Mac-Dermot or the Irish Fortune-Hunter. A poem. In Six Canto's. By the Author of the Art of Dress [i.e. J. D. Breval] |
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| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
Canto VI.
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 | Mac-Dermot |  |
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Canto VI.
Near that proud Fabrick, fam'd for painted Scenes,
For Trap-Doors, Chariots, Dragons, and Machines;
Where squeaking Eunuchs thrill th'Italian Song,
And Heydeker invites the motley Throng;
There stands a Dome, to Gamesters known full well,
Where Heirs are taught to Mortgage and to Sell;
Above, on Tables Heaps of Gold are pil'd,
By which unwary Mortals are beguil'd;
Below, a Matron, far advanc'd in Years,
To the fair Crowd retails her brittle Wares.
'Twas here Mac Dermot pass'd his Time at play,
Among the Youths who Fortune's Power obey,
Fine as a Birth-Night Beau, and void of Care,
When first the Nymph's Disorder reach'd his Ear;
He could not hide his Pain, he chang'd, he shook,
And from his trembling Hand let fall the Book ;
His Gold in hast put up, he left his Chair,
And flew, impatient, to relieve the Fair.
For Trap-Doors, Chariots, Dragons, and Machines;
Where squeaking Eunuchs thrill th'Italian Song,
And Heydeker invites the motley Throng;
There stands a Dome, to Gamesters known full well,
Where Heirs are taught to Mortgage and to Sell;
Above, on Tables Heaps of Gold are pil'd,
By which unwary Mortals are beguil'd;
Below, a Matron, far advanc'd in Years,
To the fair Crowd retails her brittle Wares.
'Twas here Mac Dermot pass'd his Time at play,
Among the Youths who Fortune's Power obey,
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When first the Nymph's Disorder reach'd his Ear;
He could not hide his Pain, he chang'd, he shook,
And from his trembling Hand let fall the Book ;
His Gold in hast put up, he left his Chair,
And flew, impatient, to relieve the Fair.
Extended on her Couch, in loose Array,
With Looks confus'd his weeping Mistress lay;
And when her dear expected Swain she saw,
She gave her Maids the Signal to withdraw.
With Looks confus'd his weeping Mistress lay;
And when her dear expected Swain she saw,
She gave her Maids the Signal to withdraw.
Thou loveliest, dearest of thy Sex, she cry'd,
Whom bounteous Nature form'd with all her Pride,
In whom a Thousand blended Charms unite;
Soft to the Touch, and lovely to the Sight,
O! lend thy wretched Patroness an Ear,
And ease a Heart that's breaking with Despair!
If I, unknowing to conceal my Flame,
To raise thy Fortune have undone my Fame;
Have slighted Citizens of high Degree,
Rich Knights, and Aldermen of Wards for Thee;
If this embroider'd Suit, this Flanders Lace,
This flaxen Wig, whose Tye sets off thy Face,
These sparkling Stones which on thy Finger shine,
And that proud Equipage, are Gifts of mine;
Retrieve my Credit, and restore my Peace,
And cause the Censure of the World to cease:
Our Hands, this Instant, let the Parson joyn,
And all my large Possessions shall be thine.
Thus spoke the Nymph, nor fear'd to be deny'd,
And thus, with Art, the wily Youth reply'd.
Whom bounteous Nature form'd with all her Pride,
In whom a Thousand blended Charms unite;
Soft to the Touch, and lovely to the Sight,
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And ease a Heart that's breaking with Despair!
If I, unknowing to conceal my Flame,
To raise thy Fortune have undone my Fame;
Have slighted Citizens of high Degree,
Rich Knights, and Aldermen of Wards for Thee;
If this embroider'd Suit, this Flanders Lace,
This flaxen Wig, whose Tye sets off thy Face,
These sparkling Stones which on thy Finger shine,
And that proud Equipage, are Gifts of mine;
Retrieve my Credit, and restore my Peace,
And cause the Censure of the World to cease:
Our Hands, this Instant, let the Parson joyn,
And all my large Possessions shall be thine.
Thus spoke the Nymph, nor fear'd to be deny'd,
And thus, with Art, the wily Youth reply'd.
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Thou best of Women, to whose Purse I owe
This modish Splendor, and well fancy'd Shew,
That I with Envy, as I pass, am seen,
And give ten Thousand gazing Fops the Spleen;
The Track of Love and Pleasure, (known to few)
In spite of Scandal let us still persue;
That Passion's strongest which is unconstrain'd,
And to doat long we never must be chain'd;
Unlicens'd Love shall always burn the same;
Right palls Possession, and puts out the Flame.
This modish Splendor, and well fancy'd Shew,
That I with Envy, as I pass, am seen,
And give ten Thousand gazing Fops the Spleen;
The Track of Love and Pleasure, (known to few)
In spite of Scandal let us still persue;
That Passion's strongest which is unconstrain'd,
And to doat long we never must be chain'd;
Unlicens'd Love shall always burn the same;
Right palls Possession, and puts out the Flame.
Let Fame, (that Hag, who picks up Truths and Lies,
And spreads a Thousand Stories as she flies;
Whom all the wiser of your Sex disdain,)
Not give my Rosaline a Moment's pain;
Does batter'd R---f---t shun the Face of Day,
Or the fam'd She, whom H---f---d kept in Pay?
Does youthful K---n cease Abroad to roam,
Or aged M---n to see Gallants at Home?
Then smooth that careful Brow, my angry Fair,
And give the Winds thy Horror and Despair;
Let me still be thus Lovely, Rich and Gay,
And still this Back thy Bounty shall Repay;
We'll Sport, and Revel all our Days and Nights,
And laugh at Priests, and Matrimonial Rites.
And spreads a Thousand Stories as she flies;
Whom all the wiser of your Sex disdain,)
Not give my Rosaline a Moment's pain;
Does batter'd R---f---t shun the Face of Day,
Or the fam'd She, whom H---f---d kept in Pay?
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Or aged M---n to see Gallants at Home?
Then smooth that careful Brow, my angry Fair,
And give the Winds thy Horror and Despair;
Let me still be thus Lovely, Rich and Gay,
And still this Back thy Bounty shall Repay;
We'll Sport, and Revel all our Days and Nights,
And laugh at Priests, and Matrimonial Rites.
The Nymph could hear no more, and rising, try'd
To snatch the Weapon from her Traytor's Side;
Her dire Intent the wary Youth foresaw,
And held the Steel too fast for her to draw.
Robb'd of Revenge, the disappointed Fair,
Now look'd a Fury, and was all Despair;
So storms the Lioness, who seeks in vain,
Her new lost Whelps along some Lybian Plain;
She foams, she roars, her Paws tear up the Ground,
And distant Atlas ecchoes back the Sound.
To snatch the Weapon from her Traytor's Side;
Her dire Intent the wary Youth foresaw,
And held the Steel too fast for her to draw.
Robb'd of Revenge, the disappointed Fair,
Now look'd a Fury, and was all Despair;
So storms the Lioness, who seeks in vain,
Her new lost Whelps along some Lybian Plain;
She foams, she roars, her Paws tear up the Ground,
And distant Atlas ecchoes back the Sound.
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Hence from my Sight, she cry'd, Ungrateful, fly,
Hence perjur'd Villain, loathsom to my Eye;
Enjoy that Breath I scorn to take, and be
Once more forsaken by the Gods and me;
Go, bid farewel to all thy borrow'd Pride,
From this too lib'ral Hand no more supply'd;
Lay down thy Equipage, discharge thy Train,
And take thy Lodging near the Skies again;
Before Cooks Shops suck in the grateful Steam,
And furnish Grubstreet with a dismal Theme;
Henceforth I sooner to my Bed will take,
Some starving Poet, or some worn out Rake,
Than give this Body to thy loath'd Embrace,
Thou vilest, falsest of the Bogland Race.
Hence perjur'd Villain, loathsom to my Eye;
Enjoy that Breath I scorn to take, and be
Once more forsaken by the Gods and me;
Go, bid farewel to all thy borrow'd Pride,
From this too lib'ral Hand no more supply'd;
Lay down thy Equipage, discharge thy Train,
And take thy Lodging near the Skies again;
Before Cooks Shops suck in the grateful Steam,
And furnish Grubstreet with a dismal Theme;
Henceforth I sooner to my Bed will take,
Some starving Poet, or some worn out Rake,
Than give this Body to thy loath'd Embrace,
Thou vilest, falsest of the Bogland Race.
She said, and crush'd beneath a Load of Woe,
Sunk at the Feet of her ungrateful Beau;
All pale, and speechless, in a Trance she fell,
Alas! the Trance resembled Death too well!
Mac thought her dead, and hasting to withdraw,
Within his reach a curious Casket saw;
The Wealth of Ormus and Mogul was there,
White Rows of Pearl, and Brilliants passing fair;
Rich Buckles that were wont to deck her Stays,
And Pendants, often seen at Balls and Plays;
A striking Watch, and Tweezers richly wrought;
Of Mather these, and that of Tompion bought;
A Thousand precious Toys, and Trinkets more,
Inchanting Sight! made up the shining Store.
Sunk at the Feet of her ungrateful Beau;
All pale, and speechless, in a Trance she fell,
Alas! the Trance resembled Death too well!
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Within his reach a curious Casket saw;
The Wealth of Ormus and Mogul was there,
White Rows of Pearl, and Brilliants passing fair;
Rich Buckles that were wont to deck her Stays,
And Pendants, often seen at Balls and Plays;
A striking Watch, and Tweezers richly wrought;
Of Mather these, and that of Tompion bought;
A Thousand precious Toys, and Trinkets more,
Inchanting Sight! made up the shining Store.
The God of Sharpers, if Report say true,
Before the Swain these strong Temptations threw;
Unknowing to resist, he snatch'd the Prey,
Blest his kind Stars, and softly went his Way;
Through unsuspecting Crowds he bore the Prize,
Nor once relenting, backward cast his Eyes.
Before the Swain these strong Temptations threw;
Unknowing to resist, he snatch'd the Prey,
Blest his kind Stars, and softly went his Way;
Through unsuspecting Crowds he bore the Prize,
Nor once relenting, backward cast his Eyes.
Here, O my Muse! thy tedious Song conclude,
Nor tell what Clamour and what Rage ensu'd,
When from her Fit awak'd, the Nymph no more
Beheld her perjur'd Beau, nor precious Store.
Nor cross the Main the flying Youth persue;
For cross the Main, it's thought, Mac-Dermot flew;
But whither to the French, or Belgian Coast,
Or that warm Soil where strutting Natives roast;
Or his own Bogland, where Potato's grow,
My gentle Reader's not in pain to know.
Nor tell what Clamour and what Rage ensu'd,
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Beheld her perjur'd Beau, nor precious Store.
Nor cross the Main the flying Youth persue;
For cross the Main, it's thought, Mac-Dermot flew;
But whither to the French, or Belgian Coast,
Or that warm Soil where strutting Natives roast;
Or his own Bogland, where Potato's grow,
My gentle Reader's not in pain to know.
To far more glorious Themes, fond Maid aspire,
And tune to nobler Strains the quiv'ring Lyre;
Inform the World what Motive led from far,
To the Seine's Banks the mighty Russian Czar;
How dreadful Eugene shakes his Roman Lance,
And Prelates War in Post-Boys and Courants.
And tune to nobler Strains the quiv'ring Lyre;
Inform the World what Motive led from far,
To the Seine's Banks the mighty Russian Czar;
How dreadful Eugene shakes his Roman Lance,
And Prelates War in Post-Boys and Courants.
| Mac-Dermot | |