by William Shenstone
A wit, by learning well refined,
A beau, but of the rural kind,
To Silvia made pretences;
They both profess'd an equal love,
Yet hoped by different means to move
Her judgment or her senses.
Young sprightly Flirt, of blooming mien,
Watch'd the best minutes to be seen,
Went--when his glass advised him;
While meagre Phil of books inquired,
A wight for wit and parts admired,
And witty ladies prized him.
Silvia had wit, had spirits too;
To hear the one, the other view,
Suspended held the scales;
Her wit, her youth too, claim'd its share;
Let none the preference declare,
But turn up--heads or tails.
'Twas always held, and ever will,
By sage mankind, discreeter
To anticipate a lesser ill
Than undergo a greater.
When mortals dread disease, pain,
And languishing conditions,
Who don't the lesser ills sustain
Of physic--and physicians?
Rather than lose his whole estate,
He that but little wise is,
Full gladly pays four parts in eight,
To taxes and excises.
Our merchants Spain has near undone,
For lost ships not requiting;
This bears our noble King to shun
The loss of blood--in fighting!
With numerous ills, in single life,
The bachelor's attended;
Such to avoid, he takes a wife--
And much the case is mended!
Poor Gratia, in her twentieth year,
Foreseeing future woe,
Chose to attend a monkey here,
Before an ape below.
Nec tantum Veneris, quantum studiosa culinæ.
Imitation.
Insensible of soft desire,
Behold Colemira prove
More partial to the kitchen fire
Than to the fire of Love.
Night's sable clouds had half the globe o'erspread,
And silence reign'd, and folks were gone to bed;
When love, which gentle sleep can ne'er inspire,
Had seated Damon by the kitchen fire.
Pensive he lay, extended on the ground,
The little Lares kept their vigils round
The fawning cats compassionate his case,
And purr around, and gently lick his face:
To all his plaints the sleeping curs reply,
And with hoarse snorings imitate a sigh:
Such gloomy scenes with lovers' minds agree,
And solitude to them is best society.
"Could I," he cried, "express how bright a grace
Adorns thy morning hands, and well-wash'd face,
Thou wouldst, Colemira, grant what I implore,
And yield me love, or wash thy face no more.
"Ah! who can see, and seeing not admire,
Whene'er she sets the pot upon the fire?
Her hands outshine the fire and redder things;
Her eyes are blacker than the pot she brings.
"But sure no chamber-damsel can compare,
When in meridian lustre shines my fair,
When warm'd with dinner's toil, in pearly rills,
Adown her goodly cheeks the sweat distils.
"Oh! how I long, how ardently desire,
To view those rosy fingers strike the lyre!
For late, when bees to change their climes began,
How did I see them thrum the frying-pan!
"With her I should not envy George his queen,
Though she in royal grandeur deck'd be seen;
Whilst rags, just sever'd from my fair one's gown,
In russet pomp and greasy pride hang down.
"Ah! how it does my drooping heart rejoice,
When in the hall I hear thy mellow voice!
How would that voice exceed the village bell,
Wouldst thou but sing, 'I like thee passing well!'
"When from the hearth she bade the pointers go,
How soft, how easy, did her accents flow!
'Get out,' she cried: 'when strangers come to sup,
One ne'er can raise those snoring devils up.'
"Then, full of wrath, she kick'd each lazy brute;
Alas! I envied even that salute:
'Twas sure misplaced--Shock said, or seem'd to say,
He had as lief I had the kick, as they.
"If she the mystic bellows take in hand,
Who like the fair can that machine command?
O mayst thou ne'er by Æolus be seen,
For he would sure demand thee for his queen!
"But should the flame this rougher aid refuse,
And only gentler medicines be of use,
With full-blown cheeks she ends the doubtful strife,
Foments the infant flame, and puffs it into life.
"Such arts as these exalt the drooping fire,
But in my breast a fiercer flame inspire:
I burn! I burn! O give thy puffing o'er,
And swell thy cheeks, and pout thy lips, no more!
With all her haughty looks, the time I've seen
When this proud damsel has more humble been,
When with nice airs she hoist the pancake round,
And dropt it, hapless fair! upon the ground.
"Look, with what charming grace, what winning tricks,
The artful charmer rubs the candlesticks:
So bright she makes the candlesticks she handles,
Oft have I said--there were no need of candles.
But thou, my fair! who never wouldst approve,
Or hear the tender story of my love,
Or mind how burns my raging breast--a button--
Perhaps art dreaming of--a breast of mutton."
Thus said, and wept, the sad desponding swain,
Revealing to the sable walls his pain:
But nymphs are free with those they should deny;
To those they love, more exquisitely coy.
Now chirping crickets raise their tinkling voice,
The lambent flames in languid streams arise,
And smoke, in azure folds, evaporates and dies.
So rude and tuneless are thy lays,
The weary audience vow
'Tis not th' Arcadian swain that sings,
But 'tis his herds that low.
Thy verses, friend! are Kidderminster stuff,
And I must own you've measured out enough.
Hail curious Wights! to whom so fair
The form of mortal flies is!
Who deem those grubs beyond compare,
Which common sense despises.
Whether o'er hill, morass or mound,
You make your sportsman sallies;
Or that your prey, in gardens found
Is urged through walks and alleys,
Yet, in the fury of the chase,
No slope could e'er retard you;
Blest, if one fly repay the race,
Or painted wing reward you.
Fierce as Camilla, o'er the plain,
Pursued the glittering stranger;
Still ey'd the purple's pleasing stain,
And knew not fear nor danger.
'Tis you dispense the favourite meat
To nature's filmy people;
Know what conserves they choose to eat,
And what liqueurs, to tipple.
And, if her brood of insects dies,
You sage assistance lend her;
Can stoop to pimp for amorous flies,
And help them to engender.
'Tis you protect their pregnant hour;
And when the birth's at hand,
Exerting your obstetric power,
Prevent a mothless land.
Yet oh! however your towering view
Above gross objects rises;
Whate'er refinements you pursue,
Hear, what a friend advises.
A friend, who, weigh'd with yours, must prize
Domitian's idle passion;
That wrought the death of teasing flies,
But ne'er their propagation.
Let Flavia's eyes more deeply warm,
Nor thus your hearts determine,
To slight Dame Nature's fairest form,
And sigh for nature's vermin.
And speak with some respect of beaus;
No more, as triflers, treat them;
'Tis better learn to save one's clothes,
Than cherish moths that eat them.
Aliusque et idem.
When Tom to Cambridge first was sent,
A plain brown bob he wore;
Read much, and look'd as though he meant
To be a fop no more.
See him to Lincoln's-Inn repair,
His resolution flag;
He cherishes a length of hair,
And tucks it in a bag.
Nor Coke nor Salkeld he regards,
But gets into the House,
And soon a judge's rank rewards
His pliant votes and bows.
Adieu, ye bobs! ye bags! give place;
Full bottoms come instead;
Good L--d! to see the various ways
Of dressing--a calf's head!
Beneath a churchyard yew,
Decay'd and worn with age,
At dusk of eve methought I spied
Poor Slender's Ghost, that whimpering cried,
"O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"
Ye gentle Bards! give ear,
Who talk of amorous rage,
Who spoil the lily, rob the rose,
Come learn of me to weep your woes:
"O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"
Why should such labour'd strains
Your formal Muse engage?
I never dreamt of flame or dart,
That fired my breast or pierced my heart,
But sigh'd, "O sweet Anne Page!"
And you! whose lovesick minds
No med'cine can assuage,
Accuse the leech's art no more,
But learn of Slender to deplore;
"O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"
And ye! whose souls are held,
Like linnets in a cage;
Who talk of fetters, links, and chains,
Attend and imitate my strains;
"O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"
And you! who boast or grieve,
What horrid wars ye wage,
Of wounds received from many an eye,
Yet mean as I do, when I sigh,
"O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"
Hence every fond conceit
Of shepherd or of sage;
'Tis Slender's voice, 'tis Slender's way,
Expresses all you have to say,
"O sweet! O sweet Anne Page!"
Suade, nam cerium est.
Says Richard to Thomas (and seem'd half afraid)
"I'm thinking to marry thy mistress's maid;
Now, because Mrs. Lucy to thee is well known,
I will do't if thou bidst me, or let it alone.
Nay, don't make a jest on't; 'tis no jest to me;
For faith I'm in earnest, so prithee, be free.
I have no fault to find with the girl since I knew her,
But I'd have thy advice ere I tie myself to her."
Said Thomas to Richard, "To speak my opinion,
There is not such a bitch in King George's dominion;
And I firmly believe, if thou knew'st her as I do,
Thou wouldst choose out a whipping-post first to be tied to.
She's peevish, she's thievish, she's ugly, she's old,
And a liar and a fool, and a slut, and a scold."
Next day Richard hasten'd to church and was wed,
And ere night had inform'd her what Thomas had said.
O Fortune! if my prayer of old
Was ne'er solicitous for gold,
With better grace thou may'st allow
My suppliant wish, that asks it now:
Yet think not, Goddess! I require it
For the same end your clowns desire it.
In a well made effectual string
Fain would I see Lovidio swing;
Hear him, from Tyburn's height haranguing;
But such a cur's not worth one's hanging.
Give me, O Goddess! store of pelf,
And he will tie the knot himself.
Servum si potes, Ole, non habere,
Et regem potes, Ole, non habere.
Mart.
I ask'd a friend, amidst the throng,
Whose coach it was that trail'd along?
"The gilded coach there--don't ye mind?
That with the footmen stuck behind."
"O Sir!" says he, "what! han't you seen it?
'Tis Damon's Coach, and Damon in it.
'Tis odd, methinks, you have forgot
Your friend, your neighbour, and--what not!
Your old acquaintance Damon!"--"True;
But faith his Equipage is new."
"Bless me," said I, "where can it end?
That madness has possess'd my friend?
Four powder'd slaves, and those the tallest,
Their stomachs, doubtless, not the smallest!
Can Damon's revenue maintain,
In lace and food, so large a train?
I know his land--each inch of ground--
'Tis not a mile to walk it round--
If Damon's whole estate can bear
To keep his lad and one-horse chair,
I own 'tis past my comprehension."
"Yes, Sir; but Damon has a pension."
Thus does a false ambition rule us,
Thus pomp delude, and folly fool us;
To keep a race of flickering knaves,
He grows himself the worst of slaves.
To the memory of
A. L., Esquire,
Justice of the Peace for this county:
Who, in the whole course of his pilgrimage
Through a trifling ridiculous world,
Maintaining his proper dignity,
Notwithstanding the scoffs of ill-disposed persons,
And wits of the age
That ridiculed his behaviour,
Or censured his breeding;
Following the dictates of Nature,
Desiring to ease the afflicted,
Eager to set the prisoners at liberty,
Without having for his end
The noise or report such things generally cause
In the world,
(As he was seen to perform them of none)
But the sole relief and happiness
Of the party in distress;
Himself resting easy
When he could render that so;
Not griping or pinching himself
To hoard up superfluities;
Not coveting to keep in his possession
What gives more disquietude than pleasure;
But charitably diffusing it
To all round about him:
Making the most sorrowful countenance
To smile
In his presence;
Always bestowing more than he was asked,
Always imparting before he was desired;
Not proceeding in this manner
Upon every trivial suggestion,
But the most mature and solemn deliberation;
With an incredible presence and undauntedness
Of mind;
With an inimitable gravity and economy
Of face;
Bidding loud defiance
To politeness and the fashion,
Dared let -- --.
Let Sol his annual journeys run,
And when the radiant task is done,
Confess, through all the globe, 'twou'd pose him,
To match the charms that Celia shows him.
And should he boast he once had seen
As just a form, as bright a mien,
Yet must it still for ever pose him
To match--what Celia never shows him.
Have you ne'er seen, my gentle Squire!
The humours of your kitchen fire?
Says Ned to Sal, "I lead a spade;
Why don't ye play?--the girl's afraid--
Play something--anything--but play--
'Tis but to pass the time away--
Phoo--how she stands--biting her nails--
As though she play'd for half her vails--
Sorting her cards, haggling, and picking--
We play for nothing, do us, chicken?
That card will do--'blood never doubt it,
It's not worth while to think about it."
Sal thought, and thought, and miss'd her aim,
And Ned ne'er studying won the game.
Methinks, old friend! 'tis wondrous true
That verse is but a game at loo:
While many a bard, that shows so clearly
He writes for his amusement merely,
Is known to study, fret, and toil,
And play for nothing all the while,
Or praise at most; for wreaths of yore
Ne'er signified a farthing more!
Till having vainly toil'd to gain it,
He sees your flying pen obtain it.
Through fragrant scenes the trifler roves,
And hallow'd haunts that Phoebus loves:
Where with strange heats his bosom glows,
And mystic flames the god bestows.
You now none other flames require
Than a good blazing parlour fire;
Write verses--to defy the scorners
In --houses and chimney-corners.
Sal found her deep-laid schemes were vain--
The cards were cut--come, deal again--
No good comes on it when one lingers--
I'll play the cards come next my fingers--
Fortune could never let Ned loo her,
When she had left it wholly to her.
Well, now who wins?--why, still the same--
For Sal has lost another game.
I've done (she mutter'd); I was saying,
It did not argufy my playing.
Some folks will win, they cannot choose;
But think or not think--some must lose.
I may have won a game or so--
But then it was an age ago--
It ne'er will be my lot again--
I won it of a baby then--
Give me an ace of trumps, and see!
Our Ned will beat me with a three!
'Tis all by luck that things are carried--
He'll suffer for it, when he's married."
Thus Sal, with tears in either eye,
While victor Ned sate tittering by.
Thus I, long envying your success,
And bent to write and study less,
Sate down, and scribbled in a trice,
Just what you see--and you despise.
You, who can frame a tuneful song,
And hum it as you ride along,
And, trotting on the king's highway,
Snatch from the hedge a sprig of bay,
Accept this verse, howe'er it flows,
From one that is your friend in prose.
What is this wreath, so green, so fair,
Which many wish, and few must wear;
Which some men's indolence can gain,
And some men's vigils ne'er obtain?
For what must Sal or poet sue,
Ere they engage with Ned or you?
For luck in verse, for luck at loo?
Ah, no! 'tis genius gives you fame,
And Ned, through skill, secures the game.
To thee, fair Freedom! I retire,
From flattery, cards, and dice, and din;
Nor art thou found in mansions higher
Than the low cot, or humble inn.
'Tis here with boundless power I reign,
And every health which I begin,
Converts dull port to bright champagne;
Such Freedom crowns it, at an inn.
I fly from pomp, I fly from plate,
I fly from Falsehood's specious grin;
Freedom I love, and form I hate,
And choose my lodgings, at an inn.
Here, waiter! take my sordid ore,
Which lackeys else might hope to win;
It buys what courts have not in store,
It buys me Freedom, at an inn.
Whoe'er has travell'd life's dull round,
Where'er his stages may have been,
May sigh to think he still has found
The warmest welcome at an inn.
1741.
"These are messengers
That feelingly persuade me what I am."
Shakspeare.
Comes a dun in the morning and raps at my door--
"I made bold to call--'tis a twelvemonth and more--
I'm sorry, believe me, to trouble you thus, sir--
But Job would be paid, sir, had Job been a mercer."
My friend, have but patience--"Ay, these are your ways."
I have got but one shilling to serve me two days--
But, sir--prithee take it, and tell your attorney,
If I han't paid your bill, I have paid for your journey.
Well, now thou art gone, let me govern my passion,
And calmly consider--consider? vexation!
What whore that must paint, and must put on false locks,
And counterfeit joy in the pangs of the pox?
What beggar's wife's nephew, now starved, and now beaten,
Who, wanting to eat, fears himself shall be eaten?
What porter, what turnspit, can deem his case hard?
Or what Dun boast of patience that thinks of a Bard?
Well, I'll leave this poor trade, for no trade can be
poorer,
Turn shoe-boy, or courtier, or pimp, or procurer;
Get love, and respect, and good living, and pelf,
And dun some poor dog of a poet myself.
One's credit, however, of course will grow better.
Here enters the footman, and brings me a letter:
"Dear Sir! I received your obliging epistle;
Your fame is secure--bid the critics go whistle.
I read over with wonder the poem you sent me,
And I must speak your praises, no soul shall prevent me.
The audience, believe me, cried out, every line
Was strong, was affecting, was just, was divine;
All pregnant as gold is, with worth, weight, and beauty,
And to hide such a genius was--far from your duty.
I foresee that the court will be hugely delighted:
Sir Richard, for much a less genius, was knighted:
Adieu, my good friend! and for high life prepare ye;
I could say much more, but you're modest, I spare ye."
Quite fired with the flattery, I call for my paper,
And waste that, and health, and my time, and my taper;
I scribble till morn, when, with wrath no small store,
Comes my old friend the mercer, and raps at my door.
"Ah, Friend! 'tis but idle to make such a pother;
Fate, Fate has ordain'd us to plague one another."
What village but has sometimes seen
The clumsy shape, the frightful mien,
Tremendous claws, and shagged hair
Of that grim brute yclept a bear?
He from his dam the learn'd agree,
Received the curious form you see;
Who with her plastic tongue alone,
Produced a visage--like her own--
And thus they hint, in mystic fashion,
The powerful force of education.
Perhaps yon crowd of swains is viewing,
Even now, the strange exploits of Bruin,
Who plays his antics, roars aloud,
The wonder of a gaping crowd!
So have I known an awkward lad,
Whose birth has made a parish glad,
Forbid, for fear of sense, to roam,
And taught by kind mamma at home,
Who gives him many a well-tried rule,
With ways and means--to play the fool.
In sense the same, in stature higher,
He shines, ere long, a rural squire,
Pours forth unwitty jokes, and swears,
And bawls, and drinks, but chiefly stares:
His tenants of superior sense
Carouse, and laugh, at his expense,
And deem the pastime I'm relating
To be as pleasant as bear-baiting.
"Sir, will you please to walk before?"--
"No, pray, Sir--you are next the door."--
"Upon mine honour, I'll not stir."--
"Sir, I'm at home; consider, Sir"--
"Excuse me, Sir; I'll not go first."--
"Well, if I must be rude, I must--
But yet I wish I could evade it--
'Tis strangely clownish, be persuaded."
Go forward, Cits! go forward, Squires!
Nor scruple each, what each admires.
Life squares not, Friends! with your proceeding,
It flies while you display your breeding;
Such breeding as one's grannum preaches,
Or some old dancing-master teaches.
Oh! for some rude tumultuous fellow,
Half crazy, or, at least, half mellow,
To come behind you unawares,
And fairly push you both down stairs!
But Death's at hand--let me advise ye
Go forward, Friends! or he'll surprise ye.
Besides, how insincere you are!
Do ye not flatter, lie, forswear,
And daily cheat, and weekly pray,
And all for this--to lead the way?
Such is my theme, which means to prove,
That though we drink, or game, or love,
As that, or this, is most in fashion,
Precedence is our ruling passion.
When college-students take degrees,
And pay the beadle's endless fees,
What moves that scientific body,
But the first cutting at a gaudy?
And whence such shoals, in bare conditions,
That starve and languish as physicians,
Content to trudge the streets, and stare at
The fat apothecary's chariot?
But that in Charlotte's chamber (see
Molière's Médecin malgré lui),
The leech, howe'er his fortunes vary,
Still walks before the apothecary.
Flavia in vain has wit and charms,
And all that shines, and all that warms;
In vain all human race adore her,
For--Lady Mary ranks before her.
O Celia! gentle Celia! tell us,
You, who are neither vain nor jealous!
The softest breast, the mildest mien!
Would you not feel some little spleen,
Nor bite your lip, nor furl your brow,
If Florimel, your equal now,
Should, one day, gain precedence of ye?
First served--though in a dish of coffee?
Placed first, although where you are found
You gain the eyes of all around?
Named first, though not with half the fame
That waits my charming Celia's name?
Hard fortune! barely to inspire
Our fix'd esteem, and fond desire!
Barely, where'er you go, to prove
The source of universal love!
Yet be content, observing this,
Honour's the offspring of caprice;
And worth, howe'er you have pursued it,
Has now no power--but to exclude it:
You'll find your general reputation
A kind of supplemental station.
Poor Swift, with all his worth, could ne'er,
He tells us, hope to rise a peer;
So, to supply it, wrote for fame,
And well the wit secured his aim.
A common patriot has a drift
Not quite so innocent as Swift:
In Britain's cause he rants, he labours;
"He's honest, faith,"--have patience, Neighbours,
For patriots may sometimes deceive,
May beg their friends' reluctant leave,
To serve them in a higher sphere,
And drop their virtue to get there.--
As Lucian tells us, in his fashion,
How souls put off each earthly passion,
Ere on Elysium's flowery strand
Old Charon suffer'd them to land;
So, ere we meet a court's caresses,
No doubt our souls must change their dresses;
And souls there be, who, bound that way,
Attire themselves ten times a-day.
If then 'tis rank which all men covet,
And saints alike and sinners love it;
If place, for which our courtiers throng
So thick, that few can get along,
For which such servile toils are seen,
Who's happier than a king?--a queen!
Howe'er men aim at elevation,
'Tis properly a female passion:
Women and beaus, beyond all measure,
Are charm'd with rank's ecstatic pleasure.
Sir, if your drift I rightly scan,
You'd hint a beau was not a man:
Say, women then are fond of places;
I waive all disputable cases.
A man, perhaps, would something linger,
Were his loved rank to cost--a finger;
Or were an ear, or toe, the price on 't,
He might deliberate once or twice on 't;
Perhaps ask Gataker's advice on 't;
And many, as their frames grow old,
Would hardly purchase it with gold.
But women wish precedence ever;
'Tis their whole life's supreme endeavour;
It fires their youth with jealous rage,
And strongly animates their age:
Perhaps they would not sell outright,
Or maim a limb--that was in sight;
Yet on worse terms they sometimes choose it,
Nor even in punishment refuse it,
Pre-eminence in pain! you cry,
All fierce and pregnant with reply:
But lend your patience and your ear,
An argument shall make it clear.
But hold, an argument may fail,
Beside, my title says, A Tale.
Where Avon rolls her winding stream,
Avon! the Muses' favourite theme;
Avon! that fills the farmers' purses,
And decks with flowers both farms and verses,
She visits many a fertile vale--
Such was the scene of this my Tale;
For 'tis in Evesham's Yale, or near it,
That folks with laughter tell and hear it.
The soil with annual plenty bless'd
Was by young Corydon possess'd.
His youth alone I lay before ye,
As most material to my story:
For strength and vigour too, he had them,
And 'twere not much amiss to add them.
Thrice happy lout! whose wide domain,
Now green with grass, now gilt with grain,
In russet robes of clover deep,
Or thinly veil'd, and white with sheep;
Now fragrant with the bean's perfume,
Now purpled with the pulse's bloom,
Might well with bright allusion store me,--
But happier bards have been before me!
Amongst the various year's increase
The stripling own'd a field of pease,
Which, when at night he ceased his labours,
Were haunted by some female neighbours.
Each morn discover'd to his sight
The shameful havoc of the night:
Traces of this they left behind them,
But no instructions where to find them.
The devil's works are plain and evil,
But few or none have seen the devil.
Old Noll, indeed, if we may credit
The words of Echard, who has said it,
Contrived with Satan how to fool us,
And bargain'd face to face to rule us;
But then Old Noll was one in ten,
And sought him more than other men.
Our shepherd, too, with like attention,
May meet the female fiends we mention.
He rose one morn at break of day,
And near the field in ambush lay;
When, lo! a brace of girls appears,
The third, a matron much in years.
Smiling, amidst the pease, the sinners
Sat down to cull their future dinners
And caring little who might own them,
Made free as though themselves had sown them.
'Tis worth a sage's observation,
How love can make a jest of passion
Anger had forced the swain from bed,
His early dues to love unpaid!
And Love a god that keeps a pother,
And will be paid one time or other,
Now banish'd Anger out of door,
And claim'd the debt withheld before.
If Anger bid our youth revile,
Love form'd his features to a smile
And knowing well 'twas all grimace
To threaten with a smiling face,
He in few words express'd his mind--
And none would deem them much unkind.
The amorous youth, for their offence,
Demanded instant recompence;
That recompence from each, which shame
Forbids a bashful Muse to name:
Yet, more this sentence to discover,
'Tis what Bet ---- grants her lover,
When he, to make the strumpet willing,
Has spent his fortune--to a shilling.
Each stood awhile, as 'twere, suspended,
And loth to do, what--each intended.
At length, with soft pathetic sighs,
The matron, bent with age, replies:
"'Tis vain to strive--justice, I know,
And our ill stars, will have it so--
But let my tears your wrath assuage,
And show some deference for age:
I from a distant village came,
Am old, God knows, and something lame;
And if we yield, as yield we must,
Despatch my crazy body first."
Our shepherd, like the Phrygian swain,
When circled round on Ida's plain
With goddesses, he stood suspended,
And Pallas's grave speech was ended,
Own'd what she ask'd might be his duty,
But paid the compliment to beauty.
When Celia, love's eternal foe,
To rich old Gomez first was married;
And angry Cupid came to know
His shafts had err'd, his bow miscarried;
He sigh'd, he wept, he hung his head,
On the cold ground, full sad, he laid him;
When Plutus, there by fortune led,
In this desponding plight survey'd him.
"And sure," he cried, "you'll own at last
Your boasted power by mine exceeded:
Say, wretched boy, now all is past,
How little she your efforts heeded.
"If with success you would assail,
Gild, youngster, doubly gild your arrows:
Little the feather'd shafts avail,
Though wing'd from mamma's doves and sparrows.
"What though each reed, each arrow grew,
Where Venus bathed herself; depend on't,
'Twere more for use, for beauty too,
A diamond sparkled at the end on't."
"Peace, Plutus, peace!"--the boy replied;
"Were not my arts by yours infested,
I could each other power deride,
And rule this circle unmolested.
"See yonder pair! no worldly views
In Chloe's generous breast resided:
Love bade her the spruce valet choose,
And she by potent love was guided.
"For this, she quits her golden dreams,
In her gilt coach no more she ranges:
And her rich crimson, bright with gems,
For cheeks impearl'd with tears, she changes.
"Though sordid Celia own'd your power,
Think not so monstrous my disgrace is:
You gain'd this nymph--that very hour
I gain'd a score in different places."
Well, Ladies--so much for the tragic style--
And now the custom is to make you smile.
To make us smile!--methinks I hear you say--
Why, who can help it, at so strange a play?
The captain gone three years!--and then to blame
The faultless conduct of his virtuous dame!
My stars! what gentle belle would think it treason,
When thus provoked, to give the brute some reason?
Out of my house!--this night, forsooth, depart!
A modern wife had said--"With all my heart--
But think not, haughty Sir, I'll go alone;
Order your coach--conduct me safe to Town--
Give me my jewels, wardrobe, and my maid--
And pray take care my pin-money be paid."
Such is the language of each modish fair;
Yet memoirs, not of modern growth, declare
The time has been, when modesty and truth
Were deem'd additions to the charms of youth;
When women hid their necks, and veil'd their faces,
Nor romp'd, nor raked, nor stared at public places,
Nor took the airs of Amazons for graces:
Then plain domestic virtues were the mode,
And wives ne'er dreamt of happiness abroad;
They loved their children, learnt no flaunting airs,
But with the joys of wedlock mix'd the cares.
Those times are past--yet sure they merit praise,
For marriage triumph'd in those golden days;
By chaste decorum they affection gain'd;
By faith and fondness, what they won, maintain'd.
'Tis yours, Ye Fair! to bring those days again,
And form anew the hearts of thoughtless men;
Make beauty's lustre amiable as bright,
And give the soul, as well as sense, delight;
Reclaim from folly a fantastic age,
That scorns the press, the pulpit, and the stage.
Let truth and tenderness your breasts adorn,
The marriage chain with transport shall be worn;
Each blooming virgin, raised into a bride,
Shall double all their joys, their cares divide;
Alleviate grief, compose the jars of strife,
And pour the balm that sweetens human life.
1743.
Of all that gives politeness birth,
Of all that claims to please,
In motion, manners, or in mirth,
The surest source is ease.
With silent step, and graceful air,
See gentle Sylvia move;
Whilst heedless gazers, unaware,
Resign their soul to love.
Accomplish'd maid! my trivial rhyme
Must do thy graces wrong;
Who dost not only dance in time,
But steal, like time, along.
Whilst round in wild rotations hurl'd,
These glittering forms I view,
Methinks the busy restless world
Is pictured in a few.
So may the busy world advance,
Since thus the Fates decree
It still may have its busy dance,
Whilst I retire with thee.
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