Justin, who silent sate, and heard the man, Thus with a philosophic frown began:

'A heathen author, of the first degree, (Who, though not faith, had sense as well as we), Bids us be certain our concerns to trust 180 To those of generous principles and just. The venture's greater, I'll presume to say, To give your person, than your goods away: And therefore, sir, as you regard your rest, First learn your lady's qualities at least: Whether she's chaste or rampant, proud or civil, Meek as a saint, or haughty as the devil; Whether an easy, fond, familiar fool, Or such a wit as no man e'er can rule. 'Tis true, perfection none must hope to find 190 In all this world, much less in womankind: But if her virtues prove the larger share, Bless the kind fates, and think your fortune rare. Ah, gentle sir, take warning of a friend, Who knows too well the state you thus commend; And, spite of all his praises, must declare, All he can find is bondage, cost, and care. Heaven knows I shed full many a private tear, And sigh in silence, lest the world should hear; While all my friends applaud my blissful life, 200 And swear no mortal's happier in a wife; Demure and chaste as any vestal nun, The meekest creature that beholds the sun! But, by th' immortal powers, I feel the pain, And he that smarts has reason to complain. Do what you list, for me; you must be sage, And cautious sure; for wisdom is in age: But at these years to venture on the fair! By Him who made the ocean, earth, and air, To please a wife, when her occasions call, 210 Would busy the most vigorous of us all. And trust me, sir, the chastest you can choose, Will ask observance, and exact her dues. If what I speak my noble lord offend, My tedious sermon here is at an end.'

''Tis well, 'tis wondrous well,' the knight replies, 'Most worthy kinsman, faith, you're mighty wise! We, sirs, are fools; and must resign the cause To heathenish authors, proverbs, and old saws.' He spoke with scorn, and turn'd another way: 220 'What does my friend, my dear Placebo, say?'

'I say,' quoth he, 'by Heaven, the man's to blame, To slander wives, and wedlock's holy name.'

At this the council rose without delay; Each, in his own opinion, went his way; With full consent, that, all disputes appeased, The knight should marry when and where he pleased.

Who now but January exults with joy? The charms of wedlock all his soul employ: Each nymph by turns his wavering mind possess'd, 230 And reign'd the short-lived tyrant of his breast; Whilst fancy pictured every lively part, And each bright image wander'd o'er his heart. Thus, in some public forum fix'd on high, A mirror shows the figures moving by; Still one by one, in swift succession, pass The gliding shadows o'er the polish'd glass. This lady's charms the nicest could not blame, But vile suspicions had aspersed her fame; That was with sense, but not with virtue bless'd; 240 And one had grace that wanted all the rest. Thus doubting long what nymph he should obey He fix'd at last upon the youthful May. Her faults he knew not, love is always blind, But every charm revolved within his mind: Her tender age, her form divinely fair, Her easy motion, her attractive air, Her sweet behaviour, her enchanting face, Her moving softness, and majestic grace. Much in his prudence did our knight rejoice, 250 And thought no mortal could dispute his choice: Once more in haste he summon'd every friend, And told them all their pains were at an end. 'Heaven, that (said he) inspired me first to wed, Provides a consort worthy of my bed: Let none oppose th' election, since on this Depends my quiet and my future bliss.

'A dame there is, the darling of my eyes, Young, beauteous, artless, innocent, and wise; Chaste, though not rich; and, though not nobly born, 260 Of honest parents, and may serve my turn. Her will I wed, if gracious Heaven so please, To pass my age in sanctity and ease; And, thank the powers, I may possess alone The lovely prize, and share my bliss with none! If you, my friends, this virgin can procure, My joys are full, my happiness is sure.

'One only doubt remains: full oft, I've heard By casuists grave, and deep divines averr'd, That 'tis too much for human race to know 270 The bliss of heaven above and earth below; Now, should the nuptial pleasures prove so great, To match the blessings of the future state, Those endless joys were ill exchanged for these; Then clear this doubt, and set my mind at ease.'

This Justin heard, nor could his spleen control, Touch'd to the quick, and tickled at the soul. 'Sir knight,' he cried, 'if this be all you dread, Heaven put it past your doubt whene'er you wed: And to my fervent prayers so far consent, 280 That, ere the rites are o'er, you may repent! Good Heaven, no doubt, the nuptial state approves, Since it chastises still what best it loves. Then be not, sir, abandoned to despair: Seek, and perhaps you'll find among the fair One that may do your business to a hair; Not e'en in wish your happiness delay, But prove the scourge to lash you on your way: Then to the skies your mounting soul shall go, Swift as an arrow soaring from the bow! 290 Provided still, you moderate your joy, Nor in your pleasures all your might employ; Let reason's rule your strong desires abate, Nor please too lavishly your gentle mate Old wives there are, of judgment most acute, Who solve these questions beyond all dispute; Consult with those, and be of better cheer; Marry, do penance, and dismiss your fear.'

So said, they rose, nor more the work delay'd The match was offer'd, the proposals made. 300 The parents, you may think, would soon comply The old have interest ever in their eye. Nor was it hard to move the lady's mind; When fortune favours, still the fair are kind.

I pass each previous settlement and deed, Too long for me to write, or you to read; Nor will with quaint impertinence display The pomp, the pageantry, the proud array. The time approach'd; to church the parties went, At once with carnal and devout intent: 310 Forth came the priest, and bade the obedient wife Like Sarah or Rebecca lead her life; Then pray'd the powers the fruitful bed to bless, And made all sure enough with holiness.

And now the palace gates are open'd wide, The guests appear in order, side by side, And, placed in state, the bridegroom and the bride. The breathing flute's soft notes are heard around, And the shrill trumpets mix their silver sound; The vaulted roofs with echoing music ring, 320 These touch the vocal stops, and those the trembling string. Not thus Amphion tuned the warbling lyre, Nor Joab the sounding clarion could inspire, Nor fierce Theodamas, whose sprightly strain Could swell the soul to rage, and fire the martial train.

Bacchus himself, the nuptial feast to grace, (So poets sing) was present on the place: And lovely Venus, goddess of delight, Shook high her flaming torch in open sight, And danced around, and smiled on every knight: 330 Pleased her best servant would his courage try, No less in wedlock than in liberty. Full many an age old Hymen had not spied So kind a bridegroom, or so bright a bride. Ye bards! renown'd among the tuneful throng For gentle lays, and joyous nuptial song, Think not your softest numbers can display The matchless glories of this blissful day; The joys are such as far transcend your rage, When tender youth has wedded stooping age. 340

The beauteous dame sat smiling at the board, And darted amorous glances at her lord. Not Hester's self, whose charms the Hebrews sing, E'er look'd so lovely on her Persian king: Bright as the rising sun in summer's day, And fresh and blooming as the month of May! The joyful knight survey'd her by his side, Nor envied Paris with his Spartan bride: Still as his mind revolved with vast delight Th' entrancing raptures of th' approaching night, 350 Restless he sat, invoking every power To speed his bliss, and haste the happy hour. Meantime the vigorous dancers beat the ground, And songs were sung, and flowing bowls went round. With odorous spices they perfumed the place, And mirth and pleasure shone in every face.

Damian alone, of all the menial train, Sad in the midst of triumphs, sigh'd for pain; Damian alone, the knight's obsequious squire, Consumed at heart, and fed a secret fire. 360 His lovely mistress all his soul possess'd, He look'd, he languish'd, and could take no rest: His task perform'd, he sadly went his way, Fell on his bed, and loath'd the light of day: There let him lie; till his relenting dame Weep in her turn, and waste in equal flame.

The weary sun, as learned poets write, Forsook th' horizon, and roll'd down the light; While glittering stars his absent beams supply. And night's dark mantle overspread the sky. 370 Then rose the guests, and, as the time required, Each paid his thanks, and decently retired.

The foe once gone, our knight prepared t' undress, So keen he was, and eager to possess; But first thought fit th' assistance to receive, Which grave physicians scruple not to give: Satyrion near, with hot eringoes stood, Cantharides, to fire the lazy blood, Whose use old bards describe in luscious rhymes, And critics learn'd explain to modern times. 380

By this the sheets were spread, the bride undress'd, The room was sprinkled, and the bed was bless'd. What next ensued beseems not me to say; 'Tis sung, he labour'd till the dawning day, Then briskly sprung from bed, with heart so light, As all were nothing he had done by night, And sipp'd his cordial as he sat upright. He kiss'd his balmy spouse with wanton play, And feebly sung a lusty roundelay: Then on the couch his weary limbs he cast; 390 For every labour must have rest at last.

But anxious cares the pensive squire oppress'd, Sleep fled his eyes, and peace forsook his breast; The raging flames that in his bosom dwell, He wanted art to hide, and means to tell: Yet hoping time th' occasion might betray, Composed a sonnet to the lovely May; Which, writ and folded with the nicest art, He wrapp'd in silk, and laid upon his heart.

When now the fourth revolving day was run, 400 ('Twas June, and Cancer had received the sun), Forth from her chamber came the beauteous bride; The good old knight moved slowly by her side. High mass was sung; they feasted in the hall; The servants round stood ready at their call The squire alone was absent from the board, And much his sickness grieved his worthy lord, Who pray'd his spouse, attended with her train, To visit Damian, and divert his pain. Th' obliging dames obey'd with one consent: 410 They left the hall, and to his lodging went. The female tribe surround him as he lay, And close beside him sat the gentle May: Where, as she tried his pulse, he softly drew A heaving sigh, and cast a mournful view! Then gave his bill, and bribed the Powers divine With secret vows, to favour his design.

Who studies now but discontented May? On her soft couch uneasily she lay: 420 The lumpish husband snored away the night, Till coughs awaked him near the morning light. What then he did, I'll not presume to tell, Nor if she thought herself in heaven or hell: Honest and dull in nuptial bed they lay, Till the bell toll'd, and all arose to pray.

Were it by forceful destiny decreed, Or did from chance, or nature's power proceed; Or that some star, with aspect kind to love, Shed its selectest influence from above; Whatever was the cause, the tender dame 430 Felt the first motions of an infant flame; Received th' impressions of the love-sick squire, And wasted in the soft infectious fire.

Ye fair, draw near, let May's example move Your gentle minds to pity those who love! Had some fierce tyrant in her stead been found, The poor adorer sure had hang'd or drown'd; But she, your sex's mirror, free from pride, Was much too meek to prove a homicide.

But to my tale:—Some sages have defined 440 Pleasure the sovereign bliss of humankind: Our knight (who studied much, we may suppose) Derived his high philosophy from those; For, like a prince, he bore the vast expense Of lavish pomp, and proud magnificence: His house was stately, his retinue gay, Large was his train, and gorgeous his array. His spacious garden, made to yield to none, Was compass'd round with walls of solid stone; Priapus could not half describe the grace 450 (Though god of gardens) of this charming place: A place to tire the rambling wits of France In long descriptions, and exceed romance: Enough to shame the gentlest bard that sings Of painted meadows, and of purling springs.

Full in the centre of the flowery ground A crystal fountain spread its streams around, The fruitful banks with verdant laurels crown'd. About this spring (if ancient fame say true) The dapper elves their moonlight sports pursue: 460 Their pigmy king, and little fairy queen, In circling dances gamboll'd on the green, While tuneful sprites a merry concert made, And airy music warbled through the shade.

Hither the noble knight would oft repair, (His scene of pleasure, and peculiar care): For this he held it dear, and always bore The silver key that lock'd the garden door. To this sweet place, in summer's sultry heat, He used from noise and business to retreat: 470 And here in dalliance spend the livelong day, Solus cum sola, with his sprightly May: For whate'er work was undischarged abed, The duteous knight in this fair garden sped.

But ah! what mortal lives of bliss secure? How short a space our worldly joys endure! O Fortune! fair, like all thy treacherous kind, But faithless still, and wavering as the wind! O painted monster, form'd mankind to cheat With pleasing poison, and with soft deceit! 480 This rich, this amorous, venerable knight, Amidst his ease, his solace, and delight, Struck blind by thee, resigns his days to grief, And calls on death, the wretch's last relief.

The rage of jealousy then seized his mind, For much he fear'd the faith of womankind. His wife, not suffer'd from his side to stray, Was captive kept; he watch'd her night and day, Abridged her pleasures, and confined her sway. Full oft in tears did hapless May complain, 490 And sigh'd full oft; but sigh'd and wept in vain: She look'd on Damian with a lover's eye; For oh, 'twas fix'd; she must possess or die! Nor less impatience vex'd her amorous squire, Wild with delay, and burning with desire. Watch'd as she was, yet could he not refrain By secret writing to disclose his pain; The dame by signs reveal'd her kind intent, Till both were conscious what each other meant.

Ah! gentle knight, what would thy eyes avail, 500 Though they could see as far as ships can sail? 'Tis better, sure, when blind, deceived to be, Than be deluded when a man can see!

Argus himself, so cautious and so wise, Was overwatch'd, for all his hundred eyes: So many an honest husband may, 'tis known, Who, wisely, never thinks the case his own.

The dame at last, by diligence and care, Procured the key her knight was wont to bear; She took the wards in wax before the fire, 510 And gave th' impression to the trusty squire. By means of this some wonder shall appear, Which, in due place and season, you may hear. Well sung sweet Ovid, in the days of yore, What slight is that which love will not explore? And Pyramus and Thisbe plainly show The feats true lovers, when they list, can do: Though watch'd and captive, yet in spite of all, They found the art of kissing through a wall.

But now no longer from our tale to stray; 520 It happ'd, that once, upon a summer's day, Our reverend knight was urged to amorous play; He raised his spouse ere matin-bell was rung, And thus his morning canticle he sung:

'Awake, my love, disclose thy radiant eyes! Arise, my wife, my beauteous lady, rise! Hear how the doves with pensive notes complain, And in soft murmurs tell the trees their pain: The winter's past; the clouds and tempests fly; The sun adorns the fields, and brightens all the sky. 530 Fair without spot, whose every charming part My bosom wounds, and captivates my heart! Come, and in mutual pleasures let's engage, Joy of my life, and comfort of my age!'

This heard, to Damian straight a sign she made To haste before; the gentle squire obey'd: Secret and undescried he took his way, And, ambush'd close, behind an arbour lay.

It was not long ere January came, And hand in hand with him his lovely dame; 540 Blind as he was, not doubting all was sure, He turn'd the key, and made the gate secure.

'Here let us walk,' he said, 'observed by none, Conscious of pleasures to the world unknown: So may my soul have joy, as thou, my wife, Art far the dearest solace of my life; And rather would I choose, by heaven above! To die this instant, than to lose thy love. Reflect what truth was in my passion shown, When, unendow'd, I took thee for my own, 550 And sought no treasure but thy heart alone. Old as I am, and now deprived of sight, Whilst thou art faithful to thy own true knight, Nor age, nor blindness rob me of delight. Each other loss with patience I can bear, The loss of thee is what I only fear.

'Consider then, my lady, and my wife, The solid comforts of a virtuous life. As, first, the love of Christ himself you gain; Next, your own honour undefiled maintain; 560 And, lastly, that which sure your mind must move, My whole estate shall gratify your love: Make your own terms, and ere to-morrow's sun Displays his light, by heaven, it shall be done! I seal the contract with a holy kiss, And will perform, by this—my dear, and this— Have comfort, spouse, nor think thy lord unkind; 'Tis love, not jealousy, that fires my mind! For when thy charms my sober thoughts engage, And join'd to them my own unequal age, 570 From thy dear side I have no power to part, Such secret transports warm my melting heart. For who that once possess'd those heavenly charms, Could live one moment absent from thy arms?'

He ceased, and May with modest grace replied, (Weak was her voice, as while she spoke she cried): 'Heaven knows (with that a tender sigh she drew) I have a soul to save as well as you; And, what no less you to my charge commend, My dearest honour will to death defend. 580 To you in holy church I gave my hand, And join'd my heart in wedlock's sacred band: Yet after this, if you distrust my care, Then hear, my lord, and witness what I swear:

'First may the yawning earth her bosom rend, And let me hence to hell alive descend; Or die the death I dread no less than hell, Sew'd in a sack, and plunged into a well, Ere I my fame by one lewd act disgrace, Or once renounce the honour of my race. 590 For know, sir knight, of gentle blood I came; I loathe a whore, and startle at the name. But jealous men on their own crimes reflect, And learn from thence their ladies to suspect: Else why these heedless cautions, sir, to me These doubts and fears of female constancy This chime still rings in every lady's ear, The only strain a wife must hope to hear.'

Thus while she spoke a sidelong glance she cast, Where Damian, kneeling, worshipp'd as she pass'd. 600 She saw him watch the motions of her eye, And singled out a pear-tree planted nigh: 'Twas charged with fruit that made a goodly show, And hung with dangling pears was every bough. Thither th' obsequious squire address'd his pace, And, climbing, in the summit took his place; The knight and lady walk'd beneath in view, Where let us leave them and our tale pursue.

'Twas now the season when the glorious sun His heavenly progress through the Twins had run; 610 And Jove, exalted, his mild influence yields, To glad the glebe, and paint the flowery fields: Clear was the day, and Phoebus, rising bright, Had streak'd the azure firmament with light; He pierced the glittering clouds with golden streams, And warm'd the womb of earth with genial beams.

It so befell, in that fair morning tide, The fairies sported on the garden side, And in the midst their monarch and his bride. So featly tripp'd the light-foot ladies round, 620 The knights so nimbly o'er the greensward bound, That scarce they bent the flowers or touch'd the ground. The dances ended, all the fairy train For pinks and daisies search'd the flowery plain; While on a bank reclined of rising green, Thus, with a frown, the king bespoke his queen:

''Tis too apparent, argue what you can, The treachery you women use to man: A thousand authors have this truth made out, And sad experience leaves no room for doubt. 630

'Heaven rest thy spirit, noble Solomon! A wiser monarch never saw the sun: All wealth, all honours, the supreme degree Of earthly bliss, was well bestow'd on thee! For sagely hast thou said, Of all mankind, One only just, and righteous, hope to find: But shouldst thou search the spacious world around, Yet one good woman is not to be found.

'Thus says the king, who knew your wickedness; The son of Sirach testifies no less. 640 So may some wild-fire on your bodies fall, Or some devouring plague consume you all; As well you view the lecher in the tree, And well this honourable knight you see: But, since he's blind and old (a helpless case), His squire shall cuckold him before your face.

'Now by my own dread majesty I swear, And by this awful sceptre which I bear, No impious wretch shall 'scape unpunish'd long, That in my presence offers such a wrong. 650 I will this instant undeceive the knight, And in the very act restore his sight: And set the strumpet here in open view, A warning to these ladies, and to you, And all the faithless sex, for ever to be true.'

'And will you so,' replied the queen, 'indeed? Now, by my mother's soul, it is decreed, She shall not want an answer at her need. For her, and for her daughters, I'll engage, And all the sex in each succeeding age; 660 Art shall be theirs to varnish an offence, And fortify their crimes with confidence. Nay, were they taken in a strict embrace, Seen with both eyes, and pinion'd on the place; All they shall need is to protest and swear, Breathe a soft sigh, and drop a tender tear; Till their wise husbands, gull'd by arts like these, Grow gentle, tractable, and tame as geese.

'What though this slanderous Jew, this Solomon, Call'd women fools, and knew full many a one; 670 The wiser wits of later times declare How constant, chaste, and virtuous women are: Witness the martyrs who resign'd their breath, Serene in torments, unconcern'd in death; And witness next what Roman authors tell, How Arria, Portia, and Lucretia fell.

'But since the sacred leaves to all are free, And men interpret texts, why should not we? By this no more was meant than to have shown That sovereign goodness dwells in Him alone, 680 Who only Is, and is but only One. But grant the worst; shall women then be weigh'd By every word that Solomon hath said What though this king (as ancient story boasts) Built a fair temple to the Lord of Hosts; He ceased at last his Maker to adore, And did as much for idol gods, or more. Beware what lavish praises you confer On a rank lecher and idolater; Whose reign indulgent God, says Holy Writ, 690 Did but for David's righteous sake permit; David the monarch after Heaven's own mind, Who loved our sex, and honour'd all our kind.

'Well, I'm a woman, and as such must speak; Silence would swell me, and my heart would break. Know, then, I scorn your dull authorities, Your idle wits, and all their learned lies: By heaven, those authors are our sex's foes, Whom, in our right, I must and will oppose!'

'Nay,' quoth the king, 'dear madam, be not wroth; 700 I yield it up; but since I gave my oath, That this much-injured knight again should see; It must be done—I am a king,' said he, 'And one whose faith has ever sacred been—'

'And so has mine' (she said)—'I am a queen: Her answer she shall have, I undertake; And thus an end of all dispute I make. Try when you list; and you shall find, my lord, It is not in our sex to break our word.'

We leave them here in this heroic strain, 710 And to the knight our story turns again; Who in the garden, with his lovely May, Sung merrier than the cuckoo or the jay: This was his song, 'Oh kind and constant be; Constant and kind I'll ever prove to thee.'

Thus singing as he went, at last he drew By easy steps to where the pear-tree grew: The longing dame look'd up, and spied her love Full fairly perch'd among the boughs above. She stopp'd, and sighing, 'O good gods!' she cried, 720 'What pangs, what sudden shoots distend my side Oh for that tempting fruit, so fresh, so green; Help, for the love of heaven's immortal queen! Help, dearest lord, and save at once the life Of thy poor infant, and thy longing wife!'

Sore sigh'd the knight to hear his lady's cry, But could not climb, and had no servant nigh: Old as he was, and void of eyesight too, What could, alas! a helpless husband do? 'And must I languish, then, (she said), and die, 730 Yet view the lovely fruit before my eye? At least, kind sir, for charity's sweet sake, Vouchsafe the trunk between your arms to take; Then from your back I might ascend the tree; Do you but stoop, and leave the rest to me.'

'With all my soul,' he thus replied again, 'I'd spend my dearest blood to ease thy pain.' With that his back against the trunk he bent; She seized a twig, and up the tree she went.

Now prove your patience, gentle ladies all! 740 Nor let on me your heavy anger fall: 'Tis truth I tell, though not in phrase refined; Though blunt my tale, yet honest is my mind. What feats the lady in the tree might do, I pass, as gambols never known to you; But sure it was a merrier fit, she swore, Than in her life she ever felt before.

In that nice moment, lo! the wondering knight Look'd out, and stood restored to sudden sight. Straight on the tree his eager eyes he bent, 750 As one whose thoughts were on his spouse intent; But when he saw his bosom-wife so dress'd, His rage was such as cannot be express'd: Not frantic mothers, when their infants die, With louder clamours rend the vaulted sky: He cried, he roar'd, he storm'd, he tore his hair: 'Death! hell! and furies! what dost thou do there?'

'What ails my lord?' the trembling dame replied, 'I thought your patience had been better tried: Is this your love, ungrateful and unkind, 760 This my reward for having cured the blind? Why was I taught to make my husband see, By struggling with a man upon a tree Did I for this the power of magic prove? Unhappy wife, whose crime was too much love!'

'If this be struggling, by this holy light, 'Tis struggling with a vengeance (quoth the knight): So Heaven preserve the sight it has restored, As with these eyes I plainly saw thee whored; Whored by my slave—perfidious wretch! may hell 770 As surely seize thee, as I saw too well.'

'Guard me, good angels!' cried the gentle May, 'Pray heaven this magic work the proper way! Alas, my love! 'tis certain, could you see, You ne'er had used these killing words to me: So help me, Fates! as 'tis no perfect sight, But some faint glimmering of a doubtful light.'

'What I have said (quoth he) I must maintain, For by th' immortal powers it seem'd too plain—'

'By all those powers, some frenzy seized your mind 780 (Replied the dame), are these the thanks I find? Wretch that I am, that e'er I was so kind!' She said; a rising sigh express'd her woe, The ready tears apace began to flow, And, as they fell, she wiped from either eye The drops (for women, when they list, can cry).

The knight was touch'd; and in his looks appear'd Signs of remorse, while thus his spouse he cheer'd: 'Madam, 'tis past, and my short anger o'er! Come down, and vex your tender heart no more: 790 Excuse me, dear, if aught amiss was said, For, on my soul, amends shall soon be made: Let my repentance your forgiveness draw; By heaven, I swore but what I thought I saw.'

'Ah, my loved lord! 'twas much unkind (she cried) On bare suspicion thus to treat your bride. But, till your sight's establish'd, for a while, Imperfect objects may your sense beguile. Thus, when from sleep we first our eyes display, The balls are wounded with the piercing ray, 800 And dusky vapours rise and intercept the day; So, just recovering from the shades of night, Your swimming eyes are drunk with sudden light, Strange phantoms dance around, and skim before your sight. Then, sir, be cautious, nor too rashly deem; Heaven knows how seldom things are what they seem! Consult your reason, and you soon shall find 'Twas you were jealous, not your wife unkind: Jove ne'er spoke oracle more true than this, None judge so wrong as those who think amiss.' 810

With that she leap'd into her lord's embrace, With well-dissembled virtue in her face. He hugg'd her close, and kiss'd her o'er and o'er, Disturb'd with doubts and jealousies no more: Both, pleased and bless'd, renew'd their mutual vows: A fruitful wife, and a believing spouse.

Thus ends our tale, whose moral next to make, Let all wise husbands hence example take; And pray, to crown the pleasure of their lives, To be so well deluded by their wives. 820



THE WIFE OF BATH, HER PROLOGUE.

FROM CHAUCER.

Behold the woes of matrimonial life, And hear with reverence an experienced wife! To dear-bought wisdom give the credit due, And think, for once, a woman tells you true. In all these trials I have borne a part: I was myself the scourge that caused the smart; For, since fifteen, in triumph have I led Five captive husbands from the church to bed.

Christ saw a wedding once, the Scripture says, And saw but one, 'tis thought, in all his days; 10 Whence some infer, whose conscience is too nice, No pious Christian ought to marry twice.

But let them read, and solve me if they can, The words address'd to the Samaritan; Five times in lawful wedlock she was join'd, And sure the certain stint was ne'er defined.

'Increase and multiply' was Heaven's command, And that's a text I clearly understand: This, too, 'Let men their sires and mothers leave, And to their dearer wives for ever cleave.' 20 More wives than one by Solomon were tried, Or else the wisest of mankind's belied. I've had myself full many a merry fit, And trust in heaven I may have many yet; For when my transitory spouse, unkind, Shall die and leave his woful wife behind, I'll take the next good Christian I can find.

Paul, knowing one could never serve our turn, Declared 'twas better far to wed than burn. There's danger in assembling fire and tow; 30 I grant 'em that; and what it means you know. The same apostle, too, has elsewhere own'd No precept for virginity he found: 'Tis but a counsel—and we women still Take which we like, the counsel or our will.

I envy not their bliss, if he or she Think fit to live in perfect chastity: Pure let them be, and free from taint or vice; I for a few slight spots am not so nice. Heaven calls us different ways; on these bestows 40 One proper gift, another grants to those; Not every man's obliged to sell his store, And give up all his substance to the poor: Such as are perfect may, I can't deny; But, by your leaves, divines! so am not I.

Full many a saint, since first the world began, Lived an unspotted maid in spite of man: Let such (a God's name) with fine wheat be fed, And let us honest wives eat barley bread. For me, I'll keep the post assign'd by heaven, 50 And use the copious talent it has given: Let my good spouse pay tribute, do me right, And keep an equal reckoning every night; His proper body is not his, but mine; For so said Paul, and Paul's a sound divine.

Know then, of those five husbands I have had, Three were just tolerable, two were bad. The three were old, but rich and fond beside, And toil'd most piteously to please their bride; But since their wealth (the best they had) was mine, 60 The rest, without much loss, I could resign: Sure to be loved, I took no pains to please, Yet had more pleasure far than they had ease.

Presents flow'd in apace: with showers of gold They made their court, like Jupiter of old: If I but smiled, a sudden youth they found, And a new palsy seized them when I frown'd. Ye sovereign wives! give ear, and understand: Thus shall ye speak, and exercise command; For never was it given to mortal man 70 To lie so boldly as we women can: Forswear the fact, though seen with both his eyes, And call your maids to witness how he lies.

Hark, old Sir Paul! ('twas thus I used to say) Whence is our neighbour's wife so rich and gay Treated, caress'd, where'er she's pleased to roam— I sit in tatters, and immured at home. Why to her house dost thou so oft repair? Art thou so amorous? and is she so fair? If I but see a cousin or a friend, 80 Lord! how you swell and rage, like any fiend! But you reel home, a drunken beastly bear, Then preach till midnight in your easy chair; Cry, Wives are false, and every woman evil, And give up all that's female to the devil. If poor (you say), she drains her husband's purse; If rich, she keeps her priest, or something worse; If highly born, intolerably vain, Vapours and pride by turns possess her brain; Now gaily mad, now sourly splenetic, 90 Freakish when well, and fretful when she's sick: If fair, then chaste she cannot long abide, By pressing youth attack'd on every side; If foul, her wealth the lusty lover lures, Or else her wit some fool-gallant procures, Or else she dances with becoming grace, Or shape excuses the defects of face. There swims no goose so gray, but soon or late She finds some honest gander for her mate.

Horses (thou say'st) and asses men may try, 100 And ring suspected vessels ere they buy; But wives, a random choice, untried they take, They dream in courtship, but in wedlock wake; Then, nor till then, the veil's removed away, And all the woman glares in open day.

You tell me, to preserve your wife's good grace, Your eyes must always languish on my face, Your tongue with constant flatteries feed my ear, And tag each sentence with 'My life! My dear!' If, by strange chance, a modest blush be raised, 110 Be sure my fine complexion must be praised. My garments always must be new and gay, And feasts still kept upon my wedding day. Then must my nurse be pleased, and favourite maid: And endless treats and endless visits paid To a long train of kindred, friends, allies: All this thou say'st, and all thou say'st are lies.

On Jenkin, too, you cast a squinting eye: What! can your 'prentice raise your jealousy? Fresh are his ruddy cheeks, his forehead fair, 120 And like the burnish'd gold his curling hair. But clear thy wrinkled brow, and quit thy sorrow, I'd scorn your 'prentice should you die to-morrow.

Why are thy chests all lock'd? on what design? Are not thy worldly goods and treasures mine? Sir, I'm no fool; nor shall you, by St John, Have goods and body to yourself alone. One you shall quit, in spite of both your eyes— I heed not, I, the bolts, the locks, the spies. If you had wit, you'd say, 'Go where you will, 130 Dear spouse! I credit not the tales they tell: Take all the freedoms of a married life; I know thee for a virtuous, faithful wife.'

Lord! when you have enough, what need you care How merrily soever others fare? Though all the day I give and take delight, Doubt not, sufficient will be left at night. 'Tis but a just and rational desire To light a taper at a neighbour's fire. There's danger too, you think, in rich array, 140 And none can long be modest that are gay. The cat, if you but singe her tabby skin, The chimney keeps, and sits content within: But once grown sleek, will from her corner run, Sport with her tail, and wanton in the sun: She licks her fair round face, and frisks abroad To show her fur, and to be catterwaw'd.

Lo! thus, my friends, I wrought to my desires These three right ancient venerable sires. I told 'em, Thus you say, and thus you do; 150 And told 'em false, but Jenkin swore 'twas true. I, like a dog, could bite as well as whine, And first complain'd whene'er the guilt was mine. I tax'd them oft with wenching and amours, When their weak legs scarce dragg'd them out of doors And swore, the rambles that I took by night Were all to spy what damsels they bedight: That colour brought me many hours of mirth; For all this wit is given us from our birth. Heaven gave to woman the peculiar grace 160 To spin, to weep, and cully human race. By this nice conduct and this prudent course, By murmuring, wheedling, stratagem, and force, I still prevail'd, and would be in the right, Or curtain lectures made a restless night. If once my husband's arm was o'er my side, 'What! so familiar with your spouse?' I cried: I levied first a tax upon his need; Then let him—'twas a nicety indeed! Let all mankind this certain maxim hold; 170 Marry who will, our sex is to be sold. With empty hands no tassels you can lure, But fulsome love for gain we can endure; For gold we love the impotent and old, And heave, and pant, and kiss, and cling, for gold. Yet with embraces curses oft I mix'd, Then kiss'd again, and chid, and rail'd betwixt. Well, I may make my will in peace, and die, For not one word in man's arrears am I. To drop a dear dispute I was unable, 180 E'en though the Pope himself had sat at table: But when my point was gain'd, then thus I spoke: 'Billy, my dear, how sheepishly you look! Approach, my spouse, and let me kiss thy cheek; Thou shouldst be always thus, resign'd and meek! Of Job's great patience since so oft you preach, Well should you practise who so well can teach. 'Tis difficult to do, I must allow, But I, my dearest! will instruct you how. Great is the blessing of a prudent wife, 190 Who puts a period to domestic strife. One of us two must rule, and one obey; And since in man right reason bears the sway, Let that frail thing, weak woman, have her way. The wives of all my family have ruled Their tender husbands, and their passions cool'd. Fye! 'tis unmanly thus to sigh and groan: What! would you have me to yourself alone? Why, take me, love! take all and every part! Here's your revenge! you love it at your heart. 200 Would I vouchsafe to sell what nature gave, You little think what custom I could have. But see! I'm all your own—nay, hold—for shame! What means my dear?—indeed, you are to blame.'

Thus with my first three lords I pass'd my life, A very woman, and a very wife. What sums from these old spouses I could raise, Procured young husbands in my riper days. Though past my bloom, not yet decay'd was I, Wanton and wild, and chatter'd like a pie. 210 In country-dances still I bore the bell, And sung as sweet as evening Philomel. To clear my quail-pipe, and refresh my soul, Full oft I drain'd the spicy nut-brown bowl; Rich luscious wines, that youthful blood improve, And warm the swelling veins to feats of love: For 'tis as sure as cold engenders hail, A liquorish mouth must have a lecherous tail: Wine lets no lover unrewarded go, As all true gamesters by experience know. 220

But oh, good gods! whene'er a thought I cast On all the joys of youth and beauty past, To find in pleasures I have had my part, Still warms me to the bottom of my heart. This wicked world was once my dear delight; Now, all my conquests, all my charms, good night! The flour consumed, the best that now I can Is e'en to make my market of the bran.

My fourth dear spouse was not exceeding true; He kept, 'twas thought, a private miss or two: 230 But all that score I paid—As how? you'll say, Not with my body, in a filthy way; But I so dress'd, and danced, and drank, and dined, And view'd a friend with eyes so very kind, As stung his heart, and made his marrow fry, With burning rage and frantic jealousy His soul, I hope, enjoys eternal glory, For here on earth I was his purgatory. Oft, when his shoe the most severely wrung, He put on careless airs, and sat and sung. 240 How sore I gall'd him only heaven could know, And he that felt, and I that caused the woe: He died, when last from pilgrimage I came, With other gossips from Jerusalem, And now lies buried underneath a rood, Fair to be seen, and rear'd of honest wood: A tomb, indeed, with fewer sculptures graced Than that Mausolus' pious widow placed, Or where enshrined the great Darius lay; But cost on graves is merely thrown away. 250 The pit fill'd up, with turf we cover'd o'er; So bless the good man's soul! I say no more.

Now for my fifth loved lord, the last and best; (Kind heaven afford him everlasting rest!) Full hearty was his love, and I can show The tokens on my ribs in black and blue; Yet with a knack my heart he could have won, While yet the smart was shooting in the bone. How quaint an appetite in woman reigns! Free gifts we scorn, and love what costs us pains: 260 Let men avoid us, and on them we leap; A glutted market makes provisions cheap.

In pure goodwill I took this jovial spark, Of Oxford he, a most egregious clerk. He boarded with a widow in the town, A trusty gossip, one dame Alison; Full well the secrets of my soul she knew, Better than e'er our parish priest could do. To her I told whatever could befall: Had but my husband piss'd against a wall, 270 Or done a thing that might have cost his life, She—and my niece—and one more worthy wife, Had known it all: what most he would conceal, To these I made no scruple to reveal. Oft has he blush'd from ear to ear for shame That e'er he told a secret to his dame.

It so befell, in holy time of Lent, That oft a day I to this gossip went; (My husband, thank my stars, was out of town) From house to house we rambled up and down, 280 This clerk, myself, and my good neighbour, Alse, To see, be seen, to tell, and gather tales. Visits to every church we daily paid, And march'd in every holy masquerade; The stations duly, and the vigils kept; Not much we fasted, but scarce ever slept. At sermons, too, I shone in scarlet gay: The wasting moth ne'er spoil'd my best array; The cause was this, I wore it every day.

'Twas when fresh May her early blossoms yields, 290 This clerk and I were walking in the fields. We grew so intimate, I can't tell how, I pawn'd my honour, and engaged my vow, If e'er I laid my husband in his urn, That he, and only he, should serve my turn. We straight struck hands, the bargain was agreed; I still have shifts against a time of need: The mouse that always trusts to one poor hole Can never be a mouse of any soul.

I vow'd I scarce could sleep since first I knew him, 300 And durst be sworn he had bewitch'd me to him If e'er I slept, I dream'd of him alone, And dreams foretell, as learned men have shown: All this I said; but dreams, sirs, I had none: I follow'd but my crafty crony's lore, Who bid me tell this lie—and twenty more.

Thus day by day, and month by mouth we pass'd; It pleased the Lord to take my spouse at last. I tore my gown, I soil'd my locks with dust, And beat my breasts, as wretched widows must. 310 Before my face my handkerchief I spread, To hide the flood of tears I did not shed. The good man's coffin to the church was borne; Around, the neighbours, and my clerk, too, mourn: But as he march'd, good gods! he show'd a pair Of legs and feet so clean, so strong, so fair! Of twenty winters' age he seem'd to be; I (to say truth) was twenty more than he; But vigorous still, a lively buxom dame, And had a wondrous gift to quench a flame. 320 A conjuror once, that deeply could divine, Assured me Mars in Taurus was my sign. As the stars order'd, such my life has been: Alas, alas! that ever love was sin! Fair Venus gave me fire and sprightly grace, And Mars assurance and a dauntless face. By virtue of this powerful constellation, I follow'd always my own inclination.

But to my tale: A month scarce pass'd away, With dance and song we kept the nuptial day. 330 All I possess'd I gave to his command, My goods and chattels, money, house, and land; But oft repented, and repent it still; He proved a rebel to my sovereign will; Nay, once, by heaven! he struck me on the face; Hear but the fact, and judge yourselves the case.

Stubborn as any lioness was I, And knew full well to raise my voice on high; As true a rambler as I was before, And would be so in spite of all he swore. 340 He against this right sagely would advise, And old examples set before my eyes; Tell how the Roman matrons led their life, Of Gracchus' mother, and Duilius' wife; And close the sermon, as beseem'd his wit, With some grave sentence out of Holy Writ. Oft would he say, 'Who builds his house on sands, Pricks his blind horse across the fallow lands; Or lets his wife abroad with pilgrims roam, Deserves a fool's cap and long ears at home.' 350 All this avail'd not, for whoe'er he be That tells my faults, I hate him mortally! And so do numbers more, I'll boldly say, Men, women, clergy, regular, and lay.

My spouse (who was, you know, to learning bred) A certain treatise oft at evening read, Where divers authors (whom the devil confound For all their lies) were in one volume bound: Valerius whole, and of St Jerome part; Chrysippus and Tertullian, Ovid's Art, 360 Solomon's Proverbs, Eloisa's Loves, And many more than, sure, the Church approves. More legends were there here of wicked wives Than good in all the Bible and saints' lives. Who drew the lion vanquish'd? 'Twas a man: But could we women write as scholars can, Men should stand mark'd with far more wickedness Than all the sons of Adam could redress. Love seldom haunts the breast where learning lies, And Venus sets ere Mercury can rise. 370 Those play the scholars who can't play the men, And use that weapon which they have, their pen: When old, and past the relish of delight, Then down they sit, and in their dotage write, That not one woman keeps her marriage-vow. (This by the way, but to my purpose now:)

It chanced my husband, on a winter's night, Read in this book aloud with strange delight, How the first female (as the Scriptures show) Brought her own spouse and all his race to woe; 380 How Samson fell; and he whom Dejanire Wrapp'd in th' envenom'd shirt, and set on fire; How cursed Eriphyle her lord betray'd, And the dire ambush Clytemnestra laid; But what most pleased him was the Cretan dame And husband-bull—Oh, monstrous! fye, for shame!

He had by heart the whole detail of woe Xantippe made her good man undergo; How oft she scolded in a day he knew, How many pisspots on the sage she threw; 390 Who took it patiently, and wiped his head: 'Rain follows thunder,' that was all he said.

He read how Arius to his friend complain'd A fatal tree was growing in his land, On which three wives successively had twined A sliding noose, and waver'd in the wind. 'Where grows this plant,' replied the friend, 'oh! where? For better fruit did never orchard bear: Give me some slip of this most blissful tree, And in my garden planted it shall be!' 400

Then how two wives their lords' destruction prove, Through hatred one, and one through too much love; That for her husband mix'd a poisonous draught, And this for lust an amorous philtre bought: The nimble juice soon seized his giddy head, Frantic at night, and in the morning dead.

How some with swords their sleeping lords have slain, And some have hammer'd nails into their brain, And some have drench'd them with a deadly potion: All this he read, and read with great devotion. 410

Long time I heard, and swell'd, and blush'd, and frown'd; But when no end of these vile tales I found, When still he read, and laugh'd, and read again, And half the night was thus consumed in vain, Provoked to vengeance, three large leaves I tore, And with one buffet fell'd him on the floor. With that my husband in a fury rose, And down he settled me with hearty blows. I groan'd, and lay extended on my side; 'Oh! thou hast slain me for my wealth!' I cried, 420 'Yet I forgive thee—take my last embrace—' He wept, kind soul! and stoop'd to kiss my face: I took him such a box as turn'd him blue, Then sigh'd, and cried, 'Adieu, my dear, adieu!'

But after many a hearty struggle past, I condescended to be pleased at last. Soon as he said, 'My mistress and my wife! Do what you list the term of all your life,' I took to heart the merits of the cause, And stood content to rule by wholesome laws; 430 Received the reins of absolute command, With all the government of house and land, And empire o'er his tongue and o'er his hand. As for the volume that reviled the dames, 'Twas torn to fragments, and condemn'd to flames.

Now, Heaven, on all my husbands gone bestow Pleasures above for tortures felt below: That rest they wish'd for, grant them in the grave, And bless those souls my conduct help'd to save!



PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUES



A PROLOGUE

TO A PLAY FOR MR DENNIS'S BENEFIT, IN 1733, WHEN HE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS, A LITTLE BEFORE HIS DEATH.

As when that hero, who, in each campaign, Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain, Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe! Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe: Was there a generous, a reflecting mind, But pitied Belisarius, old and blind? Was there a chief but melted at the sight? A common soldier, but who clubb'd his mite? Such, such emotions should in Britons rise, When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies; 10 Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns, Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns; A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce, Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse: How changed from him who made the boxes groan, And shook the stage with thunders all his own! Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope, Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope! If there's a Briton then, true bred and born, Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn; 20 If there's a critic of distinguished rage; If there's a senior who contemns this age: Let him to night his just assistance lend, And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend.



PROLOGUE TO MR ADDISON'S 'CATO.'

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream through every age; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; 10 In pitying love, we but our weakness show, And wild ambition well deserves its woe. Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was: No common object to your sight displays, But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys, 20 A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state. While Cato gives his little senate laws, What bosom beats not in his country's cause? Who sees him act, but envies every deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? E'en when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars, The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Ignobly vain, and impotently great, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; 30 As her dead father's reverend image pass'd, The pomp was darkened, and the day o'ercast; The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye; The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by; Her last good man dejected Rome adored, And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword.

Britons, attend: be worth like this approved, And show you have the virtue to be moved. With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued: 40 Your scene precariously subsists too long On French translation and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage, Be justly warm'd with your own native rage: Such plays alone should win a British ear, As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.



PROLOGUE TO THOMSON'S 'SOPHONISBA.'[59]

When Learning, after the long Gothic night, Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd its light, With arts arising, Sophonisba rose; The tragic Muse, returning, wept her woes. With her th' Italian scene first learn'd to glow, And the first tears for her were taught to flow: Her charms the Gallic Muses next inspired; Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fired.

What foreign theatres with pride have shown, Britain, by juster title, makes her own. 10 When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight, And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write. For this a British author bids again The heroine rise, to grace the British scene: Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame, She asks, What bosom has not felt the same? Asks of the British youth—is silence there? She dares to ask it of the British fair. To-night our homespun author would be true, At once to nature, history, and you. 20 Well pleased to give our neighbours due applause, He owns their learning, but disdains their laws; Not to his patient touch, or happy flame, 'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame. If France excel him in one freeborn thought, The man, as well as poet, is in fault. Nature! informer of the poet's art, Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart, Thou art his guide; each passion, every line, Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine. 30 Be thou his judge: in every candid breast Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.



PROLOGUE, DESIGNED FOR MR D'URFEY'S LAST PLAY.

Grown old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard Your persevering, unexhausted bard; Damnation follows death in other men, But your damn'd poet lives and writes again. The adventurous lover is successful still, Who strives to please the fair against her will: Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy, Who in your own despite has strove to please ye. He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore, But ever writ, as none e'er writ before. 10 You modern wits, should each man bring his claim, Have desperate debentures on your fame; And little would be left you, I'm afraid, If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid. From this deep fund our author largely draws, Nor sinks his credit lower than it was. Though plays for honour in old time he made, 'Tis now for better reasons—to be paid. Believe him, he has known the world too long, And seen the death of much immortal song. 20 He says, poor poets lost, while players won, As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone. Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure, The comic Tom abounds in other treasure. Fame is at best an unperforming cheat; But 'tis substantial happiness to eat. Let ease, his last request, be of your giving, Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.



PROLOGUE TO 'THE THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE'

Authors are judged by strange capricious rules; The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools: Yet sure the best are most severely fated; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated. Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor; But fool 'gainst fool, is barbarous civil war. Why on all authors, then, should critics fall? Since some have writ, and shown no wit at all. Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it; Cry, 'Damn not us, but damn the French, who made it.' 10 By running goods these graceless owlers gain; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain; But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, And teach dull harlequins to grin in vain.

How shall our author hope a gentler fate, Who dares most impudently not translate? It had been civil, in these ticklish times, To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes; 20 Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end, But spare old England, lest you hurt a friend. If any fool is by our satire bit, Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit. Poets make characters, as salesmen clothes; We take no measure of your fops and beaux; But here all sizes and all shapes you meet, And fit yourselves, like chaps in Monmouth Street.

Gallants, look here! this fool's cap[60] has an air, 30 Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar. Let no one fool engross it, or confine A common blessing: now 'tis yours, now mine. But poets in all ages had the care To keep this cap for such as will, to wear. Our author has it now (for every wit Of course resign'd it to the next that writ) And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown;[61] Let him that takes it wear it as his own.



EPILOGUE TO MR ROWE'S 'JANE SHORE.'

DESIGNED FOR MRS OLDFIELD.

Prodigious this! the frail one of our play From her own sex should mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head aside, Peep'd in your fans, been serious thus, and cried— 'The play may pass—but that strange creature, Shore, I can't—indeed now—I so hate a whore—' Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, And thanks his stars he was not born a fool; So from a sister sinner you shall hear, 'How strangely you expose yourself, my dear!' 10 But let me die, all raillery apart, Our sex are still forgiving at their heart; And, did not wicked custom so contrive, We'd be the best good-natured things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale, That virtuous ladies envy while they rail; Such rage without, betrays the fire within; In some close corner of the soul they sin; Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice, Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice. 20 The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns, Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams. Would you enjoy soft nights and solid dinners? Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with sinners,

Well, if our author in the wife offends, He has a husband that will make amends; He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving; And sure such kind good creatures may be living. In days of old, they pardon'd breach of vows, Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse: 30 Plu—Plutarch, what's his name that writes his life? Tells us, that Cato dearly loved his wife: Yet if a friend, a night or so, should need her, He'd recommend her as a special breeder. To lend a wife, few here would scruple make; But, pray, which of you all would take her back? Though with the Stoic chief our stage may ring, The Stoic husband was the glorious thing. The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true, And loved his country—but what's that to you? 40 Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye, But the kind cuckold might instruct the city: There, many an honest man may copy Cato, Who ne'er saw naked sword, or look'd in Plato.

If, after all, you think it a disgrace, That Edward's miss thus perks it in your face; To see a piece of failing flesh and blood, In all the rest so impudently good; Faith, let the modest matrons of the town Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down. 50



MISCELLANIES



THE BASSET-TABLE.[62]

AN ECLOGUE.

CARDELIA.

The basset-table spread, the tallier come; Why stays Smilinda in the dressing-room? Rise, pensive nymph, the tallier waits for you!

SMILINDA.

Ah, madam, since my Sharper is untrue, I joyless make my once adored Alpeu. I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's chair, And whisper with that soft, deluding air, And those feign'd sighs which cheat the listening fair.

CARDELIA.

Is this the cause of your romantic strains? A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains. 10 As you by love, so I by fortune cross'd, One, one bad deal, three Septlevas have lost.

SMILINDA.

Is that the grief, which you compare with mine? With ease, the smiles of Fortune I resign: Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone! Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone.

CARDELIA.

A lover lost, is but a common care; And prudent nymphs against that change prepare: The Knave of Clubs thrice lost! Oh! who could guess This fatal stroke, this unforeseen distress? 20

SMILINDA.

See Betty Lovet! very apropos She all the cares of love and play does know: Dear Betty shall th' important point decide; Betty, who oft the pain of each has tried; Impartial, she shall say who suffers most, By cards' ill usage, or by lovers lost.

LOVET.

Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will I stay, Though time is precious, and I want some tea.

CARDELIA.

Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought, With fifty guineas (a great pen'orth) bought. 30 See, on the tooth-pick, Mars and Cupid strive; And both the struggling figures seem alive. Upon the bottom shines the queen's bright face; A myrtle foliage round the thimble-case. Jove, Jove himself, does on the scissors shine; The metal, and the workmanship, divine!

SMILINDA.

This snuff-box,—once the pledge of Sharper's love, When rival beauties for the present strove; At Corticelli's he the raffle won; Then first his passion was in public shown: 40 Hazardia blush'd, and turn'd her head aside, A rival's envy (all in vain) to hide. This snuff-box,—on the hinge see brilliants shine: This snuff-box will I stake; the prize is mine.

CARDELIA.

Alas! far lesser losses than I bear, Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear. And oh! what makes the disappointment hard, 'Twas my own lord that drew the fatal card. In complaisance, I took the Queen he gave; Though my own secret wish was for the Knave. 50 The Knave won Sonica, which I had chose; And the next pull, my Septleva I lose.

SMILINDA.

But ah! what aggravates the killing smart, The cruel thought, that stabs me to the heart; This cursed Ombrelia, this undoing fair, By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear; She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears, She owes to me the very charms she wears. An awkward thing, when first she came to town; Her shape unfashion'd, and her face unknown: 60 She was my friend; I taught her first to spread Upon her sallow cheeks enlivening red: I introduced her to the park and plays; And, by my interest, Cozens made her stays. Ungrateful wretch! with mimic airs grown pert, She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart.

CARDELIA.

Wretch that I was, how often have I swore, When Winnall tallied, I would punt no more? I know the bite, yet to my ruin run; And see the folly, which I cannot shun. 70

SMILINDA.

How many maids have Sharper's vows deceived? How many cursed the moment they believed? Yet his known falsehood could no warning prove: Ah! what is warning to a maid in love?

CARDELIA.

But of what marble must that breast be form'd, To gaze on basset, and remain unwarm'd? When Kings, Queens, Knaves, are set in decent rank; Exposed in glorious heaps the tempting bank, Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train; The winner's pleasure, and the loser's pain: 80 In bright confusion open rouleaus lie, They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye. Fired by the sight, all reason I disdain; My passions rise, and will not bear the rein. Look upon basset, you who reason boast, And see if reason must not there be lost.

SMILINDA.

What more than marble must that heart compose, Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows? Then, when he trembles, when his blushes rise, When awful love seems melting in his eyes! 90 With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves: He loves!—I whisper to myself—he loves! Such unfeign'd passion in his looks appears, I lose all memory of my former fears; My panting heart confesses all his charms, I yield at once, and sink into his arms: Think of that moment, you who prudence boast; For such a moment, prudence well were lost.

CARDELIA.

At the groom-porter's, batter'd bullies play, Some dukes at Mary-bone bowl time away. 100 But who the bowl or rattling dice compares To basset's heavenly joys, and pleasing cares?

SMILINDA.

Soft Simplicetta dotes upon a beau; Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show. Their several graces in my Sharper meet; Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.

LOVET.

Cease your contention, which has been too long; I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong. Attend, and yield to what I now decide; The equipage shall grace Smilinda's side: 110 The snuff-box to Cardelia I decree. Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.



LINES

ON RECEIVING FROM THE EIGHT HON. THE LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY[63] A STANDISH AND TWO PENS.

1 Yes, I beheld the Athenian queen Descend in all her sober charms; 'And take,' she said, and smiled serene, 'Take at this hand celestial arms:

2 'Secure the radiant weapons wield; This golden lance shall guard desert; And if a vice dares keep the field, This steel shall stab it to the heart.'

3 Awed, on my bended knees I fell, Received the weapons of the sky; And dipp'd them in the sable well, The fount of fame or infamy.

4 'What well? what weapon?' Flavia cries— 'A standish, steel, and golden pen! It came from Bertrand's,[64] not the skies; I gave it you to write again.

5 'But, friend, take heed whom you attack; You'll bring a house (I mean of peers) Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black, L—— and all about your ears.

6 'You'd write as smooth again on glass, And run, on ivory, so glib, As not to stick at fool or ass,[65] Nor stop at flattery or fib.[66]

7 'Athenian queen! and sober charms! I tell ye, fool, there's nothing in't: 'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;[67] In Dryden's Virgil see the print.[68]

8 'Come, if you'll be a quiet soul, That dares tell neither truth nor lies,[69] I'll list you in the harmless roll Of those that sing of these poor eyes.'



VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.

UN JOUR DIT UN AUTEUR, ETC.

Once (says an author—where I need not say) Two travellers found an oyster in their way; Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew strong, While, scale in hand, Dame Justice pass'd along. Before her each with clamour pleads the laws, Explain'd the matter and would win the cause. Dame Justice, weighing long the doubtful right, Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight. The cause of strife removed so rarely well, 'There,—take' (says Justice) 'take ye each a shell. We thrive at Westminster on fools like you: 'Twas a fat oyster—live in peace—adieu.'



ANSWER TO THE FOLLOWING QUESTION OF MRS HOWE.

What is prudery?

'Tis a bledam, Seen with wit and beauty seldom. 'Tis a fear that starts at shadows. Tis, (no, 'tisn't) like Miss Meadows. 'Tis a virgin hard of feature, Old, and void of all good-nature; Lean and fretful; would seem wise; Yet plays the fool before she dies. 'Tis an ugly, envious shrew, That rails at dear Lepell and you.



OCCASIONED BY SOME VERSES OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

Muse, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends, And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends, Let crowds of critics now my verse assail, Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail: This more than pays whole years of thankless pain; Time, health, and fortune are not lost in vain, Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends, And I and Malice from this hour are friends.



MACER: A CHARACTER.

When simple Macer, now of high renown, First sought a poet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all the ambition his high soul could feel, To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele. Some ends of verse his betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set up with these, he ventured on the town, And with a borrow'd play, out-did poor Crowne. There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little: 10 Like stunted, hide-bound trees that just have got Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot. Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits, his foes, but fools, his friends.

So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid; Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay, She flatters her good lady twice a-day; Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree, And strangely liked for her simplicity: In a translated suit, then tries the town, With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own: But just endured the winter she began, And in four months a batter'd harridan. Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.



SONG,

BY A PERSON OF QUALITY, WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733.

1 Fluttering, spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart, I a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art.

2 Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon flowery rocks.

3 Thus the Cyprian goddess, weeping, Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth: Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth.

4 Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, string the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

5 Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains.

6 Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows.

7 Melancholy smooth Maeander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

8 Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.



ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.

1 I know the thing that's most uncommon; (Envy be silent, and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

2 Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour, Not grave through pride, or gay through folly, An equal mixture of good humour, And sensible soft melancholy.

3 'Has she no faults, then (Envy says), sir?' Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear.



ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM,

COMPOSED OF MARBLES, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, AND MINERALS.

Thou who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent wave Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave; Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil, And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill, Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow, And latent metals innocently glow: Approach! Great Nature studiously behold! And eye the mine without a wish for gold. Approach: but awful! lo! the Aegerian grot,[70] Where, nobly-pensive, St John sate and thought; Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's soul. Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor, Who dare to love their country, and be poor!

VARIATIONS.

After VER. 6, in the MS.—

Yon see that island's wealth, where, only free, Earth to her entrails feels not tyranny.

—i.e. Britain is the only place on the globe which feels not tyranny even to its very entrails. Alluding to the condemnation of criminals to the mines, one of the inflictions of civil justice in most countries—W.

VER. 11, in MS. it was thus—

To Wyndham's breast the patriot passions stole.



ROXANA, OR THE DRAWING-ROOM.

AN ECLOGUE.

Roxana, from the Court returning late, Sigh'd her soft sorrow at St James's gate: Such heavy thoughts lay brooding in her breast, Not her own chairmen with more weight oppress'd: They curse the cruel weight they're doom'd to bear; She in more gentle sounds express'd her care.

'Was it for this, that I these roses wear? For this, new-set the jewels for my hair? Ah, Princess! with what zeal have I pursued! Almost forgot the duty of a prude. 10 This king I never could attend too soon; I miss'd my prayers, to get me dress'd by noon. For thee, ah! what for thee did I resign? My passions, pleasures, all that e'er was mine: I've sacrificed both modesty and ease; Left operas, and went to filthy plays: Double-entendres shock'd my tender ear; Yet even this, for thee, I chose to bear: In glowing youth, when nature bids be gay, And every joy of life before me lay; 20 By honour prompted, and by pride restrain'd, The pleasures of the young my soul disdain'd: Sermons I sought, and with a mien severe Censured my neighbours, and said daily prayer. Alas, how changed! with this same sermon-mien, The filthy What-d'ye-call-it[71]—I have seen. Ah, royal Princess! for whose sake I lost The reputation, which so dear had cost; I, who avoided every public place, When bloom and beauty bid me show my face, 30 Now near thee, constant, I each night abide, With never-failing duty, by thy side; Myself and daughters standing in a row, To all the foreigners a goodly show. Oft had your drawing-room been sadly thin, And merchants' wives close by your side had been, Had I not amply fill'd the empty place, And saved your Highness from the dire disgrace: Yet Cockatilla's artifice prevails, When all my duty and my merit fails: 40 That Cockatilla, whose deluding airs Corrupts our virgins, and our youth ensnares; So sunk her character, and lost her fame, Scarce visited before your Highness came: Yet for the bedchamber 'tis she you choose, Whilst zeal, and lame, and virtue you refuse. Ah, worthy choice; not one of all your train Which censures blast not, or dishonours stain. I know the Court, with all its treacherous wiles, The false caresses, and undoing smiles. 50 Ah, Princess! learn'd in all the courtly arts, To cheat our hopes, and yet to gain our hearts.'



TO LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE.

1 In beauty or wit, No mortal as yet To question your empire has dared; But men of discerning Have thought that in learning To yield to a lady was hard.

2 Impertinent schools, With musty dull rules, Have reading to females denied: So Papists refuse The Bible to use, Lest flocks should be wise as their guide.

3 'Twas a woman at first (Indeed she was cursed) In knowledge that tasted delight, And sages agree The laws should decree To the first possessor the right.

4 Then bravely, fair dame, Resume the old claim, Which to your whole sex does belong; And let men receive, From a second bright Eve, The knowledge of right and of wrong.

5 But if the first Eve Hard doom did receive, When only one apple had she, What a punishment new Shall be found out for you, Who, tasting, have robb'd the whole tree!



EXTEMPORANEOUS LINES

ON A PORTRAIT OF LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGUE, PAINTED BY KNELLER.

The playful smiles around the dimpled mouth, That happy air of majesty and truth, So would I draw: but, oh! 'tis vain to try, My narrow genius does the power deny; The equal lustre of the heavenly mind, Where every grace with every virtue's join'd: Learning not vain, and wisdom not severe, With greatness easy, and with wit sincere; With just description show the soul divine, And the whole princess in my work should shine.



LINES SUNG BY DURASTANTI,

WHEN SHE TOOK LEAVE OF THE ENGLISH STAGE.

1 Generous, gay, and gallant nation, Bold in arms, and bright in arts; Land secure from all invasion, All but Cupid's gentle darts! From your charms, oh! who would run? Who would leave you for the sun? Happy soil, adieu, adieu!

2 Let old charmers yield to new; In arms, in arts, be still more shining: All your joys be still increasing; All your tastes be still refining; All your jars for ever ceasing; But let old charmers yield to new: Happy soil, adieu, adieu!



UPON THE DUKE OF MARLBOROUGH'S HOUSE AT WOODSTOCK.

'See, sir, here's the grand approach, This way is for his Grace's coach: There lies the bridge, and here's the clock, Observe the lion and the cock, The spacious court, the colonnade, And mark how wide the hall is made! The chimneys are so well design'd, They never smoke in any wind. This gallery's contrived for walking, The windows to retire and talk in; The council chamber for debate, And all the rest are rooms of state.'

'Thanks, sir,' cried I, ''tis very fine, But where d'ye sleep, or where d'ye dine? I find by all you have been telling That 'tis a house, but not a dwelling.'



VERSES LEFT BY MR POPE.

ON HIS LYING IN THE SAME BED WHICH WILMOT, THE CELEBRATED EARL OF ROCHESTER, SLEPT IN AT ADDERBURY, THEN BELONGING TO THE DUKE OF ARGYLL, JULY 9, 1739.

1 With no poetic ardour fired, I press the bed where Wilmot lay; That here he loved, or here expired, Begets no numbers, grave or gay.

2 Beneath thy roof, Argyll, are bred Such thoughts as prompt the brave to lie Stretch'd out in honour's nobler bed, Beneath a nobler roof—the sky.

3 Such flames as high in patriots burn, Yet stoop to bless a child or wife; And such as wicked kings may mourn, When freedom is more dear than life.



THE CHALLENGE, A COURT BALLAD.

TO THE TUNE OF 'TO ALL YOU LADIES NOW AT LAND.'

1 To one fair lady out of Court, And two fair ladies in, Who think the Turk[72] and Pope[73] a sport, And wit and love no sin; Come these soft lines, with nothing stiff in, To Bellenden, Lepell, and Griffin.[74] With a fa, la, la.

2 What passes in the dark third row, And what behind the scene, Couches and crippled chairs I know, And garrets hung with green; I know the swing of sinful hack, Where many damsels cry alack. With a fa, la, la.

3 Then why to Courts should I repair, Where's such ado with Townshend? To hear each mortal stamp and swear, And every speech with 'zounds!' end; To hear 'em rail at honest Sunderland, And rashly blame the realm of Blunderland.[75] With a fa, la, la.

4 Alas! like Schutz I cannot pun, Like Grafton court the Germans; Tell Pickenbourg how slim she's grown, Like Meadows[76] run to sermons; To Court ambitious men may roam, But I and Marlbro' stay at home. With a fa, la, la.

5 In truth, by what I can discern Of courtiers, 'twixt you three, Some wit you have, and more may learn From Court, than Gay or me; Perhaps, in time, you'll leave high diet, To sup with us on milk and quiet. With a fa, la, la.

6 At Leicester Fields, a house full high, With door all painted green, Where ribbons wave upon the tie, (A milliner I mean;) There may you meet us, three to three, For Gay can well make two of me. With a fa, la, la.

7 But should you catch the prudish itch And each become a coward, Bring sometimes with you Lady Rich, And sometimes Mistress Howard; For virgins, to keep chaste, must go Abroad with such as are not so. With a fa, la, la.

8 And thus, fair maids, my ballad ends; God send the king safe landing;[77] And make all honest ladies friends To armies that are standing; Preserve the limits of those nations, And take off ladies' limitations. With a fa, la, la.



THE THREE GENTLE SHEPHERDS.

Of gentle Philips[78] will I ever sing, With gentle Philips shall the valleys ring; My numbers, too, for ever will I vary, With gentle Budgell,[79] and with gentle Carey.[80] Or if in ranging of the names I judge ill, With gentle Carey, and with gentle Budgell, Oh! may all gentle bards together place ye, Men of good hearts, and men of delicacy. May satire ne'er befool ye, or beknave ye, And from all wits that have a knack, God save ye!



EPIGRAM,

ENGRAVED ON THE COLLAR OF A DOG WHICH I GAVE TO HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS.

I am His Highness' dog at Kew; Pray tell me, sir, whose dog are you?



THE TRANSLATOR.

Ozell, at Sanger's call, invoked his Muse, For who to sing for Sanger could refuse? His numbers such as Sanger's self might use. Reviving Perrault, murdering Boileau, he Slander'd the ancients first, then Wycherley; Which yet not much that old bard's anger raised, Since those were slander'd most whom Ozell praised. Nor had the gentle satire caused complaining, Had not sage Rowe pronounced it entertaining; How great must be the judgment of that writer, Who the Plain Dealer damns, and prints the Biter!



THE LOOKING-GLASS.

ON MRS PULTENEY.[81]

With scornful mien, and various toss of air, Fantastic, vain, and insolently fair, Grandeur intoxicates her giddy brain, She looks ambition, and she moves disdain. Far other carriage graced her virgin life, But charming Gumley's lost in Pulteney's wife. Not greater arrogance in him we find, And this conjunction swells at least her mind: Oh could the sire, renown'd in glass, produce One faithful mirror for his daughter's use! Wherein she might her haughty errors trace, And by reflection learn to mend her face: The wonted sweetness to her form restore, Be what she was, and charm mankind once more!



A FAREWELL TO LONDON

IN THE YEAR 1715.

1 Dear, damn'd, distracting town, farewell! Thy fools no more I'll tease: This year in peace, ye critics, dwell, Ye harlots, sleep at ease!

2 Soft B——s and rough C——s, adieu! Earl Warwick, make your moan, The lively H——k and you May knock up whores alone.

3 To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd Till the third watchman's toll; Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde Save threepence and his soul.

4 Farewell, Arbuthnot's raillery On every learned sot; And Garth, the best good Christian he, Although he knows it not.

5 Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go; Farewell, unhappy Tonson! Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe, Lean Philips and fat Johnson.

6 Why should I stay? Both parties rage; My vixen mistress squalls; The wits in envious feuds engage; And Homer (damn him!) calls.

7 The love of arts lies cold and dead In Halifax's urn; And not one Muse of all he fed Has yet the grace to mourn.

8 My friends, by turns, my friends confound, Betray, and are betray'd: Poor Y——r's sold for fifty pounds, And B——ll is a jade.

9 Why make I friendships with the great, When I no favour seek. Or follow girls seven hours in eight?— I need but once a week.

10 Still idle, with a busy air, Deep whimsies to contrive; The gayest valetudinaire, Most thinking rake alive.

11 Solicitous for others' ends, Though fond of dear repose; Careless or drowsy with my friends. And frolic with my foes.

12 Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell, For sober studious days! And Burlington's delicious meal, For salads, tarts, and pease!

13 Adieu to all but Gay alone, Whose soul, sincere and free, Loves all mankind, but flatters none, And so may starve with me.



SANDYS' GHOST;[82]

OR, A PROPER NEW BALLAD ON THE NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES: AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF QUALITY.

1 Ye Lords and Commons, men of wit And pleasure about town, Read this, ere you translate one bit Of books of high renown.

2 Beware of Latin authors all! Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl, And scribble in a berlin:

3 For not the desk with silver nails, Nor bureau of expense, Nor standish well japann'd, avails To writing of good sense.

4 Hear how a ghost in dead of night, With saucer eyes of fire, In woeful wise did sore affright A wit and courtly squire.

5 Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth! Like puppy tame that uses To fetch and carry, in his mouth, The works of all the Muses.

6 Ah! why did he write poetry, That hereto was so civil; And sell his soul for vanity To rhyming and the devil?

7 A desk he had of curious work, With glittering studs about; Within the same did Sandys lurk, Though Ovid lay without.

8 Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought, Forth popp'd the sprite so thin, And from the keyhole bolted out, All upright as a pin.

9 With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, And ruff composed most duly, This squire he dropp'd his pen full soon, While as the light burnt bluely.

10 'Ho! Master Sam,' quoth Sandys' sprite, 'Write on, nor let me scare ye! Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right, To Budgell seek, or Carey.

11 'I hear the beat of Jacob's[83] drums, Poor Ovid finds no quarter! See first the merry P——[84] comes In haste without his garter.

12 'Then lords and lordlings, squires and knights, Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers: Garth at St James's, and at White's Beats up for volunteers.

13 'What Fenton will not do, nor Gay, Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan, Tom Burnet, or Tom D'Urfey may, John Dunton, Steele, or any one.

14 'If Justice Philips' costive head Some frigid rhymes disburses: They shall like Persian tales be read, And glad both babes and nurses.

15 'Let Warwick's Muse with Ashurst join, And Ozell's with Lord Hervey's, Tickell and Addison combine, And Pope translate with Jervas.

16 'L—— himself, that lively lord, Who bows to every lady, Shall join with F—— in one accord, And be like Tate and Brady.

17 'Ye ladies, too, draw forth your pen; I pray, where can the hurt lie? Since you have brains as well as men, As witness Lady Wortley.

18 'Now, Tonson, list thy forces all, Review them, and tell noses: For to poor Ovid shall befall A strange metamorphosis;

19 'A metamorphosis more strange Than all his books can vapour'— 'To what (quoth squire) shall Ovid change?' Quoth Sandys, 'To waste paper.'



UMBRA.[85]

Close to the best known author Umbra sits, The constant index to old Button's wits, 'Who's here?' cries Umbra: 'Only Johnson.'[86]—'Oh! Your slave,' and exit; but returns with Rowe: 'Dear Rowe, let's sit and talk of tragedies;' Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies. Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel, And in a moment fastens upon Steele; But cries as soon, 'Dear Dick, I must be gone, For, if I know his tread, here's Addison.' Says Addison to Steele, ''Tis time to go:' Pope to the closet steps aside with Rowe. Poor Umbra, left in this abandon'd pickle, E'en sits him down, and writes to honest Tickell.

Fool! 'tis in vain from wit to wit to roam; Know, sense, like charity, 'begins at home.'



SYLVIA, A FRAGMENT.

Sylvia my heart in wondrous wise alarm'd Awed without sense, and without beauty charm'd: But some odd graces and some flights she had, Was just not ugly, and was just not mad: Her tongue still ran on credit from her eyes, More pert than witty, more a wit than wise: Good-nature, she declared it, was her scorn, Though 'twas by that alone she could be borne: Affronting all, yet fond of a good name; A fool to pleasure, yet a slave to fame: Now coy, and studious in no point to fall, Now all agog for D——y at a ball: Now deep in Taylor, and the Book of Martyrs, Now drinking citron with his Grace and Chartres.

Men, some to business, some to pleasure take; But every woman's in her soul a rake. Frail, feverish sex; their fit now chills, now burns: Atheism and superstition rule by turns; And a mere heathen in the carnal part, Is still a sad good Christian at her heart.



IMPROMPTU TO LADY WINCHELSEA.

OCCASIONED BY FOUR SATIRICAL VERSES ON WOMEN WITS, IN 'THE RAPE OF THE LOCK.'

In vain you boast poetic names of yore, And cite those Sapphos we admire no more: Fate doom'd the fall of every female wit; But doom'd it then, when first Ardelia writ. Of all examples by the world confess'd, I knew Ardelia could not quote the best; Who, like her mistress on Britannia's throne, Fights and subdues in quarrels not her own. To write their praise you but in vain essay; E'en while you write, you take that praise away: Light to the stars the sun does thus restore, But shines himself till they are seen no more.



EPIGRAM.

A Bishop, by his neighbours hated, Has cause to wish himself translated: But why should Hough desire translation, Loved and esteem'd by all the nation? Yet, if it be the old man's case, I'll lay my life I know the place: 'Tis where God sent some that adore Him, And whither Enoch went before him.



EPIGRAM ON THE FEUDS ABOUT HANDEL AND BONONCINI.

Strange! all this difference should be 'Twixt Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!



ON MRS TOFTS, A CELEBRATED OPERA SINGER.

So bright is thy beauty, so charming thy song, As had drawn both the beasts and their Orpheus along: But such is thy avarice, and such is thy pride, That the beasts must have starved, and the poet have died.



THE BALANCE OF EUROPE.

Now Europe balanced, neither side prevails; For nothing's left in either of the scales.



EPITAPH ON LORD CONINGSBY.

Here lies Lord Coningsby—be civil! The rest God knows—perhaps the Devil.



EPIGRAM.

You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come; Knock as you please, there's nobody at home.



EPIGRAM FROM THE FRENCH.

Sir, I admit your general rule, That every poet is a fool: But you yourself may serve to show it, That every fool is not a poet.



EPITAPH ON GAY.

Well, then, poor G—— lies under ground! So there's an end of honest Jack. So little justice here he found, 'Tis ten to one he'll ne'er come back.



EPIGRAM ON THE TOASTS OF THE KIT-CAT CLUB, ANNO 1716.

1 Whence deathless 'Kit-cat' took its name, Few critics can unriddle: Some say from 'pastrycook' it came, And some, from 'cat' and 'fiddle.'

2 From no trim beaux its name it boasts, Gray statesmen, or green wits; But from this pell-mell pack of toasts Of old 'cats' and young 'kits.'



TO A LADY, WITH THE 'TEMPLE OF FAME.'

What's fame with men, by custom of the nation, Is call'd, in women, only reputation: About them both why keep we such a pother? Part you with one, and I'll renounce the other.



ON THE COUNTESS OF BURLINGTON CUTTING PAPER.

1 Pallas grew vapourish once, and odd; She would not do the least right thing, Either for goddess or for god, Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing.

2 Jove frown'd, and 'Use (he cried) those eyes So skilful, and those hands so taper; Do something exquisite and wise—' She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper.

3 This vexing him who gave her birth, Thought by all heaven a burning shame; What does she next, but bids, on earth, Her Burlington do just the same.

4 Pallas, you give yourself strange airs; But sure you'll find it hard to spoil The sense and taste of one that bears The name of Saville and of Boyle.

5 Alas! one bad example shown, How quickly all the sex pursue! See, madam, see the arts o'erthrown Between John Overton and you!



ON DRAWINGS OF THE STATUES OF APOLLO, VENUS, AND HERCULES,

MADE FOR POPE BY SIR GODFREY KNELLER.

What god, what genius did the pencil move, When Kneller painted these? 'Twas friendship, warm as Phoebus, kind as Love, And strong as Hercules.



ON BENTLEY'S 'MILTON.'

Did Milton's prose, O Charles! thy death defend? A furious foe unconscious proves a friend. On Milton's verse did Bentley comment? Know, A weak officious friend becomes a foe. While he but sought his author's fame to further, The murderous critic has avenged thy murther.



LINES

WRITTEN IN WINDSOR FOREST.

All hail, once pleasing, once inspiring shade, Scene of my youthful loves, and happier hours! Where the kind Muses met me as I stray'd, And gently press'd my hand, and said, 'Be ours!— Take all thou e'er shalt have, a constant Muse: At Court thou mayst be liked, but nothing gain; Stocks thou mayst buy and sell, but always lose; And love the brightest eyes, but love in vain.'



TO ERINNA.

Though sprightly Sappho force our love and praise, A softer wonder my pleased soul surveys, The mild Erinna, blushing in her bays. So, while the sun's broad beam yet strikes the sight, All mild appears the moon's more sober light; Serene, in virgin majesty she shines, And, unobserved, the glaring sun declines.



A DIALOGUE.

POPE. Since my old friend is grown so great, As to be Minister of State, I'm told, but 'tis not true, I hope, That Craggs will be ashamed of Pope.

CRAGGS. Alas! if I am such a creature, To grow the worse for growing greater; Why, faith, in spite of all my brags, 'Tis Pope must be ashamed of Craggs.



ODE TO QUINBUS FLESTRIN,

THE MAN MOUNTAIN,[87] BY TITTY TIT, POET-LAUREATE TO HIS MAJESTY OF LILLIPUT. TRANSLATED INTO ENGLISH.

In amaze Lost I gaze! Can our eyes Reach thy size! May my lays Swell with praise, Worthy thee! Worthy me! Muse, inspire All thy fire! 10 Bards of old Of him told. When they said Atlas' head Propp'd the skies: See! and believe your eyes!

See him stride Valleys wide, Over woods, Over floods! 20 When he treads, Mountains' heads Groan and shake: Armies quake: Lest his spurn Overturn Man and steed, Troops, take heed! Left and right, Speed your flight! 30 Lest an host Beneath his foot be lost!

Turn'd aside From his hide Safe from wound, Darts rebound. From his nose Clouds he blows: When he speaks, Thunder breaks! 40 When he eats, Famine threats! When he drinks, Neptune shrinks! Nigh thy ear In mid air, On thy hand Let me stand; So shall I, Lofty poet! touch the sky. 50



THE LAMENTATION OF GLUMDALCLITCH FOR THE LOSS OF GRILDRIG.

A PASTORAL.

Soon as Glumdalclitch miss'd her pleasing care, She wept, she blubber'd, and she tore her hair: No British miss sincerer grief has known, Her squirrel missing, or her sparrow flown. She furl'd her sampler, and haul'd in her thread, And stuck her needle into Grildrig's bed; Then spread her hands, and with a bounce let fall Her baby, like the giant in Guildhall. In peals of thunder now she roars, and now She gently whimpers like a lowing cow: 10 Yet lovely in her sorrow still appears: Her locks dishevell'd, and her flood of tears, Seem like the lofty barn of some rich swain, When from the thatch drips fast a shower of rain.

In vain she search'd each cranny of the house, Each gaping chink impervious to a mouse. 'Was it for this (she cried) with daily care Within thy reach I set the vinegar, And fill'd the cruet with the acid tide, While pepper-water worms thy bait supplied; 20 Where twined the silver eel around thy hook, And all the little monsters of the brook? Sure in that lake he dropp'd; my Grilly's drown'd.' She dragg'd the cruet, but no Grildrig found.

'Vain is thy courage, Grilly, vain thy boast! But little creatures enterprise the most. Trembling, I've seen thee dare the kitten's paw, Nay, mix with children as they play'd at taw, Nor fear the marbles as they bounding flew; Marbles to them, but rolling rocks to you! 30

'Why did I trust thee with that giddy youth? Who from a page can ever learn the truth? Versed in Court tricks, that money-loving boy To some lord's daughter sold the living toy; Or rent him limb from limb in cruel play, As children tear the wings of flies away. From place to place o'er Brobdignag I'll roam, And never will return, or bring thee home. But who hath eyes to trace the passing wind? How then thy fairy footsteps can I find? 40 Dost thou bewilder'd wander all alone In the green thicket of a mossy stone; Or, tumbled from the toadstool's slippery round, Perhaps all maim'd, lie grovelling on the ground? Dost thou, embosom'd in the lovely rose, Or, sunk within the peach's down, repose? Within the kingcup if thy limbs are spread, Or in the golden cowslip's velvet head, Oh show me, Flora, 'midst those sweets, the flower Where sleeps my Grildrig in the fragrant bower! 50

'But ah! I fear thy little fancy roves On little females, and on little loves; Thy pigmy children, and thy tiny spouse, The baby playthings that adorn thy house, Doors, windows, chimneys, and the spacious rooms, Equal in size to cells of honeycombs: Hast thou for these now ventured from the shore, Thy bark a bean-shell, and a straw thy oar? Or in thy box, now bounding on the main, Shall I ne'er bear thyself and house again? 60 And shall I set thee on my hand no more, To see thee leap the lines, and traverse o'er My spacious palm? Of stature scarce a span, Mimic the actions of a real man? No more behold thee turn my watch's key, As seamen at a capstan anchors weigh? How wert thou wont to walk with cautious tread, A dish of tea, like milkpail, on thy head! How chase the mite that bore thy cheese away, And keep the rolling maggot at a bay!' 70

She spoke; but broken accents stopp'd her voice, Soft as the speaking-trumpet's mellow noise: She sobb'd a storm, and wiped her flowing eyes, Which seem'd like two broad suns in misty skies. Oh, squander not thy grief; those tears command To weep upon our cod in Newfoundland: The plenteous pickle shall preserve the fish, And Europe taste thy sorrows in a dish.



TO MR LEMUEL GULLIVER,

THE GRATEFUL ADDRESS OF THE UNHAPPY HOUYHNHNMS, NOW IN SLAVERY AND BONDAGE IN ENGLAND.

To thee, we wretches of the Houyhnhnm band, Condemn'd to labour in a barbarous land, Return our thanks. Accept our humble lays, And let each grateful Houyhnhnm neigh thy praise.

O happy Yahoo! purged from human crimes, By thy sweet sojourn in those virtuous climes, Where reign our sires; there, to thy country's shame, Reason, you found, and virtue were the same. Their precepts razed the prejudice of youth, And even a Yahoo learn'd the love of truth. 10

Art thou the first who did the coast explore? Did never Yahoo tread that ground before? Yes, thousands! But in pity to their kind, Or sway'd by envy, or through pride of mind, They hid their knowledge of a nobler race, Which own'd, would all their sires and sons disgrace.

You, like the Samian, visit lands unknown, And by their wiser morals mend your own. Thus Orpheus travell'd to reform his kind, Came back, and tamed the brutes he left behind. 20

You went, you saw, you heard; with virtue fought, Then spread those morals which the Houyhnhnms taught. Our labours here must touch thy generous heart, To see us strain before the coach and cart; Compell'd to run each knavish jockey's heat! Subservient to Newmarket's annual cheat! With what reluctance do we lawyers bear, To fleece their country clients twice a year! Or managed in your schools, for fops to ride, How foam, how fret beneath a load of pride! 30 Yes, we are slaves—but yet, by reason's force, Have learn'd to bear misfortune, like a horse.

Oh would the stars, to ease my bonds, ordain, That gentle Gulliver might guide my rein! Safe would I bear him to his journey's end, For 'tis a pleasure to support a friend. But if my life be doom'd to serve the bad, Oh! mayst thou never want an easy pad!

HOUYHNHNM.



MARY GULLIVER TO CAPTAIN LEMUEL GULLIVER.

AN EPISTLE.

The captain, some time after his return, being retired to Mr Sympson's in the country, Mrs Gulliver, apprehending from his late behaviour some estrangement of his affections, writes him the following expostulatory, soothing, and tenderly complaining epistle:—

Welcome, thrice welcome, to thy native place!— What, touch me not? what, shun a wife's embrace? Have I for this thy tedious absence borne, And waked, and wish'd whole nights for thy return? In five long years I took no second spouse; What Redriff wife so long hath kept her vows? Your eyes, your nose, inconstancy betray; Your nose you stop, your eyes you turn away. 'Tis said, that thou shouldst 'cleave unto thy wife;' Once thou didst cleave, and I could cleave for life. 10 Hear, and relent! hark how thy children moan! Be kind at least to these; they are thy own: Behold, and count them all; secure to find The honest number that you left behind. See how they pat thee with their pretty paws: Why start you? are they snakes? or have they claws? Thy Christian seed, our mutual flesh and bone: Be kind at least to these; they are thy own.

Biddel,[88] like thee, might farthest India rove; He changed his country, but retain'd his love. 20 There's Captain Pannel,[89] absent half his life, Comes back, and is the kinder to his wife; Yet Pannel's wife is brown compared to me, And Mrs Biddel sure is fifty-three.

Not touch me! never neighbour call'd me slut: Was Flimnap's dame more sweet in Lilliput? I've no red hair to breathe an odious fume; At least thy consort's cleaner than thy groom. Why then that dirty stable-boy thy care? What mean those visits to the sorrel mare? 30 Say, by what witchcraft, or what demon led, Preferr'st thou litter to the marriage-bed?