Byrom,—a poet of whom his native town, Manchester, may be justly proud; and his features and figure have been preserved by the most illustrious of his companions on the present occasion,—Hogarth,—in the levée in the "Rake's Progress," and in "Southwark Fair. The well of tears in her eyes was dry. “There’s endless reasons, no doubt, why we shouldn’t,” he said. How I envied Gianfrancesco on his wedding night, how I writhed in agony just thinking 171 about his intimacies with you! Then you became pregnant, and there he was, posturing and gloating like the rest of the family, my divinations of a boy in your womb pronounced. But her cries, instead of moving her assailant's compassion, only added to his fury. I did not care—no woman really cares—to play the beggar maid to your King Cophetua. Spurling, who wished to protract the discovery of the escape as long as possible.
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