Mr. P. Thou want'st them both, or better thou would'st know,

Than to let factions in thy kingdom grow

"I believe you forgot," interrupted Sir Richard, "but this is the same play. I begged a speech out of some other."

My fate is fixed so far above thy crown,
That all thy men

Pil'd on thy back can never pull it down;
But at my ease, thy destiny I send,

By ceasing from this hour to be thy friend :
Thou can'st no title to my duty bring,

I'm not thy subject, and my soul's thy king.
Farewell! when I am gone,

There's not a star of thine dares stay with thee;
I'll whistle thy tame fortune after me.
What are ten thousand subjects such as they,
If I am scorn'd-I'll take myself away.

Sir Richard had scarce patience to hear him through this rhapsody; but Mr. Poney had worked himself up, and then there was no stopping him. "Since, Sir," said he, “you can think of no part but Almanzor's, let me put you in mind of one or two which take mightily on our Stage, and without knowing which a man cannot be a principal performer here.

Pray let me hear how you would speak those lines in Tamerlane that begin" Well was it for the world"-Mr. Poney then went on

When on their borders neighbouring princes met,
Frequent in friendly part, by cool debate
Preventing wasteful war; but from Madrid
Accept great King to-morrow, from my hand,
The captive head of conquer'd Ferdinand.

"Alas!" cry'd Sir Richard, "why, Mr. Poney, you are running back into Almanzor. You cannot keep to the point for three lines together. Pray try what you can do with Cato's fine speech in the beginning of the last Act." Mr. P. composed himself and began.

It must be so-Plato thou reason'st well;

The word which I have given shall stand like fate,
Not like the king's that weather-cock of state;

He stands so high with so unfix'd a mind,
Two factions turn him with each blast of wind;
But now he shall not veer, my word is past,
I'll take his heart by th' roots, and hold him fast.

"Zounds," said Sir Richard, "I have no patience with this eternal Almanzor. I'll try you

but once more. Let us have the speech of Brutus to Cassius."

Mr. P. Remember March, the Ides of March remember!
Did not great Julius bleed for Justice' sake?
What villain touch'd his body, that did stab,
And not for justice? what, shall one of us
That struck the foremost man of all this world
But for supporting robbers! What shall we now
Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,
And sell the mighty space of our large honours
For as much trash as may be grasped thus?
Honour is what myself and friends I owe,
And none can lose it who forsake a foe;
Since, then, your foes now happen to be mine,
Tho' not in friendship we'll in interest join.

"This is too much," said Sir Richard, "to tack this damn'd noisy Almanzor to one of the most impressive speeches in Shakspeare. I won't trouble you to rehearse any more of him, but will tell you a story, which your being able to act nothing but a ranting Hero, brings into my mind

A certain good-natured gentleman received a letter from a friend of his to recommend the

bearer, who was a painter, to his protection; and begged he would employ him. The gentleman had lately fitted up a new hall, and wanted a large piece to fill up one end of it; he told the painter he should draw him a picture for it, and said he, "you shall chuse the subject yourself. What shall it be?" After hesitating a moment-"What think you of the Judgment of Solomon !" replied the painter.'Why, aye," said the gentleman, " it will admit

good many figures and decorations; I do not care if it is." He then carried the painter into a closet; "Here," said he, "I want a small picture for the chimney-piece: what story would make a pleasant little piece?" The artist seemed to consider a little, and then scratching his head, with great taste, replied,-"Why suppose you have a little Judgment of Solomon."The gentleman started; but being of an easy complying temper, found out it would be well enough to see the same story in large and in little, and consented; but not thinking that he

had still found work enough for his friend's painter, he bethought himself of a summerhouse, where he sometimes drank a cheerful bottle, the ceiling of which was out of repair: he carried the painter thither, and said,—“I should like to have some gay little history painted here can you think of none that would be proper for such a sort of room?". “O, yes, Sir," said he, "there's not a cleverer story for the purpose than the-Judgment of Solomon." Here the poor, gentleman lost all patience, and kicked the rascally pretender out of doors, who had just learned to draw one subject, and was fit for nothing else in the world.