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I pray thee, gentle mortal, sing again;
On the first view, to say, to swear, I love thee.
Tit. Thou art as wise as thou art beautiful.
Bot. Not so neither; but if I had wit enough to get out of this wood, I have enough to serve mine own tum.
Tit. Out of this wood do not desire to go:
Enter four Fairies.
Where shall we go?
1st Fai. Hail, mortal!
4th Fai. Hail ! Bot. cry your worship's mercy, heartily. I beseech your worship's name.
Master Peascad, your father. Good Master Peas-blossom, I shall desire you of more acquaintance, too. Your name, I beseech you, sir ?
Bot. Good Master Mustard-seed, I know your patience well. That same cowardly, giunt-like ox-beef hath devoured many gentlemen of your house. I promise you your kindred hath made my eyes water ere now. I desire you more acquaintance, good Master Mustard-seed.
OBERON enters unseen.
Bot. Where's Peas-blossom?
Bot. Monsieur Cobweb, good Monsieur, get up your weapons in your hands, and kill me a red-hipped humble bee on the top of a thistle; and, good Monsieur, bring me the honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much with the action, monsieur ; and, good monsieur, have a care the honey-bag break not; I would be loth to have you over flown with a honey-bag, signior. - Where's Monsieur Mustard-seed ? Must. Ready.
Bot. Give me your neif, Monsieur Mustard-seed. Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur.
Must. What's your will ?
Bot. I have a reasonable ear in music: let us have the tongs and the bones.
Tit. Or say, sweet love, what thou desirest to eat. Bot. Truly a peck of provender. I could munch your good dry oats. Methinks I have a great desire to a bottle of hay. Good hay, sweet hay, hath no fellow.
Tit. I have a venturous fairy, that shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch thee new nuts.
Bot. I had rather have a handful or two of dried peas :-but, I pray you, let none of your people stir me; I have an exposition of sleep come upon
Tit. Sleep thou, and I will wind thee in my arms.
I did upbraid her, and fall out with her:
[Touching her eyes with an herb.]
Hath such force and blessed power.
Tit. My Oberon! what visions have I seen!
Ober. There lies your love.
How came these things to pass ?
Ober. Silence awhile. Robin, take off this head. -
Tit. Music! ho! music! such as charmeth sleep.
Ober. Sound music! [still music.] Come, my queen, take hand
Puck. Fairy king, attend and mark;
Ober. Then, my queen, in silence sad,
Tit. Come, my lord, and in our flight
LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF SCOTTISH LIFT-TIE AINSLIE FAMILY.
GILBERT AINSLIE was a poor man, and he had been a poor man all the days of his life, which were not few, for his thin hair was now waxing gray. Ile had been born and bred on the small moorland farm which he now occupied; and he hoped to die there, as his father and grandfather had done before him, leaving a family just above the more bitter wants of this world. Labor, hard and unremitting, had been his lot in life; but although sometimes severely tried, he had never repined; and through all the mist and gloom, and even the storms that had assailed him, he had lived on from year to year in that calm and resigned contentment, which unconsciously cheers the hearth-stone of the blameless poor.
With his own hands he had ploughed, sowed, and reaped his often scanty harvest, assisted, as they grew up by three sons, who even in boyhood were happy to work along with their father in the fields. Out of doors or in, Gilbert Ainslie was never idle. The spade, the shears, the plough-shaft, the sickle, and the flail, all came readily to hands that grasped them well; and not a morsel of food was eaten under his roof, or a garment worn there that was not honestly, severely, nobly earned. Gilbert Ainslie was a slave, but it was for them he loved with a sober and deep affection. The thraldom under which he lived God had imposed, and it only served to give his character & shade of silent gravity, but not austere; to make his smiles fewer, but more heartfelt; to calın his soul at grace before and after meals; and to kindle it in morning and evening prayer. There is no need to tell the character of the wife of such a
Meek and thoughtful, yet gladsome and gay withal, her heaven was in her house; and her gentler and weaker hands helped to bar the door against want. Of ten children that had give up
been born to them, they had lost three, and as they had fed, clothed, and educated them respectably, so did they give them who died a respectable funeral. The living did not grudge to
for awhile some of their daily comforts for the sake of the dead, and bought with the little sums which their industry had saved, decent mournings, worn on Sabbath, and then carefully laid by. Of the seven that survived, two sons were farmservants in the neighborhood, while three daughters and two sons remained at home, growing or grown up, a small, happy, hard-working household.
The boys and girls had made some plots of flowers among the vegetables that the little garden supplied for their homely meals ; pinks and carnations brought from walled gardens of rich men farther down in the cultivated valleys, grew here with somewhat diminished lustre; a bright show of tulips had a strange beauty in the midst of that moorland ; and the smell of roses mixed well with that of the clover, the beautiful fair clover that loves the soil and the air of Scotland, and gives the rich and balmy milk to the poor man's lips.
In this cottage Gilbert's youngest child, a girl about nine years
age, had been lying for a week in a fever. It was now Saturday evening, and the ninth day of the disease. Was she to live or die? It seemed as if a very few hours were between the innocent creature and heaven. All the symptoms were those of approaching death. The parents knew well the change that comes over the human face, whether it be in infancy, youth or prime, just before the departure of the spirit; and as they stood together by Margaret's bed, it seemed to them that the fatal shadow had fallen
her features. The surgeon of the parish lived some miles distant, but they expected him now every moment, and many a wistful look was directed by tearful eyes along the moor. The daughter, who was out at service came anxiously home on this night, the only one that could be allowed her, for the poor must work in their grief, and hired servants must do their duty to those whose bread they eat, even when nature is sick-sick at heart. Another of the daughters came in from the potato field beyond the brae with what was to be their frugal supper. The calm, noiseless spirit of life was in and around the house, while death seemed dealing with one who, a few days ago, was like light upon the floor, and the sound of music that always breathed up when most wanted; glad and joyous in common talk-sweet, silvery and mournful when it joined in hymn or psalm.