I found the tide of wine and wassail fast gaining on the dry land of
sober judgment. The company grew merrier and louder as their jokes grew
duller. Master Simon was in as chirping a humour as a grasshopper filled
with dew; his old songs grew of a warmer complexion, and he began to
talk maudlin about the widow. He even gave a long song about the wooing
of a widow, which he informed me he had gathered from an excellent
black-letter work, entitled "Cupid's Solicitor for Love," containing
store of good advice for bachelors, and which he promised to lend me.
The first verse was to this effect:
"He that will woo a widow must not dally,
He must make hay while the sun doth shine;
He must not stand with her, Shall I, Shall I?
But boldly say, Widow, thou must be mine."
This song inspired the fat-headed old gentleman, who made several
attempts to tell a rather broad story out of Joe Miller, that was pat to
the purpose; but he always stuck in the middle, everybody recollecting
the latter part excepting himself. The parson, too, began to show the
effects of good cheer, having gradually settled down into a doze, and
his wig sitting most suspiciously on one side. Just at this juncture
we were summoned to the drawing-room, and, I suspect, at the private
instigation of mine host, whose joviality seemed always tempered with a
proper love of decorum.
After the dinner-table was removed, the hall was given up to the younger
members of the family, who, prompted to all kind of noisy mirth by the
Oxonian and Master Simon, made its old walls ring with their merriment,
as they played at romping games.
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