The History of Polindor and Flostella With Other Poems. By I. H. [i.e. John Harington] The third Edition, Revised and much Enlarged |
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 | The History of Polindor and Flostella |  |
Thus, now some fortnight past, Arplastus rod
To far-fam'd Hunting match, 'twas spacious Wood
Ten miles from home; where meant some following nights
To rest with bord'ring friend, 'mid sport-delights.
But so it chanc'd, that busie Morn, a Fray
(Sport's rougher Wrong-side oft) at bleeding bay
Set th' Hunting-masters, men themselves turn'd Curs;
Some bauling Dog or Mistress th' angry stirs
Ingendring first; from words they grew to wounds:
Smart Siding, parties follow'd, till their Hounds
At length most Morall seem'd; 'twas turn'd to Chase
Or fray of silvan Bores: which bloody place,
Foul Clashings wisely Arplastus left, withdrew.
And being inform'd, his Friend was wander'd too
Far off, with's totall train (th' intruding Plague,
Death, his Joynt-tenants left) as Witch or Hag
Had crost with ill luck, back he gallopt home,
Vext, heated; Noon much over-past being come,
Wife forth, he walk'd directly (softly'st pacing)
Towards that coolest Grot, Sol's beams out-facing:
Where with's own Key that outward Door oth' ground
Unlocked first, to th' Summer-house chief bound.
Drawn neer, some gentler Sattins russle scar'd
(Such, Wind, Leaves whispring noyse) joyn'd Hem; ore-heard
These, twice, thrice o're; when Darting strait his eye
Through th' empty Lockhole there (Soul blasted nigh,
Turn'd wondring Statue) strange Lust-antick rack'd
That way his Heart: Comandra ith' very Act
With her own formall Cringer, Conge-man,
'Twixt whom Himself seem'd merely butcher'd, Slain:
His first Lusts wages, this. When grown all fir'd
(Suddain thoughts too, through her damn'd art expir'd
Sweet'st, best Oranthes Life) the baudy Door
His own Key open'd strait; then, griping th' Whoor,
Keen Dagger coupled closely with her Heart,
Till hug'd her Soul from thence; cool, new Love dart:
The Man escaping: Thus has righteous Heaven
Payd poor Oranthes Ghost, at once made even
Sad, double Scoar. This dismall dalliance ended,
He storm-like hurry'd back, ere long attended
To's Chamber, Bed, where violent Feaver burn'd;
Through rage and th' former heat; his Body turn'd
All Furnace, torrid-zoan: th' incensed Blood
Sulphureous boyling streams, whilst Guts they shew'd
Rolls of match, fit'd: Thus, th' Oyl consum'd, exhausted
(Juyce, Spirits gone) Life's Lamp soon languish'd, wasted.
To far-fam'd Hunting match, 'twas spacious Wood
Ten miles from home; where meant some following nights
To rest with bord'ring friend, 'mid sport-delights.
But so it chanc'd, that busie Morn, a Fray
(Sport's rougher Wrong-side oft) at bleeding bay
Set th' Hunting-masters, men themselves turn'd Curs;
Some bauling Dog or Mistress th' angry stirs
Ingendring first; from words they grew to wounds:
Smart Siding, parties follow'd, till their Hounds
At length most Morall seem'd; 'twas turn'd to Chase
Or fray of silvan Bores: which bloody place,
Foul Clashings wisely Arplastus left, withdrew.
And being inform'd, his Friend was wander'd too
117
Death, his Joynt-tenants left) as Witch or Hag
Had crost with ill luck, back he gallopt home,
Vext, heated; Noon much over-past being come,
Wife forth, he walk'd directly (softly'st pacing)
Towards that coolest Grot, Sol's beams out-facing:
Where with's own Key that outward Door oth' ground
Unlocked first, to th' Summer-house chief bound.
Drawn neer, some gentler Sattins russle scar'd
(Such, Wind, Leaves whispring noyse) joyn'd Hem; ore-heard
These, twice, thrice o're; when Darting strait his eye
Through th' empty Lockhole there (Soul blasted nigh,
Turn'd wondring Statue) strange Lust-antick rack'd
That way his Heart: Comandra ith' very Act
With her own formall Cringer, Conge-man,
'Twixt whom Himself seem'd merely butcher'd, Slain:
His first Lusts wages, this. When grown all fir'd
(Suddain thoughts too, through her damn'd art expir'd
Sweet'st, best Oranthes Life) the baudy Door
His own Key open'd strait; then, griping th' Whoor,
Keen Dagger coupled closely with her Heart,
Till hug'd her Soul from thence; cool, new Love dart:
The Man escaping: Thus has righteous Heaven
Payd poor Oranthes Ghost, at once made even
Sad, double Scoar. This dismall dalliance ended,
He storm-like hurry'd back, ere long attended
To's Chamber, Bed, where violent Feaver burn'd;
Through rage and th' former heat; his Body turn'd
All Furnace, torrid-zoan: th' incensed Blood
Sulphureous boyling streams, whilst Guts they shew'd
Rolls of match, fit'd: Thus, th' Oyl consum'd, exhausted
(Juyce, Spirits gone) Life's Lamp soon languish'd, wasted.
| The History of Polindor and Flostella | |