The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
 | I. |
| II. |
The Careless and the Careful.
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 | The English Dance of Death |  |
204
The Careless and the Careful.
ASK the Doctor, whose renown
His skill has spread throughout the Town,
Whose rolling Chariot's daily seen
From Temple Bar to Lisson Green;
Yes, ask him, if you know him well,
And He the real Truth will tell,
What's the complaint or the Disease
That brings the largest heap of Fees:
He'll tell you Folly is the Mine
That feeds the Sons of Medicine.
Intemperance, in whatever way
It doth its various forms display,
Whether, in Bacchanalian Hours,
It overcomes the Reas'ning Powers;
Or, gloting o'er the daily Feast,
The Glutton sinks into the Beast;
Whene'er it doth desire inflame,
'Tis Folly by another name.
When sage Discretion's laid aside,
That Passion may be gratified,
We may forebode the coming ill
That calls for Potion or for Pill.
Is there a form in which excess
Can minister to Happiness?
No, 'tis, alas, a source of pain,
Of pale Disease, and all its train.
If the too frequent draughts you seek
Which burn the palm and flush the cheek;
If the too frequent Banquets press
The Stomach with their Lusciousness;—
If, shuning Nature, you invite
Whate'er the pamper'd appetite
Demands to gratify the taste,
You'll quickly bring your health to waste.
If, bred in Lux'ry's various schools,
You mock at Nature's simple Rules,—
Prepare the Fees;—for, soon or late
The Galens will assail your gate.
It is the Folly which opposes
Wise Nature's way that calls for Doses:
The Doctors would give up their System
As gainless, did not Fools assist 'em.
—Nature and Prudence, and Discretion
Are doubtless of the same Profession;
Their general object is the same;
They differ little but in name;
While Folly's ever seen to be
A constant foe to all the three.
—Whate'er may be the course of Life,
Whether it leads to peace or strife;—
Its way all safe or fill'd with snares,
With pleasures gay or sad with cares;—
Whether 'tis poverty or wealth,
Or sickness pale or rosy health;
By Reason sage we shall be blam'd,
If of those powers so lately nam'd,
We do not ask continual aid,
Or old or young, or man or maid:
Whate'er our Rank or our Profession,
Nature and Prudence, and Discretion,
Or in our station or our frame,
Should in their influence be the same.
Experience, in her ample school,
Cannot provide a better rule;
Yet we're too apt to play the fool.
—Howe'er, it is not to the great,
To those who live in Wealth and State,
Or bustle in the busy strife
That marks the active scenes of Life,
To whom my Moral I display;
But to the thoughtless and the gay:
The wholesome subject pays its duty
To giddy Youth and careless Beauty.
His skill has spread throughout the Town,
Whose rolling Chariot's daily seen
From Temple Bar to Lisson Green;
Yes, ask him, if you know him well,
And He the real Truth will tell,
What's the complaint or the Disease
That brings the largest heap of Fees:
He'll tell you Folly is the Mine
That feeds the Sons of Medicine.
Intemperance, in whatever way
It doth its various forms display,
Whether, in Bacchanalian Hours,
It overcomes the Reas'ning Powers;
Or, gloting o'er the daily Feast,
The Glutton sinks into the Beast;
205
'Tis Folly by another name.
When sage Discretion's laid aside,
That Passion may be gratified,
We may forebode the coming ill
That calls for Potion or for Pill.
Is there a form in which excess
Can minister to Happiness?
No, 'tis, alas, a source of pain,
Of pale Disease, and all its train.
If the too frequent draughts you seek
Which burn the palm and flush the cheek;
If the too frequent Banquets press
The Stomach with their Lusciousness;—
If, shuning Nature, you invite
Whate'er the pamper'd appetite
Demands to gratify the taste,
You'll quickly bring your health to waste.
If, bred in Lux'ry's various schools,
You mock at Nature's simple Rules,—
Prepare the Fees;—for, soon or late
The Galens will assail your gate.
206
Wise Nature's way that calls for Doses:
The Doctors would give up their System
As gainless, did not Fools assist 'em.
—Nature and Prudence, and Discretion
Are doubtless of the same Profession;
Their general object is the same;
They differ little but in name;
While Folly's ever seen to be
A constant foe to all the three.
—Whate'er may be the course of Life,
Whether it leads to peace or strife;—
Its way all safe or fill'd with snares,
With pleasures gay or sad with cares;—
Whether 'tis poverty or wealth,
Or sickness pale or rosy health;
By Reason sage we shall be blam'd,
If of those powers so lately nam'd,
We do not ask continual aid,
Or old or young, or man or maid:
Whate'er our Rank or our Profession,
Nature and Prudence, and Discretion,
207
Should in their influence be the same.
Experience, in her ample school,
Cannot provide a better rule;
Yet we're too apt to play the fool.
—Howe'er, it is not to the great,
To those who live in Wealth and State,
Or bustle in the busy strife
That marks the active scenes of Life,
To whom my Moral I display;
But to the thoughtless and the gay:
The wholesome subject pays its duty
To giddy Youth and careless Beauty.
Miss Mary, and her sister Sophy,
Were seen to bear the envied Trophy
Which Beauty's Queen, 'tis said, confers
On certain favourites of hers:
Nor will it, sure, be thought untrue
That this the conscious Ladies knew:
'Twas nat'ral, therefore, the desire
To go where gazing eyes admire:
One Evening then, at Pleasure's call,
They brought their Graces to a Ball:
What Envy the fair Nymphs excited,
How oft to dance they were invited,
What admiration was bestow'd,
What Love-sick Beaux around them bow'd,
Are things the humble verse will leave
For any Fancy to conceive;
And Fancy may suppose, the night
Gave a succession of Delight.
But Pleasure's season must be o'er,
And when the Band was heard no more,
The Sisters sat them down to cool
Their heated Forms and play the fool.
They laughed at those who spoke their fright,
As the loud Storm disturb'd the night,
And Quizz'd the Carefuls as they bawl
For Cloak and Fur and wrapping Shawl.
—Their Coach was call'd, it was not come:
“Ne'er mind,” they said, “we're so near home;
“And it will be delightful Fun,
“In such a night to have a run.
“Come, Major, give us either arm,
“We can skip on and take no harm:
“Besides, your fierce cock'd Hat and Feather
“Will, surely, save us from the weather.
“The Care of such a gallant Fellow
“Is better far than an Umbrella.”
—They saw a Lanthern dance before
To guide them onward to their door,
But knew not who the Lantern bore.
'Twas Death, alas, who lit them home;
And the Fool's Frolic seal'd their doom.
Were seen to bear the envied Trophy
Which Beauty's Queen, 'tis said, confers
On certain favourites of hers:
Nor will it, sure, be thought untrue
That this the conscious Ladies knew:
'Twas nat'ral, therefore, the desire
To go where gazing eyes admire:
208
They brought their Graces to a Ball:
What Envy the fair Nymphs excited,
How oft to dance they were invited,
What admiration was bestow'd,
What Love-sick Beaux around them bow'd,
Are things the humble verse will leave
For any Fancy to conceive;
And Fancy may suppose, the night
Gave a succession of Delight.
But Pleasure's season must be o'er,
And when the Band was heard no more,
The Sisters sat them down to cool
Their heated Forms and play the fool.
They laughed at those who spoke their fright,
As the loud Storm disturb'd the night,
And Quizz'd the Carefuls as they bawl
For Cloak and Fur and wrapping Shawl.
—Their Coach was call'd, it was not come:
“Ne'er mind,” they said, “we're so near home;
209
“In such a night to have a run.
“Come, Major, give us either arm,
“We can skip on and take no harm:
“Besides, your fierce cock'd Hat and Feather
“Will, surely, save us from the weather.
“The Care of such a gallant Fellow
“Is better far than an Umbrella.”
—They saw a Lanthern dance before
To guide them onward to their door,
But knew not who the Lantern bore.
'Twas Death, alas, who lit them home;
And the Fool's Frolic seal'd their doom.
| The English Dance of Death | |