University of Virginia Library

THOMAS OF COLEBY'S TALE. PORCIA,

OR PASSION OVERACTED.

We come too late, car tout est dit,
Says La Bruyere; and more fool he:
Not only every age, each year
Brings scenes unknown before to view,
New realms of fancy still appear,
And beyond them regions still new.
Voltaire, and others I can mention,
Will give a colour and fresh look,
A lively varnish, like invention,
To any tale in any book;
And sell you one, ten times repeated,
Like an old watch in a new case,
Or an old drab, with whom you're cheated,
Taking her home for a new face.
Dress'd by the Graces and Fontaine,
In a coquetish deshabille,
Without her weeds and Roman train
The Ephesian matron pleases still.
And Porcia too, whose tale I tell,
Adorn'd by them, had pleas'd as well.
Porcia could never be consol'd
For the departure of her spouse;
A fever, caught by catching cold,
Had cancell'd their connubial vows.
Of every comfort now bereft,
The wretch's comfort, and the curse,
Was all the comfort she had left—
That is, Fate could not use her worse:
Her grief was settled, like her dower,
For life, and out of fortune's power.
To lay her grief up safe and sound,
Where sorrow might have elbow-room,
No place above, or under ground,
Was fitter than her husband's tomb,
Than that deep cave, I should have said,
That held the tomb wherein he laid;
With vaulted roof lofty and wide,
Where every sigh and plaintive moan
Were play'd about from side to side,
Or whisper'd in the sweetest tone.
There with his tomb she found, in brief,
All the whole equipage of woe,
And every utensil of grief,
Both for convenience and show.
A lamp on each side of his urn,
Of vases lachrymal a dish,
A stone to sit upon and mourn,
As cold as broken-heart could wish:
And on his urn engrav'd there were
A torch revers'd, to shew her loss,
Death's head, and with Death's head a pair
Of marrow-bones were laid across:
As good, though only made of stone,
For grief to pick, as real bone.
Whether the day was fair or foul,
Most of it pass'd within this cell:
A solemn solo from the owl,
At night was Porcia's warning-bell;
Warn'd from the mansions of the dead,
To water with fresh tears her bed,
Nature, alarm'd for Porcia's sake,
Took her into her special keeping;
The harm she did herself awake,
Nature repair'd when she was sleeping.
Porcia, refresh'd by balmy sleep,
Rose every morning like the sun,
Emerging vigorous from the deep,
Prepar'd his daily course to run.
One afternoon, the month was May,
Porcia had din'd in her poor way.
A cavalier rode gently by,
As she was going upon duty,
And with a critic's curious eye
Survey'd this melancholy beauty.
Her hair in careless ringlets spread,
Two large black eyes to suit her hair,
The graceful posture of her head,
Smooth, white, round breasts a strutting pair,
With rosy buttons budding sweet,
That correspond but never meet.
A shape, a hand, delicious arms,
An outline elegantly drawn,
Were ample sureties for the charms
Hid by reluctant crape and lawn.
Such an assortment of rich wares,
With so much art and taste dasplay'd,
Such tempting baits and cunning snares,
Concupiscence had seldom laid.
Our horseman first survey'd his ground;
That done, he was dismounted soon,
Not like a trooper by a wound,
But like an active brave dragoon.
So have I seen, in the same guise,
A 'squire drawn in by two arch eyes:
For lo, the 'squire, dismounting strait,
First argues with himself awhile,
Then hangs his horse upon a gate,
Then follows Phebe o'er a stile.
Porcia meanwhile, on her stone seat,
Lamenting sat, warm as a toast:
Nothing but Porcia's natural heat
Could have maintain'd so cold a post;
For Nature, as I said before,
Had ammunition always near,
And fresh recruits for evermore,
To pour into her front and rear.
And now appear'd, in sad array,
Clodio, the hero of the play.
Entering the vault with downcast eyes,
He threw himself upon the ground,
Whilst Porcia's cadenc'd moans and sighs
Gently reverberated round.
Porcia's melodious complaints
Were like the music of the spheres,
Delightful music for the saints,
But none at all for Clodio's ears.
He seem'd quite lost in deep despair,
Or so absorb'd in mental visions,
He heard them not, or did not care
For all her quavers and divisions.
On the cold stones reclining laid,
At length with woe-struck voice he said,
See, Anna, where thy Clodio lies,
For ever faithful to his vows,
Pouring his annual sacrifice
Upon the grave of his lov'd spouse.
Disdain not, in the realms above,
The tears of consecrated love!—
Sitting unnotic'd and neglected,
Eve's curiosity or pique,
A pique one scarce could have suspected,
Prompted the dowager to speak.
The case was delicate and nice;
She took her chance, and broke the ice.
Welcome, poor wretch, to this abode,
This house of death, continued she;
This passage is the only road
To peace and rest for thee and me.
Then ty'd her speech up with a sigh,
Waiting for Clodio's reply.
Oh let me hear that voice again!
Is it a real voice, he cry'd,
Or an illusion of the brain?
Real, alas! the voice reply'd.
Rous'd by the voice's awful sound,
At once he started from the ground,
Like Garrick, riveting his eyes
On Porcia, with a frantic glare!
Porcia play'd Juliet's surprise,
With Bellamy's surprising stare.
No painter's art could have devis'd
Two figures that seem'd more surpris'd.
But what was more surprising, clearly,
She on her stone, he on his feet,
Mistook each other very queerly,
Struck by a similar conceit:
Each saw their spouse, in either figure,
Restor'd to life, in perfect vigour.
Some time was spent in contemplation,
Previous to any declaration.
When their confusion was abated,
And things seem'd ripe for a debate,
Preliminary forms were stated,
Relative to their present state;
And at the last from their confusion
They drew a very fair conclusion:
It follow'd, from the first impression
Made upon both at the first glance,
That such a lively just expression
Could never be the work of chance:
Two forms, so truly represented,
Could not by chance have been presented.
If 'twas not chance, what then remain'd?
Why this conclusion must remain,
If 'twas not chance, 'twas pre-ordain'd;
Nothing in nature was so plain;
Both pre-ordain'd, by special grace,
Their mutual losses to replace.
This point, discuss'd on Porcia's stone,
Was fairly stated, as you'll see,
And as this stone could hold but one,
The Widow sat on Clodio's knee;
This was a necessary case,
For otherwise, my worthy Sirs,
If Porcia had not chang'd her place.
Clodio must have sat on her's.
None but a prude, I do suppose,
Can blame th' alternative she chose.
If the resemblances could reach
To every article throughout,
The representative of each
Could entertain no further doubt;
But doubts must needs be entertain'd,
Till every doubtful point's explain'd:
For likenesses are oft deceiving,
Appearances are often cheating;
Seeing is not a firm believing;
The pudding's proof is in the eating:
In that case, all you have to do
Is to say grace, and then fall to.
Having no subject for debate,
Wanting no proof but that alone,
They sign'd the treaty drawn by fate,
And seal'd it upon Porcia's stone.
And thus the doubtful points compar'd,
Handled and view'd in every light,
All correspondently declar'd
The previous conclusion right.
And so the long-predestin'd pair,
Clodio and his deputed wife,
Leaving the monumental chair,
Rose from the dead to a new life;
For having now, as it grew late,
No further business with the dead,
They finish'd the decrees of fate,
At Porcia's house, in Porcia's bed;
But Porcia first prepar'd the way
With a good supper and Tokay.
Clodio next morning, not before,
Talking of Anne, and his affliction,
Own'd his wife Anne, and, what was more,
Own'd the whole process was a fiction;
He had no wife alive or dead,
The representative of Anne
Had put that thought out of his head,
And help'd him to a better plan.
But grant, said he, we both were cheats,
And that your grief, like mine, was feign'd,
Our meeting here between two sheets
Might for all that be pre-ordain'd:
A field where you may range and feast,
Unty'd, not tether'd like a beast.