X.
To Rollingate,[174] flew swift, as flew the mail,
From Westonbury Hall, the direful tale.
Lord Mountjoy donn’d his spectacles and read!
Then for a moment scratch’d his hoary head—
Inclined to think it never could be true,
And half-inclined to doubt dear Lady Prew.
But never could his lordship entertain
The least degree of wrath, nor yet disdain,
Towards his son;—“no! time, alone, will prove