« 이전계속 »
(All this was only in a dream);
On married men, that dar'd be bad, And, thrusting it beyond his joint,
She thought no mercy should be had; 'Tis done, he cry'd: I've gain'd my point.
They should be hang'd, or starv'd, or flay'd, What point, said she, you ugly beast ?
Or serv'd like Romish priests in Swede. You neither give me joy nor rest:
In short, all lewdness she defied: 'Tis done:-What's done, you drunken bear?
And stiff was her parochial pride.
Yet, in an honest way, the dame
And could from scripture take her cue, PAULO PURGANTI AND HIS WIFE; That husbands should give wives their due.
Her prudence did so justly steer
Between the gay and the severe, * Est enim quiddam, idque intelligitur in omni virtute, quod
That if in some regards she chose
To curb poor Paulo iv too close,
In others she relax'd again,
And govern'd with a looser rein. Of vice and virtue in the schools,
Thus though she strictly did confine Beyond the letter of the law
The doctor from excess of wine: Which keeps our men and maids in awe,
With oysters, eggs, and vermicelli, The better sort should set before 'em
She let him almost burst his belly: A grace, a manner, a decorum ;
Thus drying coffee was denied ; Something, that gives their acts a light;
But chocolate that loss supplied : Makes them not only just, but bright;
And for tobacco (who could bear it?) And sets them in that open fame,
Filthy concomitant of claret: Which witty malice cannot blame.
(Blest revolution !) one might see For 'tis in life, as 'tis in painting :
Eringo roots, and Bohea tea. Much may be right, yet much be wanting;
She often set the doctor's band, From lines drawn true, our eye may trace
And strok'd his beard and squeez'd his hand: A foot, a knee, a hand, a face;
Kindly complain'd, that after noon May justly own the picture wrought
He went to pore on books too soon : Exact to rule, exempt from fault;
She held it wholesomer by much Yet, if the colouring be not there,
To rest a little on the couch : The Titian stroke, the Guido air:
About his waist in bed a-nights To nicest judgments show the piece,
She clung so close-for fear of sprites. At best 'twill only not displease :
The doctor understood the call; It would not gain on Jersey's eye ;
But had not always wherewithal. Bradford would frown, and set it by.
The lion's skin too short, you know, Thus in the picture of our mind
(As Plutarch's morals finely show) The action may be well design'd;
Was lengthen’d by the fox's tail: Guided by law, and bound by duty;
And art supplies, where strength may fail. Yet want this je ne scai quoi of beauty :
Unwilling then in arins to meet And though its error may be such,
The enemy he could not beat; As Knags and Burgess cannot hit;
He strove to lengthen the campaign, It yet may feel the nicer touch
And save his forces by chicane. Of Wycherley's or Congreve's wit.
Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus What is this talk ? replies a friend,
By fair retreat grew Maximus, And where will this dry moral end ?
Shows us, that all that warrior can do, The truth of what you here lay down
With force inferior, is cunctando. By some example should be shown.
One day then, as the foe drew near, With all my heart-for once ; read on.
With love, and joy, and life, and dear; An honest but a simple pair
Our Don, who knew this tittle-tattle (And twenty other I forbear)
Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle, May serve to make this thesis clear.
Thought it extremely a propos, A doctor of great skill and fame,
To ward against the coming blow : Paulo Purganti was his name,
To ward: but how? Ay, there's the question; Had a good, comely, virtuous wife;
Fierce the assault, unarm'd the bastion. No woman led a better life :
The doctor feign'd a strange surprise : She to intrigues was ev'n hard-hearted:
He felt her pulse; he view'd her eyes: She chuckled when a bawd was carted;
That beat too fast, these rollid too quick; And thought the nation ne'er would thrive,
She was, he said, or would be sick; Till all the whores were burnt alive.
He judg'd it absolutely good,
That she should purge, and cleanse her blood.
HER RIGHT NAME. Spa waters for that end were got:
As Nancy at hier toilet sat, If they past easily or not,
Admiring this, and blaming that, What matters it? The lady's fever
Tell me, she said ; but tell me true; Continued violent as ever.
The nymph who could your heart subdue, For a distemper of this kind
What sort of charms does she possess ? (Blackmore and Hans are of my mind),
Absolve me, fair-one ; I'll confess If once it youthful blood infects,
With pleasure, I reply'd. Her hair, And chietly of the female sex,
In ringlets rather dark than fair, Is scarce remov'd by pill or potion;
Does down her ivory bosom roll, Whate'er might be our doctor's notion.
And, hiding half, adorns the whole. One luckless night then, as in bed
In her high forehead's fair half round The doctor and the dame were laid;
Love sits in open triumph crown'd: Again this cruel fever came,
He in the dimple of her chin, High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame.
In private state, by friends is seen. What measures shall poor Paulo keep
Her eyes are neither black nor gray; With madam in this piteous taking ?
Nor fierce nor feeble is their ray ;
Their dubious lustre seems to show
Something that speaks nor yes, nor no.
Her lips no living bard, I weet,
May say, how red, how round, how sweet; Nor Livy nor Comines have shown
Old Homer only could indite What in this juncture may be done.
Their vagrant grace and soft delight: Grotius might own, that Paulo's case is
They stand recorded in his book, Harder than any which he places
When Helen smil'd, and Hebe spokeAmongst his Belli and his Pacis.
The gipsy, turning to her glass, He strove, alas! but strove in vain,
Too plainly show'd she knew the face; By dint of logic to maintain
And which am I most like, she said,
Your Cloe, or your Nut-brown Maid?
DOWN-HALL, A BALLAD.
To the tune of King John and the Abbot of Canterbury. Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan.
1715. As much in vain he bid her try To fold her arms, to close her eye;
I sing not old Jason, who travellid through Greece, Telling her, rest would do hier good,
To kiss the fair maids, and possess the rich fleece; If any thing in nature could :
Nor sing 1 Æneas, who, led by his mother, So held the Greeks quite down from Galen,
Got rid of one wife, and went far for another. Masters and princes of the calling :
Derry down, down, hey derry down. So all our modern friends maintain (Though no great Greeks) in Warwick-lane.
Nor him who through Asia and Europe did roam, Reduce, my Muse, the wandering song:
Ulysses by name, who ne'er cry'd to go home, A tale should never be too long.
But rather desir'd to see cities and men, The more he talk'd, the more she burn'd,
Than return to his farms, and converse with old Pen. And sigh’d, and tost, and groan'd, and turn’d: At last, I wish, said she, my dear
Hang Homer and Virgil! their meaning to seek, (Aod whisper'd something in his ear)
A man must have pok'd into Latin and Greek; You wish! wish on, the doctor cries:
Those who love their own tongue, we have reason Lord! when will womankind be wise ?
to hope, What, in your waters? Are you mad ?
Have read them translated by Dryden and Pope. Why poison is not half so bad. I'll do it-but I give you warning:
But I sing of exploits that have lately been done You'll die before tomorrow morning.–
By two British heroes, callid Matthew and John; 'Tis kind, my dear, what you advise;
And how they rid friendly from fine London town, The lady with a sigh replies !
Fair Essex to see, and a place they call Down. But life, you know, at best is pain; And death is what we should disdain.
Now ere they went out you may rightly suppose So do it therefore, and adieu:
How much they discours'd both in prudence and For I will die for love of you.
[certed, Let wanton wives by death be scar’d:
For, before this great journey was thoroughly conBut, to my comfort, I'm prepar’d.
Full often they met, and as often they parted.
And thus Matthew said, Look you here, my friend By my troth! she replies, you grow younger, I I fairly have travell’d years thirty and one; (John, think:
[drink? And, though I still carry'd my sovereign's warrants, And pray, Sir, what wine does the gentleman I only have gone upon other folks' errands.
Why now let me die, Sir, or live upon trust, And now in this journey of life I would have If I know to which question to answer you first! A place where to bait, 'twixt the court and the grave; Why things, since I saw you, most strangely have Where joyful to live, not unwilling to die
vary'd, Gadzooks ! I have just such a place in my eye. The hostler is hang'd, and the widow is marry'd.
Are the Harrisons here, both the old and the Look again, says mild Morley! gadzooks! you are young?
blind: And where stands fair Down, the delight of my The mill stands before, and the house lies behind.
Rapt into future times, the bard begun !
The tender lambs he raises in his arms,
the skies in smoke decay,