Of yonder dancing cubes of mottled bone;

  And drown it not, like Egypt's royal harlot,

  Dissolving her rich pearl in the brimm'd wine-cup.

  These are the arts, Lothario, which shrink acres

  Into brief yards—bring sterling¹ pounds to farthings,

  Credit to infamy²; and the poor gull³,

  Who might have lived an honour'd, easy life,

  To ruin, and an unregarded grave.

              The Changes.

When they were fairly embarked⁴ on the Thames, the earl took from his pocket the Supplication⁵, and, pointing out to George Heriot the royal warrant indorsed thereon, asked him, if it were in due and regular form? The worthy⁶ citizen hastily read it over, thrust forth⁸ his hand as if to congratulate the Lord Glenvarloch, then checked himself, pulled out his barnacles, (a present from old David Ramsay,) and again perused⁹ the warrant with the most business-like and critical attention. “It is strictly¹¹ correct and formal,” he said, looking to the Earl of Huntinglen; “and I sincerely rejoice at it.”

 

“I doubt nothing of its formality,” said the earl; “the king understands business well, and, if he does not practise it often, it is only because indolence obscures parts which are naturally well qualified¹² for the discharge of affairs. But what is next to be done for our young friend, Master Heriot? You know how I am circumstanced. Scottish lords living at the English Court have seldom command of money; yet, unless a sum can be presently raised on this warrant, matters

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