ill begin then--
His face is Fancy's tablet, where the witch
Paints, in her fine caprice, ever new forms,
Making it apt all workings of the soul,
All passions and their changes to display;
His eye, attention's magnet, draws all hearts.

_Simon_. Is this all about your son, Sir?

_Margaret_. Pray let me proceed. His tongue....

_Simon_. Well skill'd in lying, no doubt--

_Sir Walter_. Ungracious boy! will you not hear her out?

_Margaret_. His tongue well skill'd in sweetness to discuss--
(False tongue that seem'd for love-vows only fram'd)--

_Simon_. Did I not say so?

_Margaret_. All knowledge and all topics of converse,
Ev'n all the infinite stuff of men's debate
From matter of fact, to the heights of metaphysick,
How could she think that noble mind
So furnish'd, so innate in all perfections,
The manners and the worth
That go to the making up of a complete Gentleman,
Could from his proper nature so decline
And from that starry height of place he mov'd in
To link his fortune to a lowly Lady
Who nothing with her brought but her plain heart,
And truth of love that never swerv'd from Woodvil.

_Simon_. Wilt please you hear some vices of this brother,
This all-accomplish'd John?

_Margaret_. There is no need--I grant him all you say and more,
Vain, ambitious, large of purpose,
Fantastic, fiery, swift and confident,
A wayward child of vanity and spleen,
A hair-brain'd mad-cap, dreamer of gold dreams,
A daily feaster on high self-conceit,
With many glorious faults beside,
Weak minds mistake for virtues.

_Simon_. Add to these,
That having gain'd a virtuous maiden's love,
One fairly priz'd at twenty times his worth,
He let her wander houseless from his door
To seek new friends and find elsewhere a home.

_Sir Walter_. Fie upon't--
All men are false, I think, etc.

And here we arrive at the "Dying Lover," which was printed anonymously in the
_London Magazine_ for January, 1822. But before passing from the long
passage transcribed above I am bound to say that Lamb