Part 25
With awe, with pleasure and surprise, I view the lightning of your eyes; Lightning! that wounds me as it flies.
What prayer! what vow! to Heaven can go? For all devotion you subdue; At least, ’tis all transferred to you.
In vain is human strength―its boasted art― While you sit here, you share my vows in part; To Y―[4] I give my ears, to you my eyes and heart.
[4] The Minister.
_The Lucky Man._ BY MR. WELSTED.
I owe, says Metius, much to Colon’s care; Once only seen, he chose me for his heir: True, Metius; hence your fortunes take their rise; His heir you were not, had he seen you twice.
_To Mr. T―d, on his complimenting Mr. F―de on his Poetry._
F―de writes well, you say; suppose it true, You pawn your word for him;―he’ll vouch for you; So two poor knaves, when once their credit fail, To cheat the world, become each other’s bail.
_On a handsome Woman, with a fine voice, but very covetous and proud._
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.
_Venus mistaken._ BY MR. PRIOR.
When Chloe’s picture was to Venus shown, Surprised, the goddess took it for her own; And what, said she, does this bold painter mean? When was I bathing thus, and naked seen? Pleased, Cupid heard, and checked his mother’s pride; And who’s blind now, mamma? the urchin cried. ’Tis Chloe’s eye, and cheek, and lip, and breast, Friend Howard’s genius fancied all the rest.
_Epitaph on Mr. Harcourt’s Tomb._ BY MR. POPE.
To this sad shrine, whoe’er thou art, draw near, Here lies the friend most wept, the son most dear, Who ne’er knew joy but friendship might divide, Nor gave his father grief―but when he died. How vain is reason! eloquence how weak! When Pope must tell what Harcourt cannot speak. Yet let thy once-loved friend inscribe the stone, And with a father’s sorrow mix his own. Ah, no! ’tis vain to strive―it will not be; No grief that can be told is felt for thee.
_Prometheus ill-painted._ BY MR. COWLEY.
How wretched does Prometheus’ state appear, Whilst he his second misery suffers here. Draw him no more, lest, as he tortured stands, He blame great Jove’s less than the painter’s hands. It would the vulture’s cruelty outgo, If once again his liver thus should grow. Pity him, Jove, and his bold theft allow; The flames he once stole from thee grant him now.
_On a Lady who pretended to tell Fortunes._ BY MR. MOTTLEY.
Some oracles of old, to cause more wonder, Were, when pronounced, accompanied with thunder: But thy predictions come not in a storm, They are delivered by the brightest form: If, when you speak, Jove does not pierce the sky, Yet still you’ve all his lightning in your eye.
_The Cure of Love._
When, Chloe, I confess my pain, In gentle words your pity show; But gentle words are all in vain, Such gales my flame but higher blow.
Ah, Chloe, would you cure the smart Your conqu’ring eyes have keenly made, Yourself upon my bleeding heart― Yourself, fair Chloe, must be laid.
Thus for the viper’s sting we know, No surer remedy is found, Than to apply the tort’ring foe, And squeeze his venom on the wound
_Epitaph on an unknown Person._
Without a name, for ever senseless, dumb, Dust, ashes, nought else, lies within this tomb. Where’er I lived, or died, it matters not; To whom related, or by whom begot; I was, but am not, ask no more of me― It’s all I am, and all that thou shalt be.
_Epitaph._
Here lies a lady, who, if not belied, Took wise St Paul’s advice, and all things tried; Nor stopt she here; but followed through the rest, And always stuck the longest to the best.
_In a window of a room in the Tower of London is written_;
R. WALPOLE, 1712.
_Underneath that, are the following lines_:
Good unexpected, evil unforeseen, Appear by turns, as fortune shifts the scene: Some, raised aloft, come tumbling down again, And fall so hard, they bound to rise again.
_The Artist._ BY MR. CONCANEN.
Very nicely thou lay’st on thy colours, dear Nan, And no painter in skill can o’ertop ye; When to Ellys you sat, he dully brushed on, Till he thought he had an original drawn, Which you proved to be only a copy.
_Epitaph on a talkative old Maid._
Beneath this silent stone is laid A noisy antiquated maid, Who, from her cradle, talked till death, And ne’er before was out of breath. Whither she’s gone we cannot tell, For if she talks not she’s in hell: If she’s in heaven she’s there unblest, Because she hates a place of rest.
_A Simile._
Women to cards may be compared: we play A round or two; when used, we throw away, Take a fresh pack; nor is it worth our grieving Who cuts and shuffles with the dirty leaving.
* * * * *
Thais, her teeth are black and naught, Lucania’s white are grown: But what’s the reason? These are bought, The other wears her own.
_The disappointed Husband._
_Mulieri ne crede, ne mortuæ quidem._
A scolding wife so long a sleep possessed, Her spouse presumed her soul was now at rest. Sable was called to hang the room in black; And all their cheer was sugar-rolls and sack. Two mourning staffs stood sentry at the door; And silence reigned, who ne’er was there before. The cloaks, and tears, and handkerchiefs prepared, They marched in woeful pomp to Abchurch Yard; When see of narrow streets what mischiefs come! The very dead can’t pass in quiet home: By some rude jolt, the coffin lid was broke, And madam from her dream of death awoke. Now all was spoiled: the undertaker’s pay, Sour faces, cakes, and wine, quite thrown away. But some years after, when the former scene Was acted, and the coffin nailed again, The tender husband took especial care, To keep the passage from disturbance clear; Charging the bearers that they tread aright, Nor put his dear in such another fright.
* * * * *
Among the fair that Hyde Park Circus grace, Canidia seeks admirers of her face; In vain her airs, her wanton arts she tries, Among those beauties that engage all eyes: Bright rays, like diamonds, they around ’em fling, Whilst she is but the cipher of the ring.
_On a Robbery._
Ridway robb’d Duncote of three hundred pounds; Ridway was taken and condemned to die: But for his money was a courtier found, Begged Ridway’s pardon: Duncote now doth cry, Robbed both of money and the law’s relief, The courtier is become the greater thief.
_On Suicide: from_ MARTIAL. BY MR. SEWELL.
When all the blandishments of life are gone, The coward creeps to death, the brave lives on.
_A Dialogue between two very bad Poets._ BY MR. CONCANEN.
Says Richard[5] to Joe,[6] thou’rt a very sad dog, And thou canst write verses no more than a log; Says Joseph to Dick, prithee, ring-rhyme, get hence: Sure my verse, at least, is as good as thy sense. Was e’er such a contest recorded in song? The one’s in the right, and the other’s not wrong.
[5] Savage.
[6] Mitchel.
_To a Painter drawing a Lady’s Picture._ BY MR. DENNIS.
He[7] who great Jove’s artillery aped so well, By real thunder and true lightning fell; How then durst thou, with equal danger try To counterfeit the lightning of her eye? Painter, desist; or soon the event will prove That Love’s as jealous of his arms as Jove.
[7] Salmoneus.
_The Choice._
Too conscious of her worth, a noble maid Baulked many a lover, and her mind out-strayed, While yet a peer, less doubting than the rest, Defied her coldness, and attacked her breast. A spaniel whelp, and spaniel lord, declare Their vows to serve, and hope to please the fair; The cautious nymph, still fearing a trepan, Their fortune, wit, and worth, did nicely scan; Then, as the reason of the case is clear, Embraced the puppy, and dismissed the peer.
_On a certain Writer._
Half of your book is to an index grown; You give your book contents, your readers none.
_On a Flower painted by_ VARELST. BY MR. PRIOR.
When famed Varelst this little wonder drew, Flora vouchsafed the growing work to view; Finding the painter’s science at a stand, The goddess snatched the pencil from his hand, And, finishing the piece, she smiling said, Behold one work of mine, which ne’er shall fade.
_An Epitaph on Little Stephen, a noted Fiddler in the County of Suffolk._
Stephen and Time Are now both even; Stephen beat Time, Now Time beats Stephen.
_On Giles and Joan._
Who says that Giles and Joan at discord be? The observing neighbours no such mood can see; Indeed, poor Giles repents he married ever, But that his Joan doth too: and Giles would never, By his free will, be in Joan’s company; No more would Joan he should: Giles riseth early, And having got him out of doors is glad; The like is Joan: but turning home is sad; And so is Joan: oft-times when Giles doth find Harsh sights at home, Giles wishes he were blind; All this doth Joan; or, that his long-earned life Were quite out-spun; the like wish hath his wife: In all affections she concurreth still; If now with man and wife to will and nill The self same things, a note of concord be, I know no couple better can agree.
_To a Sempstress._
Oh, what bosom but must yield, When, like Pallas, you advance, With a thimble for your shield, And a needle for your lance! Fairest of the stitching train, Ease my passion by your art; And in pity to my pain, Mend the hole that’s in my heart.
_On a Certain Poet._
Thy verses are eternal, O my friend! For he who reads them, reads them to no end.
_A Distich, written under the sign of the King’s Head and Bell in Dublin, at the host’s request._
BY DEAN SWIFT.
May the king live long; Dong, ding, ding, dong.
_On seeing a Miser at Vauxhall Gardens._
Music has charms to sooth a savage breast, To calm the tyrant, and relieve the opprest: But Vauxhall’s concert’s more attracting power Unlocked Sir Richard’s pocket at threescore: Oh! strange effect of music’s matchless force, To attract a shilling from a miser’s purse!
_To a Lady who had very bad teeth._
Ovid, who bids the ladies laugh, Spoke only to the young and fair; For thee his counsel were not safe, Who of sound teeth have scarce a pair.
If thou the glass or me believe, Shun mirth, as foplings do the wind; At Cibber’s face affect to grieve, And let thy eyes alone be kind.
If thou art wise see dismal plays, And to sad stories lend thy ear; With the afflicted spend thy days, And laugh not above once a year.
_On an old Maid’s Marriage._
Celia, a coquet in her prime, The vainest, ficklest thing alive; Behold the strange effects of time! Marries and doats at forty-five.
Thus weathercocks, that for awhile Have turned about with every blast, Grown old, and destitute of oil, Rust to a point, and fix at last.
_A Cure for Love._
Of two reliefs to cure a love-sick mind, Flavia prescribes despair; I urge, be kind; Flavia, be kind: the remedy’s as sure; ’Tis the most pleasant, and the quickest cure.
_Under the Picture of a Beau._
This vain thing set up for a man, But see what fate attends him; The powdering barber first began, The barber-surgeon ends him.
_On a Gentleman drinking the Health of an unkind Mistress._
Why dost thou wish that she may live, Whose living beauties make thee grieve! Thou wouldst more wisely wish her kind, That she may change her cruel mind; Thy present wish but this can gain, That she may live, and thou complain.
_On a Prize-Fighter._
His thrusts like lightning flew, yet subtle death Parried them all, and beat him out of breath.
_The Penance._
When Phillis confessed, the father was rash, And so, without further reflection, Her delicate skin he condemned to the lash, While himself would bestow the correction. Her husband, who heard this, opposed it by urging, That he, in regard to her weakness, And to save her soft back, would himself bear the scourging With humble submission and meekness. She piously cried, when the priest gave accord, To show what devotion was in her, He’s able and lusty, pray cheat not the Lord, For, alas! I’m a very great sinner.
_On a Gentleman who died the day after his Lady._
She first departed; he for one day tried To live without her: liked it not, and died.
_On a Welchman._
A Welchman coming late into an inn, Asked the maid what meat there was within? Cow-heels, she answered, and a breast of mutton; But, quoth the Welchman, since I am no glutton, Either of these shall serve: to-night the breast, The heels i’ th’ morning, then light meat is best; At night he took the breast and did not pay, I’ th’ morning took his heels, and ran away.
_The Fate of Poets._
Seven wealthy towns contend for Homer dead, Through which the living Homer begged his bread.
_On an old Woman with false Hair._
The golden hair that Galla wears Is hers: who would have thought it! She swears ’tis hers,―and true she swears; For I know where she bought it.
_On another old Woman._ BY MR. PRIOR.
From her own native France, as old Alison past, She reproached English Nell with neglect or with malice; That the slattern had left, in the hurry and haste, Her lady’s complexion and eye-brows at Calais.
_An Epitaph._
Here lies honest Strephon with Mary his bride, Who merrily lived and cheerfully died; They laughed and they loved, and drank while they were able, But now they are forced to knock under the table. This marble, which formerly served them to drink on, Now covers their bodies,―and sad thing to think on!― That do what one can to moisten our clay, ’Twill one day be ashes, and moulder away.
_On an ugly old Woman in the Dark._ FROM MARTIAL.
Whilst in the dark on thy soft hand I hung, And heard the tempting syren in thy tongue; What flames, what darts, what anguish I endured! But, when the candle entered, I was cured.
_On a beautiful and ingenious young Lady._
Minerva, one day, pray let nobody doubt it, Rid an airing from Oxford six miles, or about it, Where she ’spied a young damsel so blooming and fair, That, ah, Venus! she cried, is your ladyship there? Pray is not yon Oxford?―and lately you sware, Neither you, nor aught like you, should ever come there: Do you thus keep your promise? and am I defied? The virgin drew near her, and, smiling replied, ―My goddess! what have you your pupil forgot? ―Your pardon, my dear,―Is it you, Molly Scot?
_To a Lady who married her Footman._ COLONEL P―.
Dear cousin, think it no reproach, (Thy virtue shines the more,) To take black John into the coach He rode behind before.
_On stealing a Pound of Candles._
Light-fingered Catch, to keep his hand in ure, Stole anything; of this you may be sure, That he thinks all his own which once he handles, For practice-sake did steal a pound of candles; Was taken in the fact: Oh, foolish wight! To steal such things as needs must come to light.
_On a very plain Lady, that patched much._
Your homely face, Flippanta, you disguise, With patches, numerous as Argus’ eyes; I own that patching’s requisite to you, For more we are pleased, if less your face we view; Yet I advise, if my advice you’d ask, Wear but one patch; but be that patch a mask.
_The Dart._
Whene’er I look, I may descry A little face peep through that eye; Sure that’s the boy, who wisely chose His throne among such beams as those, Which, if his quiver chance to fall, May serve for darts to kill withal.
_To L―, the Miser._
When thou art asked to sup abroad, Thou swear’st thou hast but newly dined; That eating late does over-load The stomach and the mind.
Then thou wilt drink ’till every star Be swallowed by the rising sun; Such charms hath wine we pay not for, And mirth at others’ charge begun.
Who shuns his club, yet flies to every treat, Does not a supper, but a reck’ning hate.
_On Jealousy._ BY A LADY.
Oh! shield me from his rage, celestial powers, This tyrant that embitters all my hours. Ah, love, you’ve poorly played the monarch’s part, You conquered, but you can’t defend my heart. So blessed was I, throughout the happy reign, I thought this monster banished from thy train; But you would raise him to support your throne, And now he claims your empire as his own: Or tell me, tyrants, have you both agreed, There where one reigns, the other shall succeed?
_On Julia’s throwing a Snow-Ball._
Julia, young wanton, flung the gathered snow, Nor feared I burning from the watery blow: ’Tis cold, I cried; but, ah! too soon I found, Sent by that hand, it dealt a scorching wound. Resistless fair! we fly thy power in vain, Who turn’st to fiery darts the frozen rain. Burn, Julia, burn like me, and that desire With water which thou kindlest quench with fire.
_To Zelinda._
The poet and the painter safely dare To form an image of the proudest fair: Your brighter charms, by lavish nature wrought, Transcend the painter’s skill, the poet’s thought.
_Occasioned by seeing some verses on Cælia, written on a pane of Glass._
Well hast thou drawn, fond youth, in properest place, The short-lived beauties of false Cælia’s face. When words’ obscurities thy sense o’er-shade, The place gives light to what thou wouldst have said. Bright as this lucid glass her eyes now seem, Like this, breathed on by fell disease, grown dim. Like glass is every strongest vow she makes, Brittle as that, as easily she breaks; Such is her honour. Short her fame, we find, Which cracked, must perish by the first high wind.
_On a Riding-House turned into a Chapel._ BY MR. FARQUHAR.
A chapel of a riding-house is made, Thus we once more see Christ in manger laid, Where still we find the jockey trade supplied, The laymen bridled, and the clergy ride.
_On Chloe._
Here Chloe lies, Whose once bright eyes Set all the world on fire: And not to be Ungrateful, she Did all the world admire.
_Written extempore, on the Duke of Devonshire’s House at Chatsworth._
Qualiter in mediis quam non speraverat urbem, Attonitus, Venetam navita cernit aquis; Sic improviso emergens et montibus imis, Attollis sese Devoniana Domus.
_And thus translated by_ COLLEY CIBBER, ESQ.
Not sailors view with more astonished eyes, In open seas Venetian towers arise, Than from the mountains strangers, with delight, See unexpected Chatsworth charm the sight.
* * * * *
George came to the crown without striking a blow: Ah! quoth the Pretender, would I could do so.
_On the Clare-market and other Orators._
To wonder now at Balaam’s ass, is weak: Is there a day that asses do not speak?
_The Numskull._
You beat your pate, and fancy wit will come; Knock as you please, there’s nobody at home.
_Sylvia._
Sylvia makes a sad complaint she has lost her lover; Why nothing strange I in that news discover. Nay, then thou’rt dull; for here the wonder lies, She had a lover once!―Don’t that surprise?
_On a Painter, who stabbed a man fastened to a Cross, that he might draw the picture of the Crucifixion more naturally._
While his Redeemer on his canvas dies, Stabbed at his feet his brother weltering lies. The daring artist, cruelly serene. Views the pale cheek, and the distorted mien; He drains off life by drops, and deaf to cries, Examines every spirit as it flies; He studies torment, dives in mortal woe, To rouse up every pang repeats his blow; Each rising agony, each dreadful grace, Yet warm transplanting to his Saviour’s face. Oh, glorious theft! O nobly wicked draught! With its full charge of death each feature fraught! Such wondrous force the magic colours boast, From his own skill he starts, in horror lost.
_On a handsome Idiot._ BY MR. CONGREVE.
When Lesbia first I saw, so heavenly fair, With eyes so bright, and with that awful air, I thought my heart, which durst so high aspire, As bold as his who snatched celestial fire; But soon as e’er the beauteous idiot spoke, Forth from her coral lips such folly broke, Like balm the trickling nonsense healed my wound, And what her eyes enthralled, her tongue unbound.
_On a dumb Boy, very beautiful, and of great quickness of parts._
WRITTEN BY A LADY.
I sing the boy, who, gagged and bound, Has been by nature robbed of sound; Yet has she found a generous way, One loss by many gifts to pay. His voice, indeed, she close confined, But blest him with a speaking mind; And every muscle of his face Discourses with peculiar grace: The ladies tattling o’er their tea, Might learn to charm by copying thee. If silence thus can man become, All women beauties would be dumb. Then, happy boy, no more complain, Nor think thy loss of speech a pain: Nature has used thee like good liquor, And corked thee but to make thee quicker.
_Written on the Chamber Door of King Charles II._
BY THE EARL OF ROCHESTER.
Here lies the mutton-eating king, Whose word no man relies on; Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one.
_Mankind Punished._
The crimes of men began to grow so great, That how to punish justly puzzled Fate; Heaven sighed at last, that to his sons so dear A punishment’s decreed, and so severe: Go, says eternal justice, hell-hounds, go, And execute my dread commands below; Fix your rapacious claws on every door, Despoil the rich, and poorer make the poor; Pity not age, add to his weight of years, And fill the wretched widow’s eyes with tears; Disturb their sleep, and poison every dish, Nor let them taste, without a doubt, a wish: The judge supreme, who each effect foresaw, Cried, Havock, and let loose the dogs of law.
_To a young Gentleman who loved to drive hard with a sorry pair of Horses._
BY MR. PRIOR.
Thy nags, the leanest things alive, So very hard thou lov’st to drive, I heard thy anxious coachman say It cost thee more in whips than hay.
_Solid Worth in a Wife._
When Loveless married Lady Jenny, Whose beauty was the ready penny; I chose her, said he, like old plate, Not for the fashion, but the weight.
_Epitaph on a Miser._
Reader, beware immoderate love of pelf: Here lies the worst of thieves, who robbed himself.
_On a crooked Woman._
Nature in pity has denied you shape, Else how should mortals Flavia’s chain escape? Your radiant aspect, and your rosy bloom, Without this form would bring a general doom: At once our ruin and relief we see, At sight are captives, and at sight are free.
_Phillis’s Age._
How old may Phillis be, you ask, Whose beauty thus all hearts engages? To answer is no easy task; For she really has two ages.
Stiff in brocade, and pinched in stays, Her patches, paint, and jewels on; All day let Envy view her face, And Phillis is but twenty-one.