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There are no serpents in our pleasant fields.

De Mon. Think'st thou there are no serpents in the world But those who slide along the grassy sod, And sting the luckless foot that presses them? There are who in the path of social life Do bask their spotted skins in Fortune's sun, And sting the soul—Ay, till its healthful frame Is chang'd to secret, fest'ring, sore disease, So deadly is the wound.

Man. Heaven guard your honour from such horrid skathe: They are but rare, I hope?

''De Mon. (Shaking his head.)'' We mark the hollow eye, the wasted frame, The gait disturb'd of wealthy honour'd men, But do not know the cause.

Man. 'Tis very true. God keep you well, my Lord!

De Mon. I thank thee, Manuel, I am very well. I shall be gay too, by the setting sun. I go to revel it with sprightly dames, And drive the night away. (Filling another cup, and drinking.)

Man. I should be glad to see your honour gay.

De Mon. And thou too shalt be gay. There, honest Manuel, Put these broad pieces in thy leathern purse, And take at night a cheerful jovial glass. Here is one too, for Bremer; he loves wine; And one for Jaques: be joyful all together.