"A toast, gentlemen—a toast!" exclaimed his lordship in high animation; "'The master of the Spankaway and his lady-mate.'"
"I beg pardon, my lord," interrupted the surgeon, "the master is not married; he is yet a solitary bachelor."
"True—most true," chimed in Nugent, laughing; "for, according to the words of the poet,
"None but himself can be his PARALLEL."
"You are too fastidious, gentlemen," said his lordship: "remember, it is 'Wives and sweethearts;' and, as it is a favourite toast of mine, we will, if you please, drink it standing." The toast was drunk with all due honours. "And now," continued his lordship, "without further preface, I shall volunteer a song, which Nugent may hoist into his book, if he pleases.
"Drink, drink to dear woman, whose beautiful eye, Like the diamond's rich lustre or gem in the sky, Is beaming with rapture, full, sparkling, and bright— Here's woman, the soul of man's choicest delight.
Chorus. Then fill up a bumper, dear woman's our toast, Our comfort in sorrows—in pleasure our boast.
Drink, drink to dear woman, and gaze on her smile; Love hides in those dimples his innocent guile: 'Tis a signal for joy—'tis a balm for all woe;— Here's woman, dear woman, man's heaven below.
Chorus. Then fill up a bumper, dear woman's our toast, Our comfort in sorrow—in pleasure our boast.
Drink, drink to dear woman, and look on her tear:— Is it pain?—is it grief?—is it hope?—is it fear? Oh! kiss it away, and believe whilst you press, Here's woman, dear woman, man's friend in distress.