But gentler movements soothed his ruffled mind,
And his own failings taught him to be kind. 
   “Relenting thoughts then painted Osmyn young,
His passion urgent, and temptation strong;
And that he suffer’d from that villain-Spy
Pains worse than death, till he desired to die;
Then if his morals had received a stain,
His bitter sorrows made him pure again: 
To reason, pity lent her powerful aid,
For one so tempted, troubled, and betray’d: 
And a free pardon the glad Boy restored
To the kind presence of a gentle lord;
Who from his office and his country drove
That traitor-Friend, whom pains nor pray’rs could move: 
Who raised the fears no mortal could endure,
And then with cruel av’rice sold the cure. 
   “My tale is ended; but, to be applied,
I must describe the place where Caliphs hide.” 
   Here both the females look’d alarm’d, distress’d,
With hurried passions hard to be express’d. 
   “It was a closet by a chamber placed,
Where slept a lady of no vulgar taste;
Her friend attended in that chosen room
That she had honour’d and proclaim’d her home;
To please the eye were chosen pictures placed;
And some light volumes to amuse the taste;
Letters and music on a table laid,
For much the lady wrote, and often play’d: 
Beneath the window was a toilet spread,
And a fire gleamed upon a crimson bed.” 
   He paused, he rose; with troubled joy the Wife
Felt the new era of her changeful life;
Frankness and love appear’d in Stafford’s face,
And all her trouble to delight gave place. 
   Twice made the Guest an effort to sustain
Her feelings, twice resumed her seat in vain,
Nor could suppress her shame, nor could support her pain. 
Quick she retired, and all the dismal night
Thought of her guilt, her folly, and her flight;
Then sought unseen her miserable home,
To think of comforts lost, and brood on wants to come.

TALE XVII.

RESENTMENT.

She hath a tear for pity, and a hand
Open as day for melting charity;
Yet, notwithstanding, being incensed, is flint: 
Her temper, therefore, must be well observed. 
                      Shakespeare, Henry IV, 2.

Three or four wenches where I stood cried—­“Alas! good soul!” and forgave him with all their hearts; but there is no heed to be taken of them; if Caesar had stabbed their mothers, they would have done no less. 
                                                Julius Caesar.

How dost?  Art cold? 
I’m cold myself.—­Where is the straw, my fellow? 
The art of our necessities is strange,
That can make vile things precious. 
                                       King Lear.