Mrs. F. I like not this beginning—­

Selby. Pray you, attend. 
“The Secret, like a night-hag, rid his sleeps,
And took the youthful pleasures from his days,
And chased the youthful smoothness from his brow,
That from a rose-cheek’d boy he waned and waned
To a pale skeleton of what he was;
And would have died, but for one lucky chance.”

Kath. Oh!

Mrs. F. Your wife—­she faints—­some cordial—­smell to this.

Selby. Stand off.  My sister best will do that office.

Mrs. F. Are all his tempting speeches come to this?
          
                                              [Aside.

Selby. What ail’d my wife?

Kath. A warning faintness, sir,
Seized on my spirits, when you came to where
You said “a lucky chance.”  I am better now: 
Please you go on.

Selby. The sequel shall be brief.

Kath. But, brief, or long, I feel my fate hangs on it.
          
                                              [Aside.

Selby. “One morn the Caliph, in a covert hid,
Close by an arbor where the two boys talk’d,
(As oft, we read, that Eastern sovereigns
Would play the eavesdropper, to learn the truth. 
Imperfectly received from mouths of slaves,)
O’erheard their dialogue; and heard enough
To judge aright the cause, and know his cue. 
The following day a Cadi was despatch’d
To summon both before the judgment-seat;
The lickerish culprit, almost dead with fear,
And the informing friend, who readily,
Fired with fair promises of large reward,
And Caliph’s love, the hateful truth disclosed.”

Mrs. F. What did the Caliph to the offending boy, That had so grossly err’d?

Selby. His sceptred hand
He forth in token of forgiveness stretch’d,
And clapp’d his cheeks, and courted him with gifts,
And he became once more his favorite page.

Mrs. F. But for that other—­

Selby. He dismissed him straight,
From dreams of grandeur, and of Caliph’s love,
To the bare cottage on the withering moor. 
Where friends, turn’d fiends, and hollow confidants,
And widows, hide, who in a husband’s ear
Pour baneful truths, but tell not all the truth;
And told him not that Robin Halford died
Some moons before his marriage-bells were rung. 
Too near dishonor hast thou trod, dear wife,
And on a dangerous cast our fates were set;
But Heav’n, that will’d our wedlock to be blest,
Hath interposed to save it gracious too. 
Your penance is—­to dress your cheek in smiles,
And to be once again my merry Kate.—­
Sister, your hand. 
Your wager won makes me a happy man,
Though poorer, Heav’n knows, by a thousand pounds. 
The sky clears up after a dubious day. 
Widow, your hand.  I read a penitence
In this dejected brow; and in this shame
Your fault is buried.  You shall in with us,
And, if it please you, taste our nuptial fare: 
For, till this moment, I can joyful say,
Was never truly Selby’s Wedding Day.