Stultifera Navis or, The Modern Ship of Fools [by S. W. H. Ireland] |
I. |
II. |
III. |
IV. | SECTION IV.
OF OLD FOOLS WHO HANKER AFTER YOUNG
WOMEN. |
V. |
VI. |
VII. |
VIII. |
IX. |
X. |
XI. |
XII. |
XIII. |
XIV. |
XV. |
XVI. |
XVII. |
XVIII. |
XIX. |
XX. |
XXI. |
XXII. |
XXIII. |
XXIV. |
XXV. |
XXVI. |
XXVII. |
XXVIII. |
XXIX. |
XXX. |
XXXI. |
XXXII. |
XXXIII. |
XXXIV. |
XXXV. |
XXXVI. |
XXXVII. |
XXXVIII. |
XXXIX. |
XL. |
XLI. |
XLII. |
XLIII. |
XLIV. |
XLV. |
XLVI. |
XLVII. |
XLVIII. |
XLIX. |
L. |
LI. |
LII. |
LIII. |
LIV. |
LV. |
LVI. |
LVII. |
LVIII. |
LIX. |
LX. |
LXI. |
LXII. |
LXIII. |
LXIV. |
LXV. |
LXVI. |
Stultifera Navis | ||
SECTION IV. OF OLD FOOLS WHO HANKER AFTER YOUNG WOMEN.
And on back of goat still mounted
With a colt's tooth in thine head:
Front quite bald, and small eyes leering,
Lips which still proclaim thee steering
To the harlot's reeking bed?
Hottest lust thy soul elating,
All thy wither'd limbs on fire;
Bloodless frame, that seems to dwindle,
Parch'd with feverish vain desire.
Days unsteady, nights unquiet,
Fancy ever on the rack;
Forming plans for which thou'rt thirsting,
But on trial prove disgusting,
Heaping ennui on thy back.
Think'st thou virtue e'er will sell thee,
Mind untainted, beauty, grace!
All thy fancy'd joys deceive thee,
Thine's the harlot's bought embrace.
L'ENVOY OF THE POET.
The soul's great bane is mental idleness:Watch ev'ry thought, nor let the mind be mute.
Its sober pleasures with its years shall suit.
THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.
Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis,Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.
There might be many instances adduced of this propensity still remaining in full force with persons, though not even a stump of the strongest grinder is left in their jaws. Such a deficiency, however, is easily replaced by rows of ivory, which speedily imbibe a deep yellow tinge, a certain index of the raging and unquenchable fire that burns within.
The picture here displayed by the poet, cannot be more strikingly exemplified than in the first plate of the Harlot's Progress, from the pencil of that inimitable satirist, Hogarth, which displays the arrival of a beautiful country girl in the metropolis, who is supposed to have that moment alighted from the waggon, being accosted by an artful procuress; while in the back ground appears the infamous Coloncl C---rt---s, her employer, whose age and attitude may serve as a resemblance of our poet's hoary headed debauchee.
Nothing affords matter for more melancholy reflection, than to witness this dotage in men who, during the vigour of manhood, ennobled themselves; a striking instance of which is recorded in the person of the renowned Edward III. who, at the age of 77, was the slave of one Alice Pearce, whom he denominated the “Lady of beauty”, and in whose honour tiltings and tournaments were held in Smithfield, at which the court attended. But nothing can more pointedly display the folly of such conduct than the close of that great man's life, who was attended on his death-bed by this fascinating dame, who, finding the monarch's end fast approaching, threw aside all those fascinations which she had been in the habit of adopting to subjugate him, and, blind to every principle but that of interest, even at the trying hour of dissolution, she busied herself in tearing the jewels from off his fingers, and possessing every thing valuable that presented itself to her view.
The great and politic Elizabeth, when in her 76th year, doted on the memory of the Earl of Essex, for whom a solemn dance was given, at which Mrs. Tiffin, one of her ladies, was habited in character, and presented herself to the queen, who, pretending to be surprised at her appearance, demanded, “Pray, who are you?” “Affection”, answered Mrs. Tiffin.
“Affection's false”, replied the queen. Upon which the lady wooed her Majesty to dance, which, we are informed, she did most solemnly, in despite of age and the falsehood of affection.
Stultifera Navis | ||