The works of Mr. Thomas Brown Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings |
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 | The works of Mr. Thomas Brown |  |
A Match for the Devil. In Imitation of M. Rabelais.
While others idle Tales relate,
To fright Men from the marry'd State;
Do thou, my Muse in humble Verse,
The Vertues of a Wife rehearse.
To fright Men from the marry'd State;
Do thou, my Muse in humble Verse,
The Vertues of a Wife rehearse.
A Farmer of much Wealth possess'd,
With Friends too, while they lasted, bless'd,
Kept open House, and lov'd to feast
Those who deserv'd and wanted least.
To Pleasures he prescrib'd no Bounds;
He kept his Hunters, Pack of Hounds.
Somewhat lascivious, somewhat vain.
Some Gentleman had cross'd the Strain.
To try all Joys and Plagues of Life,
He boldly took a Buxom Wife.
Now fresh Expences, fresh Delights,
Attend the Day, and Crown the Nights.
His new Acquaintance Crowd the House;
Some praise the Fare, but most the 'Spouse;
Each strove who should divert the most,
But still 'twas at the Husband's Cost.
He, thoughtless, prais'd the expensive Pleasure,
To please his dear domestick Treasure,
All Care was scorn'd, and Bus'ness vanish'd;
The present Joys, thoughts future banish'd:
And being both of Years but Vernal,
They thought their Wealth and Loves eternal.
With Friends too, while they lasted, bless'd,
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Those who deserv'd and wanted least.
To Pleasures he prescrib'd no Bounds;
He kept his Hunters, Pack of Hounds.
Somewhat lascivious, somewhat vain.
Some Gentleman had cross'd the Strain.
To try all Joys and Plagues of Life,
He boldly took a Buxom Wife.
Now fresh Expences, fresh Delights,
Attend the Day, and Crown the Nights.
His new Acquaintance Crowd the House;
Some praise the Fare, but most the 'Spouse;
Each strove who should divert the most,
But still 'twas at the Husband's Cost.
He, thoughtless, prais'd the expensive Pleasure,
To please his dear domestick Treasure,
All Care was scorn'd, and Bus'ness vanish'd;
The present Joys, thoughts future banish'd:
And being both of Years but Vernal,
They thought their Wealth and Loves eternal.
But oh! how vain are all Mens Fancies!
Ill-grounded Projects, mere Romances.
What Whims the Wisest entertain!
What strange Delusions fill our Brain!
When we are eager to possess,
We smooth the Road to Happiness:
We level Mountains, empty Seas,
And Reason fierce Desires obeys.
The greatest Danger we despise;
Our Passion sees, and not our Eyes.
Ill-grounded Projects, mere Romances.
What Whims the Wisest entertain!
What strange Delusions fill our Brain!
When we are eager to possess,
We smooth the Road to Happiness:
We level Mountains, empty Seas,
And Reason fierce Desires obeys.
The greatest Danger we despise;
Our Passion sees, and not our Eyes.
Our Pair now find, some Seasons past,
Nor Wealth, nor Love would always last,
Unless improv'd with Application;
But that in one is out of Fashion.
Gold indeed preserves its Sway,
But Love! who does thy Pow'r obey?
E'en Women now profess to range,
And all their Pleasures is in Change;
Now seek the present Joys t'improve,
Yielding to many they call Love;
Artful new Lovers to engage.
Then slight his Love, and scorn his Rage.
Thus these behold what they possess'd,
And wonder how they once were blest.
Their Jars are thought on, and improv'd;
They hate themselves, that once they lov'd.
Thus lab'ring on in dirty Road,
They snarl, and curse the heavy Load.
Nor Wealth, nor Love would always last,
Unless improv'd with Application;
But that in one is out of Fashion.
Gold indeed preserves its Sway,
But Love! who does thy Pow'r obey?
E'en Women now profess to range,
And all their Pleasures is in Change;
Now seek the present Joys t'improve,
Yielding to many they call Love;
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Then slight his Love, and scorn his Rage.
Thus these behold what they possess'd,
And wonder how they once were blest.
Their Jars are thought on, and improv'd;
They hate themselves, that once they lov'd.
Thus lab'ring on in dirty Road,
They snarl, and curse the heavy Load.
How happy were our mortal State,
Were Indolence but our worst Fate!
No sooner Joys the Place forsake,
But racking Pains Dominion take,
No sooner Love had fled the Pair,
When enter'd meager Want and Care.
The House, which had such vast Resort
When Riot seem'd to keep his Court,
Is now forsook, a lonely Cell,
Where Silence, undisturb'd, might dwell.
Clean Pans and Spits the Walls now grac'd.
For Ornament the Pewter's plac'd.
Bright Dishes entertain the Eye.
No Kitchen-Smoke offends the Sky.
Hogsheads with dismal sounds complain'd,
Both Hogsheads and the Man were drain'd.
His Landlord stern, his Rent demands.
Stray'd are his Flocks, unplough'd his Lands.
The Wife advies Friends to try;
Her's she was sure would not deny.
A thousand Vows she had receiv'd;
Each Vow repay'd, for she believ'd,
Were Indolence but our worst Fate!
No sooner Joys the Place forsake,
But racking Pains Dominion take,
No sooner Love had fled the Pair,
When enter'd meager Want and Care.
The House, which had such vast Resort
When Riot seem'd to keep his Court,
Is now forsook, a lonely Cell,
Where Silence, undisturb'd, might dwell.
Clean Pans and Spits the Walls now grac'd.
For Ornament the Pewter's plac'd.
Bright Dishes entertain the Eye.
No Kitchen-Smoke offends the Sky.
Hogsheads with dismal sounds complain'd,
Both Hogsheads and the Man were drain'd.
His Landlord stern, his Rent demands.
Stray'd are his Flocks, unplough'd his Lands.
The Wife advies Friends to try;
Her's she was sure would not deny.
A thousand Vows she had receiv'd;
Each Vow repay'd, for she believ'd,
But oh! how soon did they discover,
'Tis Wealth brings Friends, the Face a Lover.
His Wants are heard without Relief;
Her Eyes afford not Joy, nor Grief.
His wasted Fortune all affrights;
Her faded Beauty none invites.
'Tis Wealth brings Friends, the Face a Lover.
His Wants are heard without Relief;
Her Eyes afford not Joy, nor Grief.
His wasted Fortune all affrights;
Her faded Beauty none invites.
Oppress'd with Wants, to Woods he flies,
And seeks the Peace his House denies.
Roving, lamenting his Condition,
Fate kindly sent him a Physician.
His Habit, Cane, and formal Face,
Shew'd he was of Geneva Race:
But cloven Feet the Fiend detect,
And prov'd him Author of the Sect.
With Joy he spy'd the Wretch's Cares,
And fawning, thus he spread his Snares.
My Son! with Pity I have seen
(Tho' I've a Foe to Pity been)
The sad Disasters you endure,
That of a Wife admits no Cure.
I know your Wants, and her's I guess;
I cannot swear I'll both redress.
That Task, I fear, is too uneasy;
But if Possessions large will please ye,
Behold this spacious Tract of Land,
All that you see's at my Command.
I'll give it freely all to thee,
If we on Articles agree.
I can perform it, I'm the Devil,—
Nay, never start Man, I'll be civil.
It shall be yours to plough and sow;
All that above the Ground does grow,
What e'er it is, shall be my Due;
The rest I freely give to you.
And seeks the Peace his House denies.
Roving, lamenting his Condition,
Fate kindly sent him a Physician.
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Shew'd he was of Geneva Race:
But cloven Feet the Fiend detect,
And prov'd him Author of the Sect.
With Joy he spy'd the Wretch's Cares,
And fawning, thus he spread his Snares.
My Son! with Pity I have seen
(Tho' I've a Foe to Pity been)
The sad Disasters you endure,
That of a Wife admits no Cure.
I know your Wants, and her's I guess;
I cannot swear I'll both redress.
That Task, I fear, is too uneasy;
But if Possessions large will please ye,
Behold this spacious Tract of Land,
All that you see's at my Command.
I'll give it freely all to thee,
If we on Articles agree.
I can perform it, I'm the Devil,—
Nay, never start Man, I'll be civil.
It shall be yours to plough and sow;
All that above the Ground does grow,
What e'er it is, shall be my Due;
The rest I freely give to you.
Gladly the Farmer does submit,
For pinching Want hath taught him Wit.
With Roots he plants the fruitful Soil,
Which well rewarded all his Toil.
But to his Landlord's jilted Share,
A weedy Harvest does appear.
For pinching Want hath taught him Wit.
With Roots he plants the fruitful Soil,
Which well rewarded all his Toil.
But to his Landlord's jilted Share,
A weedy Harvest does appear.
The Devil vext, new Cov'nants makes,
Next Year all under Ground he takes.
Then Golden Wheat the Land does bear,
And useless Roots are Satan's Share.
The Fiend resolv'd to spoil the Jest,
And thus the Farmer he addrest.
Next Year all under Ground he takes.
Then Golden Wheat the Land does bear,
And useless Roots are Satan's Share.
The Fiend resolv'd to spoil the Jest,
And thus the Farmer he addrest.
Believe me, Friend, thou art a Sharper;
Satan himself has caught a Tartar,
I've seen thy Wit, but now at length
I am resolv'd to try thy Strength.
A scratching Match we'll have together;
Look to thy self, I'll claw thy Leather.
If I submit, the Land is thine;
If I o'ercome, thy Soul is mine.
Think for your Quiet, I conjure ye;
Should you to Hell, you leave a Fury.
Observe these Talons, and away,
And Friday next shall be the Day.
A mod'rate Beauty will inflame,
'Till we have seen a brighter Dame.
Rivers with Wonders we survey,
'Till we behold the boundless Sea.
So ev'ry little trifling Care
Appears a Load we cannot bear.
But if some horrid Tortures seize us,
What late we dreaded, now would ease us.
Satan himself has caught a Tartar,
I've seen thy Wit, but now at length
I am resolv'd to try thy Strength.
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Look to thy self, I'll claw thy Leather.
If I submit, the Land is thine;
If I o'ercome, thy Soul is mine.
Think for your Quiet, I conjure ye;
Should you to Hell, you leave a Fury.
Observe these Talons, and away,
And Friday next shall be the Day.
A mod'rate Beauty will inflame,
'Till we have seen a brighter Dame.
Rivers with Wonders we survey,
'Till we behold the boundless Sea.
So ev'ry little trifling Care
Appears a Load we cannot bear.
But if some horrid Tortures seize us,
What late we dreaded, now would ease us.
The wretched Farmer homeward goes,
And dreads his future endless Woes.
His Cares, his Dunns, his Wants, his Wife,
And all the Banes of happy Life,
Would now afford him vast Content,
Could he the unequal Match prevent.
His prying Turtle quickly guest
Some Care uncommon fill'd his Breast.
Husband and Wife, sometimes relate
Their Cares and Bus'ness, tho' they hate.
Nor always Nature's Call deny,
And tho' both loath, yet both comply.
Her wheedling Tongue soon found the Means
To make the Wretch disclose his Pains.
He tells the Combat and the Laws,
And magnifies his monst'rous Paws.
And dreads his future endless Woes.
His Cares, his Dunns, his Wants, his Wife,
And all the Banes of happy Life,
Would now afford him vast Content,
Could he the unequal Match prevent.
His prying Turtle quickly guest
Some Care uncommon fill'd his Breast.
Husband and Wife, sometimes relate
Their Cares and Bus'ness, tho' they hate.
Nor always Nature's Call deny,
And tho' both loath, yet both comply.
Her wheedling Tongue soon found the Means
To make the Wretch disclose his Pains.
He tells the Combat and the Laws,
And magnifies his monst'rous Paws.
Pish! Is this all that Plagues your Mind?
An easy Remedy I'll find.
You to your Wife's Advice submit,
And we'll the Devil himself out-wit.
Come, turn about,—and leave your Moans,—
These Husbands are such very Drones.—
He sigh'd, obey'd, and did his best;
His Task perform'd he went to rest.
An easy Remedy I'll find.
You to your Wife's Advice submit,
And we'll the Devil himself out-wit.
Come, turn about,—and leave your Moans,—
These Husbands are such very Drones.—
He sigh'd, obey'd, and did his best;
His Task perform'd he went to rest.
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Our happy Hours are quickly past,
And time to Misery makes haste.
Soon Friday comes, a dismal Day!
When such a Guest would Visits pay.
The Farmer dreads the approaching Scuffle;
(The Thoughts of Hell, the Boldest ruffle)
But still his Wife keeps up her Spirits;
She knew her Safe-guard, and its Merits:
She bids him hide, whate're should fall on't,
While she receiv'd the dreadful Gallant.
He soon obeys th'advent'rous Dame;
The Husband gone, the Devil came.
And time to Misery makes haste.
Soon Friday comes, a dismal Day!
When such a Guest would Visits pay.
The Farmer dreads the approaching Scuffle;
(The Thoughts of Hell, the Boldest ruffle)
But still his Wife keeps up her Spirits;
She knew her Safe-guard, and its Merits:
She bids him hide, whate're should fall on't,
While she receiv'd the dreadful Gallant.
He soon obeys th'advent'rous Dame;
The Husband gone, the Devil came.
Who knocks impetuous at the Gate,
And angry grows, that he should wait.
Again for Ent'rance loud he cries,
But Screams and Groans are the Replies.
Love and the Devil, what can bind!
They stronger grow, the more confin'd:
If they can 'spy the smallest Hole,
One takes the Heart, and one the Soul.
So Satan, vex'd at the Delay,
Whip'd thro' the Key-hole to his Prey;
But to his great Amazement, found
Th'indecent Wife spread on the Ground:
High as the Waste expos'd and bare,
And with her Shrieks she pierc'd the Air.
And angry grows, that he should wait.
Again for Ent'rance loud he cries,
But Screams and Groans are the Replies.
Love and the Devil, what can bind!
They stronger grow, the more confin'd:
If they can 'spy the smallest Hole,
One takes the Heart, and one the Soul.
So Satan, vex'd at the Delay,
Whip'd thro' the Key-hole to his Prey;
But to his great Amazement, found
Th'indecent Wife spread on the Ground:
High as the Waste expos'd and bare,
And with her Shrieks she pierc'd the Air.
Why, how now, Woman? Whence this Passion?
This Posture, and such Exclamation?
This Posture, and such Exclamation?
Ah! pity, Sir, my wretched Case,
And quickly fly this horrid Place.
You, by your grim, Majestick Air,
Your Feet, your Claws, your Horns declare;
You with my Husband come to scratch;
But thou, ah! thou, th'unequal Match!
The cruel Monster ready stands,
But hope not to escape his Hands:
His Nails are Scythes upon my Life,
And for his Horns, Sir,—I'm his Wife.
This Morn, to try what he could do,
On me he would his Prowess shew:
This Chasm he made with's little Finger;
Behold, Sir,—is it not a Swinger.
With that she threw her Legs aside,
And shew'd a Hole surprising wide,
And quickly fly this horrid Place.
You, by your grim, Majestick Air,
Your Feet, your Claws, your Horns declare;
You with my Husband come to scratch;
But thou, ah! thou, th'unequal Match!
The cruel Monster ready stands,
But hope not to escape his Hands:
His Nails are Scythes upon my Life,
And for his Horns, Sir,—I'm his Wife.
This Morn, to try what he could do,
On me he would his Prowess shew:
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Behold, Sir,—is it not a Swinger.
With that she threw her Legs aside,
And shew'd a Hole surprising wide,
Zounds, quoth the Devil, (quite amaz'd,
When on the deadly Gulph he gaz'd)
What do I see! What makes that Wound
Of such Extent, and so profound!
If that Nail such a Wound could tear,
What can the Force of ten Claws bear!
And by the Stench, to shew his Spite,
With poyson'd Weapons he would fight.
My Talons are not half so long,
Nor is my Sulphur half so strong.
No, I'll submit, since my Lot's Hell;
At least I'll in a whole Skin dwell.
The Land is his, but be he bound,
Since he has made, to fill that Wound.
With that he vanish'd from her Eyes,
And sulph'rous Stench and Fumes arise.
When on the deadly Gulph he gaz'd)
What do I see! What makes that Wound
Of such Extent, and so profound!
If that Nail such a Wound could tear,
What can the Force of ten Claws bear!
And by the Stench, to shew his Spite,
With poyson'd Weapons he would fight.
My Talons are not half so long,
Nor is my Sulphur half so strong.
No, I'll submit, since my Lot's Hell;
At least I'll in a whole Skin dwell.
The Land is his, but be he bound,
Since he has made, to fill that Wound.
With that he vanish'd from her Eyes,
And sulph'rous Stench and Fumes arise.
The Farmer hastens to the Place,
His great Deliv'rer to embrace.
Well hast thou freed my tim'rous Soul;
But what did e'er thy Pow'r controul?
The fiercest Rage it soon disarms,
Tho' Hell it frights, yet Men it charms.
But be it on thy Tomb engrav'd,
'Tis the first Soul a Wife e'er sav'd.
His great Deliv'rer to embrace.
Well hast thou freed my tim'rous Soul;
But what did e'er thy Pow'r controul?
The fiercest Rage it soon disarms,
Tho' Hell it frights, yet Men it charms.
But be it on thy Tomb engrav'd,
'Tis the first Soul a Wife e'er sav'd.
| The works of Mr. Thomas Brown | |