“It was so written. Hold thy peace, Silas!”
LAUS DEO.
E. B.
POST-SCRIPTUM
BY ME, EPHRAIM BARNETT.
Twelve days are over and gone since William Shakspeare did leave our parts. And the spinster, Hannah Hathaway, is in sad doleful plight about him; forasmuch as Master Silas Cough went yesterday unto her, in her mother’s house at Shottery, and did desire both her and her mother to take heed and be admonished, that if ever she, Hannah, threw away one thought after the runagate William Shakspeare, he should swing.
The girl could do nothing but weep; while as the mother did give her solemn promise that her daughter should never more think about him all her natural life, reckoning from the moment of this her promise.
And the maiden, now growing more reasonable, did promise the same. But Master Silas said,
“I doubt you will, though.”
“No,” said the mother, “I answer for her she shall not think of him, even if she see his ghost.”
Hannah screamed, and swooned, the better to forget him. And Master Silas went home easier and contenteder. For now all the worst of his hard duty was accomplished,—he having been, on the Wednesday of last week, at the speech of Master John Shakspeare, Will’s father, to inquire whether the sorrel mare was his. To which question the said Master John Shakspeare did answer, “Yea.”