_Kath._ I am fortified With knowledge of self-faults to endure worse wrongs, If they be wrongs, than he can lay upon me; Even to look on, and see him sue in earnest, As now I think he does it but in seeming, To that ill woman.
_Selby._ Good words, gentle Kate, And not a thought irreverent of our Widow. Why, 'twere unmannerly at any time, But most uncourteous on our wedding-day, When we should show most hospitable.--Some wine! [_Wine is brought._
I am for sports. And now I do remember, The old Egyptians at their banquets placed A charnel sight of dead men's skulls before them, With images of cold mortality, To temper their fierce joys when they grew rampant. I like the custom well: and ere we crown With freer mirth the day, I shall propose, In calmest recollection of our spirits, We drink the solemn "Memory of the Dead,"--
_Mrs. F._ Or the supposed dead-- [_Aside to him._
_Selby._ Pledge me, good, wife-- [_She fills._ Nay, higher yet, till the brimm'd cup swell o'er,
_Kath._ I catch the awful import of your words; And, though I could accuse you of unkindness, Yet as your lawful and obedient wife, While that name lasts (as I perceive it fading, Nor I much longer may have leave to use it) I calmly take the office you impose; And on my knees, imploring their forgiveness, Whom I in heaven or earth may have offended, Exempt from starting tears, and woman's weakness, I pledge you, sir--the Memory of the Dead! [_She drinks kneeling._
_Selby._ 'Tis gently and discreetly said, and like My former loving Kate.
_Selby._ That ceremony past, we give the day To unabated sport. And, in requital Of certain stories and quaint allegories, Which my rare Widow hath been telling to me To raise my morning mirth, if she will lend Her patient hearing, I will here recite A Parable; and, the more to suit her taste, The scene is laid in the East.
_Mrs. F._ I long to hear it. Some tale, to fit his wife. [_Aside._
_Lucy._ The hour of your deliverance is at hand, If I presage right. Bear up, gentlest sister.
_Selby._ "The Sultan Haroun"--Stay--O now I have it-- "The Caliph Haroun in his orchards had A fruit-tree, bearing such delicious fruits, That he reserved them for his proper gust; And through the Palace it was Death proclaim'd To any one that should purloin the same."