Plate 8. The Glutton.
What, do these sav'ry meats delight you?
Begone, and stay till I invite you.
A well-to-do gourmand has taken his place at a plentifully supplied table, whereon is spread all kinds of fare; attendants are ministering to his wants, and a handsome and elegantly dressed female is at his side; the arch-jester, Death, has suddenly dropped into a vacant arm-chair at the festive board; joints are scattered, plates are thrown down, the founder of the feast is starting forward in consternation; a male cook, and serving maids, bringing in fresh dishes, are losing their grasp of delicacies which will never, as it now appears, regale the gluttony of their master. The foot of the ghastly skeleton has touched an over-fed spaniel, and the dog lies stiff. Death is politely handing forth his hourglass like a goblet, wherein to pledge his host, and enjoying a cruel pleasantry at the expense of the master of the house.
When the knight thought 'twere best be civil,
And hold a candle to the devil,
'Do lay that ugly dart aside;
A knife and fork shall be supplied;
Come, change your glass for one of mine,
That shall appear brimfull of wine;
Perhaps you're hungry, and may feel
A hankering to make a meal,
So without compliment or words,
Partake of what the house affords.'
'Avaunt,' cried Death, 'no more ado;
I'm come to make a meal of you!'
Plate 9. The Recruit.
I list you, and you'll soon be found
One of my regiment under ground.
A party of farm labourers, wearing bunches of ribands in their caps, are being recruited for the wars; they are led by a drummer, with whose steps they are clumsily attempting to keep time. One fine, tall, healthy-looking young fellow is taking leave of his sweetheart; his father, mother, and the rest of his family and friends, grouped around—down to a grotesque-looking dog—are plunged into grief at his departure. Death, who is wearing a plumed hat, a jaunty cloak, and who carries his dart like a halbert, is clutching the shoulder of the recruit, and hurrying forward his legions; the universal captain is reminding his followers of the everlasting burden—Death and Glory.
Plate 10. The Maiden Ladies.
Be not alarm'd, I'm only come
To choose a wife, and light her home.
Death, with an air of awful gallantry, wearing a gay cap, rakishly set on one side of his grim bare skull, with his dart put up guitar-wise, and laying a bony hand on the part of his structure where his heart should be, has arrived, unannounced, with a lantern to offer the courtesies of his escort to a large gathering of elderly spinsters—a 'tabby party' of weird and wizened-looking ancient anatomies—who are met for the joint distractions of scandal and gambling. The cards, the stakes, and the play-table are capsized; a fat footman is gazing with wonder at the guest last arrived, but the old maids are sensible of the nature of his attentions, and they are fluttering about in consternation and terror, as to whose turn has come. Death, it seems, is making a jest of offering what these frozen old maids have lacked through life—a husband.