(IMITATED FROM MARTIAL.)
A friend I met, some half hour since— "Good-morrow, Jack!" quoth I; The new-made Knight, like any Prince, Frowned, nodded, and passed by; When up came Jem—"Sir John, your Slave!" "Ah, James; we dine at eight— Fail not—(low bows the supple knave) Don't make my lady wait." The King can do no wrong? As I'm a sinner, He's spoilt an honest tradesman and my dinner.
[THE CONFESSION.]
There's somewhat on my breast, father, There's somewhat on my breast! The livelong day I sigh, father, And at night I cannot rest. I cannot take my rest, father, Though I would fain do so; A weary weight oppresseth me— This weary weight of woe!
'Tis not the lack of gold, father, Nor want of worldly gear; My lands are broad, and fair to see, My friends are kind and dear. My kin are leal and true, father, They mourn to see my grief; But oh! 'tis not a kinsman's hand Can give my heart relief!
'Tis not that Janet's false, father, 'Tis not that she's unkind; Tho' busy flatterers swarm around— I know her constant mind. 'Tis not her coldness, father, That chills my labouring breast, It's that confounded cucumber I've eat and can't digest.