart!
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert,
The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole;
But, haply, in some cottage far apart,
May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul;
And in His book of life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their several way:
The youngling cottagers retire to rest;
The parent-pair their secret homage pay,
And proffer up to Heaven the warm request
That He, who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,
And decks the lily fair in flowery pride,
Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best,
For them, and for their little ones provide;
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside.
From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,
That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad:
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings;
"An honest man's the noblest work of God;"
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road,
The cottage leaves the palace far behind;
What is a lordling's pomp?--a cumbrous load,
Disguising oft the wretch of human kind,
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd!