« AnteriorContinuar »
Increasing debts, perplexing duns, And nothing for his younger sons. Straight all his thought to gain he turns, And with the thirst of lucre burns. But, when possess'd of Fortune's store, The Spectre haunts him more and more; Sets want and misery in view, Bold thieves, and all the murdering crew; Alarms him with eternal frights, Infests his dreams, or wakes his nights. How shall he chase this hideous guest ? Power may, perhaps, protect his rest. To power he rose. Again the Sprite Besets him morning, noon, and night; Talks of Ambition's tottering seat, How Envy persecutes the great; Of rival hate, of treacherous friends, And what disgrace his fall attends. The court he quits, to fly from Care, And seeks the peace of rural air; His groves, his fields, amus'd his hours; He prun'd his trees, he rais'd his flowers, But Care again his steps pursues, Warns him of blasts, of blighting dews, Of plundering insects, snails, and rains, And droughts that starv'd the labour'd plains. Abroad, at home, the Spectre's there; In vain we seek to fly from Care. At length he thus the Ghost addrest: “Since thou must be my constant guest, Be kind, and follow me no more;
For Care, by right, should go before.”
FABLE. The JuggleRs.
A JucqLER long through all the town Had rais'd his fortune and renown; You'd think (so far his art transcends) The devil at his fingers' ends. Vice heard his fame, she read his bill; Convinc'd of his inferior skill, She sought his booth, and from the crowd Defy'd the man of art aloud. “Is this then he so fam'd for sleight? Can this slow bungler cheat your sight? Dares he with me dispute the prize? I leave it to impartial eyes.” Provok'd, the Juggler cry’d, “Tis done; In science I submit to none.” Thus said, the cups and balls he play'd; By turns this here, that there, conveyed. The cards, obedient to his words, Are by a fillip turn'd to birds. His little boxes change the grain: Trick after trick deludes the train. He shakes his bag, he shows all fair; His fingers spread, and nothing there; Then bids it rain with showers of gold; And now his ivory eggs are told ; But, when from thence the hen he draws, Amaz'd spectators hum applause. Vice now stept forth, and took the place, With all the forms of his grimace. “. This magic looking-glass,” she cries, ... (There, hand it round) will charm your eyes.” Each eager eye the sight desir'd, And every man himself admir’d.
Next, to a senator addressing, “See this bank-note; observe the blessing. Breathe on the bill. Heigh, pass! 'Tis gone.” Upon his lips a padlock shown. A second puff the magic broke; The padlock vanish'd, and he spoke. Twelve bottles rang'd upon the board, All full, with heady liquor stor'd, By clean conveyance disappear, And now two bloody swords are there. A purse she to a thief expos'd ;. At once his ready fingers clos'd. He opes his fist, the treasure's fled: He sees a halter in its stead. She bids Ambition hold a wand; He grasps a hatchet in his hand. A box of charity she shows. “Blow here;” and a church-warden blows. 'Tis vanish'd with conveyance neat, And on the table smokes a treat. She shakes the dice, the board she knocks, And from all pockets fills her box. She next a meagre rake addrest. “This picture see; her shape, her breast! What youth, and what inviting eyes! Hold her, and have her.” With surprise, His hand expos'd a box of pills, And a loud laugh proclaim'd his ills. A counter, in a miser's hand, Grew twenty guineas at command. She bids his heir the sum retain, And 'tis a counter now again. A guinea with her touch you see Take every shape but Charity; And not one thing you saw, or drew, But chang'd from what was first in view. The Juggler now, in grief of heart, With this submission own'd her art. “Can I such matchless sleight withstand 1 How practice hath improv'd your hand! But now and then I cheat the throng; You every day, and all day long.”
The harle AND MANY friends.
FRIENDship, like love, is but a name, Unless to one you stint the flame. The child, whom many fathers share, Hath seldom known a father's care. 'Tis thus in friendships; who depend On many, rarely find a friend.
A Hare who, in a civil way, Comply'd with everything, like Gay, Was known by all the bestial train Who haunt the wood, or graze the plain; Her care was never to offend; And every creature was her friend.
As forth she went at early dawn, To taste the dew-besprinkled lawn, Behind she hears the hunter's cries, And from the deep-mouth'd thunder flies, She starts, she stops, she pants for breath; She hears the near advance of death; She doubles, to mislead the hound, And measures back her mazy round: Till, fainting in the public way, Half-dead with fear she gasping lay.
What transport in her bosom grew, When first the Horse appear'd in view! “Let me,” says she, “your back ascend, And owe my safety to a friend. You know my feet betray my flight: To friendship every burthen's light.” The Horse reply'd, “Poor honest Puss, It grieves my heart to see thee thus: Be comforted, relief is near, For all your friends are in the rear.” She next the stately Bull implor’d; And thus reply'd the mighty lord: “Since every beast alive can tell That I sincerely wish you well, I may, without offence, pretend To take the freedom of a friend. Love calls me hence ; a favourite cow Expects me near yon barley-mow; And, when a lady's in the case, You know, all other things give place. To leave you thus might seem unkind; But, see, the Goat is just behind.” The Goat remark'd, her pulse was high, Her languid head, her heavy eye: “My back,” says he, “may do you harm; The Sheep's at hand, and wool is warm.” The Sheep was feeble, and complain'd, His sides a load of wool sustain'd; Said he was slow, confess'd his fears; For Hounds eat Sheep as well as Hares. She now the trotting Calf address'd, To save from death a friend distress'd. “Shall I,” says he, “ of tender age, In this important care engage? Older and abler pass'd you by ; How strong are those how weak am I? Should I presume to bear you hence, Those friends of mine may take offence. Excuse me, then ; you know my heart; But dearest friends, alas ! must part. How shall we all lament! Adieu ; For, see, the Hounds are just in view.”
THE SHEPHERD'S WEEK, In six PAstort A LS1714.
With the Author's Notes.
— Libeat mihi sordida rura, Atque humiles habitare casas. – VIRG.
PROLOGUE, To the RIGHT Hon. THE LORD VISCOUNT BOLING BROKE,
Lo, I, who erst beneath a tree Sung Bumkinet and Bowzybee, And Blouzelind and Marian bright, In apron blue or apron white, Now write my sonnets in a book, For my good lord of Bolingbroke.
As lads and lasses stood around To hear my boxen hautboy sound, Qur clerk came posting o'er the green With doleful tidings of the queen;
“That queen,” he said, “to whom we owe
And, certes, mirth it were to see
Lo, yonder, Cloddipole, the blithsome swain,
Eftsoons, O sweetheart kind, my love repay, !
Ver. 69. Efsoons, from efi, an ancient British word, signifying soon. So that of soons is a doubling of the word soon ; which is, as it were, to say twice soon, or very soon.
Ver. 79. Queint has various significations in the ancient English authors. I have used it in this place in the same sense as Chaucer hath done in his Miller's Tale. “As clerkes being full subtle and queint,” (by which he means arch, or waggish); and not in that obscene sense wherein he useth it in the line immediately following.
Populus Alcidae gratissima, vitis Iaccho,
Formosa myrtus Veneri, sua laurea Phoebo,
Phillis amat corylos Illas dum Phillis amabit
Nec myrtus vineet corylos nec laurea Phoebi. &c.
You Ng Colin Clout, a lad of peerless meed. Full well could dance, and deftly tune the reed; In every wood his carols sweet were known. At every wake his nimble feats were shown. When in the ring the rustic routs he threw, The damsels' pleasures with his conquests grew Or when aslant the cudgel threats his head, His danger smites the breast of every maid, But chief of Marian. Marian lov'd the swain, The parson's maid, and neatest of the plain: Marian, that soft could stroke the udder'd cow, Or lessen with her sieve the barley-mow ; Marbled with sage the hardening cheese she prese And yellow butter Marian's skill confess'd : But Marian now, devoid of country cares, Nor yellow butter, nor sage-cheese, prepares, For yearning love the withess maid employs, And “Love” say swains, “all busy heed destroColin makes mock at all her piteous smart; A lass that Cicely hight had won his heart,
Ver. 103–110 were not in the early edition v
Ver. 117. Rosemary.
Cicely, the western lass, that tends the kee, The rival of the parson's maid was she. In dreary shade now Marian lies along, And, mixt with sighs, thus wails in plaining song: “Ah, woeful day ! ah, woeful noon and morn! When first by thee my younglings white were shorn; Then first, I ween, I cast a lover's eye, My sheep were silly, but more silly I. Beneath the shears they felt no lasting smart, They lost but fleeces, while I lost a heart. 30 “Ah, Colin' canst thou leave thy sweetheart true? What I have done for thee, will Cicely do? Will she thy linen wash, or hosen darn, And knit thee gloves made of her own spun yarn? Will she with huswife's hand provide thy meat 2 And every Sunday morn thy neckcloth plait, Which o'er thy kersey doublet spreading wide, In service-time drew Cicely's eyes aside? “Where'er I gad, I cannot hide my care, My new disasters in my look appear. White as the curd my ruddy cheek is grown, So thin my features, that I'm hardly known. Qur neighbours tell me oft, in joking talk, Of ashes, leather, oatmeal, bran, and chalk; Unwittingly of Marian they divine, And wist not that with thoughtful love I pine. Yet Colin Clout, untoward shepherd swain, Walks whistling blithe, while pitiful I plain. “Whilom with thee 'twas Marian's dear delight Tomoil all day, and merry-make at night. 50 If in the soil you guide the crooked share, Your early breakfast is my constant care; And when with even hand you strow the grain, Ifright the thievish rooks from off the plain. In misling days, when I my thresher heard, With nappy beer I to the barn repair'd; Lost in the music of the whirling flail, To gaze on thee I left the smoking pail: In harvest, when the Sun was mounted high, My leathern bottle did thy draught supply; Whene'er you mow'd, I follow’d with the rake, ànd have full oft been sun-burnt for thy sake: When in the welkin gathering showers were seen, Ilagg'd the last with Colin on the green; And when at eve returning with thy car, Awaiting heard the jingling bells from far, Straight on the fire the sooty pot I plac'd, Towarm thy broth I burnt my hands for haste. When hungry thou stood'st staring, like an oaf, I slic'd the luncheon from the barley-loaf; With crumbled bread I thicken'd well thy mess. Ah, love me more, or love thy pottage less! “Last Friday's eve, when as the Sun was set, I, near yon stile, three sallow gypsies met. on my hand they cast a poring look, Bid me beware, and thrice their heads they shook: They said, that many crosses I must prove; Some in my worldly gain, but most in love. \at morn I miss'd three hens and our old cock; And off the hedge two pinners and a smock; 80 !ore these loses with a Christian mind, And no mishaps could feel, while thou wert kind. But since, alas! I grew my Colin's scorn, !o known no pleasure, night, or noon, or morn. *p me, ye gypsies; bring him home again, And to a constant lass give back her swain.
Wer. 21. Kee, a west-country word for kine, or tours,
So is thy image on this heart of mine.”
“Have I not sat with thee full many a night, When dying embers were our only light, When every creature did in slumbers lie, Besides our cat, my Colin Clout, and I? No troublous thoughts the cat or Colin move, While I alone am kept awake by love. “Remember, Colin, when at last year's wake I bought the costly present for thy sake; Could'st thou spell o'er the posy on thy knife, And with another change thy state of life? If thou forgett'st, I wot, I can repeat, My memory can tell the verse so sweet: “As this is grav'd upon this knife of thine,
loo But woe is me! such presents luckless prove, For knives, they tell me, always sever love.” Thus Marian wail'd, her eyes with tears brimful, When Goody Dobbins brought her cow to bull. With apron blue to dry her tears she sought, Then saw the cow well serv'd, and took a groat.
WEDNESDAY, OR, THE DUMPS."
THE wailings of a maiden I recite, A maiden fair, that Sparabella hight. Such strains ne'er warble in the linnet's throat, Nor the gay goldfinch chants so sweet a note. No magpye chatter'd, nor the painted jay, No ox was heard to low, nor ass to bray; No rustling breezes play'd the leaves among, While thus her madrigal the damsel sung.
A while, O D'Urfey ! lend an ear or twain, Nor, tho' in homely guise, my verse disdain; Whether thou seek'st new kingdoms in the Sun, Whether thy Muse does at Newmarket run, Or does with gossips at a feast regale, And heighten her conceits with sack and ale, Or else at wakes with Joan and Hodge rejoice, Where D'Urfey's lyrics swell in every voice;
* Dumps, or dumbs, made use of to express a fit of the sullens. Some have pretended that it is derived from Dumops, a king of Egypt, that built a pyramid, and died of melancholy. So mopes, after the same manner, is thought to have come from Merops, another Egyptian king, that died of the same distemper. But our English antiquaries have conjectured that dumps, which is a grievous heaviness of spirits, comes from the word dumplin, the heaviest kind of pudding that is eaten in this country, much used in Norfolk, and other counties of England. Ver. 5. Immemor herbarum quos est mirata juvenca Certantes, quorum stupefactae carmine lynces, Et mutata suos requierunt flumina cursus. VIRG. Ver. 9. Tu mihi, seu magni superas jam saxa Timavi, Sive oram Illyrici legis a quoris- V1 no. Ver. 11. An opera written by this author, called The World in the Sun, or the Kingdom of Birds; he is also famous for his song on the Newmarket horse-race, and several others that are sung by the British swains.