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my sword and present the point to his throat, was the work of a
moment, giving him no time to think of defending himself:
“Vile poltroon, recommend thy soul to God! Thou art a dead man!”
In the excess of his terror he cried out thrice, in a feeble voice,
“Mama! mama! mama! Help, help, help!”
At this ludicrous appeal, so like a girl’s, and the ridiculous manner
in which it was uttered, though I had a mind to kill, I lost half my rage
and could not forbear laughing. Turning to Chioccia, however, I bade
him make fast the door; for I was resolved to inflict the same
punishment upon all three. Still with my sword-point at his throat, and
pricking him a little now and then, I terrified him with the most
desperate threats, and finding that he made no defense, was rather
at a loss how to proceed. It was too poor a revenge—it was nothing
—when suddenly it came into my head to make it effectual, and
compel him to espouse the girl upon the spot.
“Up! Off with that ring on thy finger, villain!” I cried. “Marry her this
instant, and then I shall have my full revenge.”
“Anything—anything you like, provided you will not kill me,” he
eagerly answered.
Removing my sword a little:
“Now, then,” I said, “put on the ring.”
He did so, trembling all the time.
“This is not enough. Go and bring me two notaries to draw up the
contract.” Then, addressing the girl and her mother in French:
“While the notaries and witnesses are coming, I will give you a
word of advice. The first of you that I know to utter a word about my
affairs, I will kill you—all three. So remember.”
I afterward said in Italian to Paolo:
“If you offer the slightest opposition to the least thing I choose to
propose, I will cut you up into mince-meat with this good sword.”
“It is enough,” he interrupted in alarm, “that you will not kill me. I
will do whatever you wish.”
So this singular contract was duly drawn out and signed. My rage
and fever were gone. I paid the notaries, and went home.—The
Biography.
THE REMONSTRANCE
Why so pale and wan, fond lover?
Prithee, why so pale?
Will, when looking well can’t move her,
Looking ill prevail?
Prithee, why so pale?
* * * * *
* * * * *
DESCRIPTION OF HOLLAND
A country that draws fifty foot of water,
In which men live as in the hold of Nature,
And when the sea does in upon them break,
And drowns a province, does but spring a leak;
That always ply the pump, and never think
They can be safe but at the rate they stink;
They live as if they had been run aground,
And, when they die, are cast away and drowned;
That dwell in ships, like swarms of rats, and prey
Upon the goods all nations’ fleets convey;
And when their merchants are blown up and crackt,
Whole towns are cast away in storms, and wreckt;
That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes,
And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes:
A land that rides at anchor, and is moored,
In which they do not live, but go aboard.
POETS
It is not poetry that makes men poor;
For few do write that were not so before;
And those that have writ best, had they been rich,
Had ne’er been clapp’d with a poetic itch;
Had loved their ease too well to take the pains
To undergo that drudgery of brains;
But, being for all other trades unfit,
Only t’ avoid being idle, set up wit.
PUFFING
They that do write in authors’ praises,
And freely give their friends their voices,
Are not confined to what is true;
That’s not to give, but pay a due:
For praise, that’s due, does give no more
To worth, than what it had before;
But to commend, without desert,
Requires a mastery of art,
That sets a gloss on what’s amiss,
And writes what should be, not what is.