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to whom she shewed the crucifix, saying, Sir, do you know this? Yes, answered hee, but would God I ne're had known the owner of it! It was my wife's, a woman virtuous till the divell (speak. ing to the other) did corrupt her purity,-who brought me this crucifix as a token of her inconstancie.

"With that the king said, Sirra, now are you found to be a knave. Did you not, even now, affirme you bought it? To whom he answered with fearfull countenance, And it like your grace, I said so to preserve this gentleman's honour, and his wife's, which by my telling of the truth would have been much indamaged; for indeed she, being a secret friend of mine, gave me this as a testimony of her love.

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"The gentlewoman, not being able longer to cover her selfe in that disguise, said, And it like your majesty, give mee leave to speake, and you shall see me make this villain confesse how he hath abused that good gentleman.' The king having given her leave, she said, 'First, sir, you confessed before your oast and my selfe, that you had wrongfully got this jewell; then before his majestie you affirmed you bought it; so denying your former words: Now you have denyed that which you so boldly affirmed before, and said it was this gentleman's wife's gift. With his majestie's leave I say, thou art a villaine, and this is likewise false.' With that she discovered herselfe to be a woman, saying

Hadst thou, villaine, ever any strumpet's favour at my hands? Did I, for any sinfull pleasure I received from thee, bestow this on thee? Speake, and if thou have any goodness left in thee, speak the truth.'

"With that, he being daunted at her sudden sight, fell on his knees before the king, beseeching his grace to be mercifull unto him for he had wronged that gentlewoman. Therewith told he the king of the match betweene the gentleman and him selfe, and how he stole the crucifix from her, and by that meanes persuaded her husband that she was a whore. The king wondered how he durst, knowing God to be just, commit so great a villainy; but much more admired he to see his page turn a gentlewoman. But ceasing to admire, he said— Sir, (speaking to her husband,) you did the part of an unwise man to lay so foolish a wager, for which offence the remembrance of your folly is punishment inough; but seeing it concerns me not, your wife shall be your judge.' With that Mrs. Dorrill, thanking his majestie, went to her husband, saying, Sir, all my anger to you I lay down with this kisse.' He wondering all this while to see this strange and unlooked-for change, wept for joy, desiring her to tell him how she was preserved; wherein she satisfied him at full. The king was likewise glad that he had preserved this gentlewoman from wilfull famine, and gave judgment on the other in this manner:

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-That he should restore the money treble which he had wrongfully got from him; and so was to have a yeere's imprisonment. So this gentleman and his wife went, with the king's leave, lov ingly home, where they were kindely welcomed by George, to whom for recompence he gave the money which he received: so lived they ever after in great content." MALONE.

See page 582, note 8.

A SONG,

SUNG BY GUIDERIUS AND ARVIRAGUS OVER FIDELE,
SUPPOSED TO BE DEAD.

BY MR. WILLIAM COLLINS.

To fair Fidele's grassy tomb,

Soft maids and village hinds shall bring
Each opening sweet, of earliest bloom,
And rifle all the breathing spring.

No wailing ghost shall dare appear
To vex with shrieks this quiet grove;
But shepherd lads assemble here,

And melting virgins own their love.

No wither'd witch shall here be seen,
No goblins lead their nightly crew:
The female fays shall haunt the green,
And dress thy grave with pearly dew.

The red-breast oft at evening hours
Shall kindly lend his little aid,
With hoary moss, and gather'd flowers,

To deck the ground where thou art laid.

When howling winds, and beating rain,
In tempests shake the sylvan cell;
Or midst the chace on every plain,

The tender thought on thee shall dwell.

Each lonely scene shall thee restore ;
For thee the tear be duly shed:
Belov'd, till life could charm no more;
And mourn'd till pity's self be dead.

END OF VOL. XVIII.

Printed by S. Hamilton, Weybridge.

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