Francis.  I remember, one of the servants, Sir, would pass a few days with his father at Leicester.  The poor old man lies on his deathbed, and has exprest a desire to see his son before he dies.  But none cared to break the matter to you.

John.  Send the man here. [Francis goes out.]
        My very servants shun my company. 
        I held my purse to a beggar yesterday
        Who lay and bask’d his sores in the hot sun,
        And the gaunt pauper did refuse my alms.

Francis returns with Robert.

John.  Come hither, Robert.  What is the poor man ailing?

Robert.  Please your honour, I fear he has partly perish’d for want of physic.  His means are small, and he kept his illness a secret to me not to put me to expenses.

John.  Good son, he weeps for his father. 
        Go take the swiftest horse in my stables,
        Take Lightfoot or Eclipse—­no, Eclipse is lame,
        Take Lightfoot then, or Princess[39],
        Ride hard all night to Leicester. 
        And give him money, money, Francis—­
        The old man must have medicines, cordials,
        And broth to keep him warm, and careful nurses. 
        He must not die for lack of tendance, Robert.

[Footnote 39:  Lamb puts his pen through these two lines, and writes across them “miserable bad.”]

Robert.  God bless your honour for your kindness to my poor father.

John.  Pray, now make haste.  You may chance to come in time.

[Robert goes out.]

John.  Go get some firewood, Francis,
        And get my supper ready. [Francis goes out.]
        The night is bitter cold. 
        They in their graves feel nothing of the cold,
        Or if they do, how dull a cold—­
        All clayey, clayey.  Ah God! who waits below? 
        Come up, come quick.  I saw a fearful sight.

Francis returns in haste with wood.

John.  There are such things as spirits, deny it who may. 
        Is it you, Francis?  Heap the wood on thick,
        We two shall sup together, sup all night,
        Carouse, drink drunk, and tell the merriest tales—­
        Tell for a wager, who tells merriest—­
        But I am very weak.  O tears, tears, tears,
        I feel your just rebuke. [Goes out.]

Scene changes to a bed-room.  John sitting alone:  a lamp burning by him.

“Infinite torments for finite offences.”  I will never believe it.  How divines can reconcile this monstrous tenet with the spirit of their Theology!  They have palpably failed in the proof, for to put the question thus:—­If he being infinite—­have a care, Woodvil, the latitude of doubting suits not with the humility of thy condition.  What good men have believed, may be true, and what they profess