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II.-LITTLE RED RIDING HOOD.-Anonymous.

MARY-GRANDMOTHER.

Mary. She was, indeed, a pretty little creature;
So meek, so modest; what a pity, madam,
That one so young and innocent, should fall
A victim to the ravenous wolf!

Grandmother. The wolf, indeed!
You've left the nursery to but little purpose,
If you believe a wolf could ever speak,
Though in the time of Esop, or before.

Mary. Was't not a wolf, then? I have read the story A hundred times, and heard it told, nay, told it,

Myself, to my younger sisters, when we've shrunk

Together in the sheets, from very terror,

And with protecting arms, each round the other,
E'en sobbed ourselves to sleep. But I remember,
I saw the story acted on the stage,

And so it was a robber, not a wolf,

That met poor little Riding Hood in the wood.

Grand. Nor wolf, nor robber, child: this nursery tale Contains a hidden moral.

Mary. Hidden! nay,

I'm not so young, but I can spell it out,—

And this it is children, when sent on errands,

Must never stop by the way, to talk with wolves.

Grand. Tut, wolves again: wilt listen to me, child? Mary. Say on, dear grandma.

Grand. Thus, then, dear my daughter :

In this young person, culling idle flowers,

You see the peril that attends the maiden

Who, in her walk through life, yields to temptation,

And quits the onward path, to stray aside,

Allured by gaudy weeds.

Mary. Nay, none but children

Could gather butter-cups and mayweed, mother;
But violets, dear violets-methinks

I could live ever on a bank of violets,

Or die most happy there.

Grand. You die, indeed!

At your years,

die!

Upon this picture.

But we neglect our lecture

Mary. Poor Red Riding Hood!

We had forgotten her: yet, mark, dear madam,
How patiently the poor thing waits our leisure.
And now, the hidden moral.

Grand. Thus it is!

Mere children read such stories literally;
But the more elderly and wise, deduce
A moral from the fiction. In a word,
The wolf that we must guard against, is love.
Mary. I thought love was an infant.

Grand. The world and love were young together, child; And innocent-alas! time changes all things.

Mary. True, I remember, love is now a man ;

And, the song says, 66

But how a wolf?

a very saucy one”

Grand. In ravenous appetite,

Unpitying and unsparing, passion is oft

A beast of prey. As the wolf to the lamb,
Is he to innocence.

Mary. I shall remember,

For now I see the moral. Trust me, madam,
Should I e'er meet this wolf love, in my way,
Be he a boy or man, I'll take good heed,
And hold no converse with him.

Grand. You'll do wisely.

Mary. Nor e'en in field or forest, plain or pathway, Shall he from me know whither I am going,

Or whisper that he'll meet me.

Grand. That's my child.

Mary. Nor in my grandam's cottage, or elsewhere, Will I e'er lift the latch for him myself,

Or pull the bobbin.

Grand. Well, my dear,

You've learned your lesson.

Mary. Yet one thing, my mother,

Somewhat perplexes me.

Grand. Say what, my love;

I will explain.

Mary. This wolf, the story goes,

Deceived poor grandam first, and ate her

up;

What is the moral here? Have all our grandams
Been devoured by love?

Grand.

Let us go in ;

The air grows cool-you are a forward chit.

(Exeunt.)

III.-FROM WILLIAM TELL-Knowles.

WALDMAN-MICHAEL.

Waldman. Don't tell me, Michael! thou dost lead a life
As bootless as a jester's-worse than his,
For be has high retaining. Every one
Calls thee his fool-the gallant and the boy,
The gentle-born and base! Thy graceless name
Is ever tagged to feasts, and shows, and games,
And saucy brawls, which men as young as thou,
Discourse of with grave looks. What comes of this?
Will't make thee rich? Will't give thee place in life?
Will't buy thee honor, friendship, or esteem?
Will't get thee reverence 'gainst gray hairs?
Michael. Good father!-

Wal. The current of thy life doth counter run
To that of other men's. Thy spirits, which
Were reason in thee, when thou wast a child,
As tameless still, now thou'rt become a man,
Are folly! Thriftless life, that may be called
More rational when in the nurse's lap,

Than when in manhood's chair! Survey those towers,
And act the revel o'er of yesternight;

Think of the tyrants whom they lodge, and then

Link hands with fools and braggarts o'er their wine:
Fancy the sounds their dungeons hear, and tell

Of such and such a jest of thine, that made

Thy wanton comrades roar.

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Thou canst not try to speak with gravity,
But one perceives thou wagg'st an idle tongue;
Thou canst not try to look demure, but, spite
Of all thou dost, thou showest a laughter's cheek;
Thou canst not e'en essay to walk sedate,

But in thy very gait, one sees the jest,
That's ready to break out, in spite of all
Thy seeming.

Mich. I'm a melancholy man,

That can't do that which with good will I would!
I pray thee, father, tell me what will change me.
Wal. Hire thyself to a sexton, and dig graves :
Never keep company, but at funerals;

Beg leave to take thy bed into the church,
And sleep there; fast, until thine abstinence
Upbraid the anchorite with gluttony;

And when thou takest refection, feast on naught
But water and stale bread: ne'er speak, except
At prayers and grace; and as to music, be
Content with ringing of the passing bell,
When souls do go to their account.

Mich. But if

The bells, that ring as readily for joy

As grief, should chance to ring a merry peal,
And they should drop the corse-

Wal. Then take the

rope,

And hang thyself. (Crosses.) I know no other way
To change thee.

Mich. Nay, I'll do some great feat, yet.

Wal. You'll do some great feat! Take me Gesler's castle! Mich. Humph! that would be a feat, indeed! I'll do it! Wal. You'll do it! You'll get married, and have children, And be a sober citizen, before You pare your bread o' the crust. You'll do it! You'll Do nothing! Live until you are a hundred, When death shall catch you, 'twill be laughing. Look grave, talk wise, live sober, thou wilt do A harder thing, but that thou'lt never do. (Exit Waldman.) Mich. (Solus.) Hard sentence that! Dame Nature! gen

tle mother!

If thou hast made me of too rich a mould
To bring the common seed of life to fruit,
Is it a fault? Kind Nature! I should lie,
To say it was.
Who would not have an eye
To see the sun, where others see a cloud?
A skin so tempered, as to feel the rain,
Gave other men the ague, him refreshed;
A frame so vernal, as, in spite of snow

Do it!

To think it's genial summer all year round;
And bask himself in bleak December's scowl,
While others sit and shiver o'er a hearth?
I do not know the fool would not be such
A man! Shall I upbraid my heart, because
It hath been so intent to keep me in
An ample revenue of precious mirth,
It hath forgot to hoard the duller coin
The world do trade on? No, not I, no more
Than I would empt my coffers of their gold,
Were they so furnished, to make room for brass,
Or disenthrone the diamond of my ring-
Supposed the gommed toy my finger wore
To seat a sparkless pebble in its place!

(Exit.)

IV. FROM HENRY VI.-Shakspeare.

GEORGE BEVIS-JOHN HOLLAND-CADE-DICK-SMITH-OTHERS.

Bevis. Come and get thee a sword, though made of a lath; our enemies have been up these two days.

Holland. They have the more need to sleep now, then. Bev. I tell thee, Jack Cade, the clothier, means to dress the commonwealth, and turn it, and set a new nap upon it.

Hol. So he had need, for 'tis thread-bare. Well, I say, it was never merry world in England, since gentlemen came up. Bev. O miserable age! Virtue is not regarded in handicraftsmen.

Hol. The nobility scorn to go in leather aprons.

Bev. Nay, more, the king's council are no good workmen. Hol. True; and yet it is said, labor in thy vocation; which is as much as to say, let the magistrates be laboring men; and therefore should we be magistrates.

Bev. Thou hast hit it; for there's no better sign of a brave mind, than a hard hand.

Hol. I see them! I see them! There's Best's son, the tanner, of Wingham.

Bev. He shall have the skins of our enemies, to make dog's leather of.

Hol. And Dick, the butcher

Bev. Then is sin struck down like an ox, and iniquity's throat cut like a calf.

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