And who their mouth, their master-fiend, and who
Rebellion’s oracle?—­You, catiff, you!”
   He spoke, and standing stretch’d his mighty arm,
And fix’d the Man of Words, as by a charm. 
“How raved that railer!  Sure some hellish power
Restrain’d my tongue in that delirious hour,
Or I had hurl’d the shame and vengeance due
On him, the guide of that infuriate crew;
But to mine eyes, such dreadful looks appear’d,
Such mingled yell of lying words I heard,
That I conceived around were demons all,
And till I fled the house, I fear’d its fall. 
   “Oh! could our country from our coasts expel
Such foes! to nourish those who wish her well: 
This her mild laws forbid, but we may still
From us eject them by our sovereign will;
This let us do.”—­He said, and then began
A gentler feeling for the silent man;
E’en in our hero’s mighty soul arose
A touch of pity for experienced woes;
But this was transient, and with angry eye
He sternly look’d, and paused for a reply. 
   ’Twas then the Man of many Words would speak —
But, in his trial, had them all to seek: 
To find a friend he look’d the circle round,
But joy or scorn in every feature found;
He sipp’d his wine, but in those times of dread
Wine only adds confusion to the head;
In doubt he reason’d with himself—­“And how
Harangue at night, if I be silent now?”
From pride and praise received, he sought to draw
Courage to speak, but still remain’d the awe;
One moment rose he with a forced disdain,
And then, abash’d, sunk sadly down again;
While in our hero’s glance he seem’d to read,
“Slave and insurgent! what hast thou to plead?”
   By desperation urged, he now began: 
“I seek no favour—­I—­the rights of man! 
Claim; and I—­nay!—­but give me leave—­and I
Insist—­a man—­that is—­and in reply,
I speak,”—­Alas! each new attempt was vain: 
Confused he stood, he sate, he rose again;
At length he growl’d defiance, sought the door,
Cursed the whole synod, and was seen no more. 
   “Laud we,” said Justice Bolt, “the Powers above: 
Thus could our speech the sturdiest foe remove.” 
Exulting now, he gain’d new strength of fame,
And lost all feelings of defeat and shame. 
   “He dared not strive, you witness’d—­dared not lift
His voice, nor drive at his accursed drift: 
So all shall tremble, wretches who oppose
Our Church or State—­thus be it to our foes.” 
He spoke, and, seated with his former air,
Look’d his full self, and fill’d his ample chair;
Took one full bumper to each favourite cause,
And dwelt all night on politics and laws,
With high applauding voice, that gain’d him high applause.

TALE II.

THE PARTING HOUR.

. . . .  I did not take my leave of him, but had
Most pretty things to say:  ere I could tell him
How I would think of him, at certain hours
Such thoughts and such;—­or ere I could
Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
Betwixt two charming words—­comes in my father. 
                         Shakespeare, Cymbeline.