The English Dance of Death from the designs of Thomas Rowlandson, with metrical illustrations, by the author of "Doctor Syntax" [i.e. William Combe] |
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 | The English Dance of Death |  |
57
The Virago.
WHAT is the richest boon in life?I say, a fond and faithful wife;
Whose form is fair, whose temper's cool,
Who never wants to play the fool:
Who knows, and who performs her duty,
Nor thinks, because she's born a beauty,
That, from her youth till she grows old,
She may both domineer and scold.
—O happy he! whose wedded life
Ne'er knew domestic feud or strife;
Who, from the partner of his heart,
Ne'er heard the word that could impart
A keen reproach, a painful thought;
Who, with her marriage portion, brought
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The neck adorns, or decks the hair;
Which shines so bright in all degrees;—
The never-failing wish to please.
Not so the Fair One of the story
Which this bold page now lays before you.
Mistress Pengethly was a Lady
Who long ago had pass'd her hey-day:
A spoil'd and only daugther she
Of a proud Dame of Family,
Who was, if you would take her word,
The twentieth Cousin of a Lord.
Her husband also, when he died,
Had left her his whole stock of pride;
For, having been High-sheriff, he
Became, poor man, as proud as she:
But as for wealth, a mod'rate share
Remain'd for Wife and Female Heir.
Horses and hounds, and jolly doing,
Had almost brought the 'Squire to ruin;
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He clos'd, one night, his mortal race.
The house, the mortgag'd lands were sold,
Madam and Miss no more behold
The liv'ried train obedient wait
Behind their chair, or at their gate;
Compell'd, but not content, to own
A Villa in a Country Town;
Whose household state alone display'd
A curly foot-boy and a maid:
Where nought of finery was seen
But a Veranda, pink and green;
While humble neighbours as they pass,
Admire the drap'ry, through the glass,
Whose folds in wide luxuriance spread,
With fringe and tassels blue and red.
Here they deplor'd their hapless fate,
Their lowly fall and humbled state:
Chang'd the Barouche and four bright bays
For, now-and-then, an hired chaise:
From the world exil'd and the ton,
In their small house they liv'd alone,
Almost unseen, and quite unknown;
And, which is no uncommon lot,
By all their former friends forgot.
But it has been observ'd by men,
Who wrote it with a knowing pen,
That Pride, whatever ill o'ertakes us,
Is the last feeling that forsakes us;
And, beat in every other part,
Still keeps the fortress of the heart.
Thus, to the Vicar's humble wife,
They'd talk of fashionable life,
And number up, among their cousins,
Ladies and Duchesses by dozens;
Would quite surprize her with the story
Of all their former days of glory;
And then, in pride, return again
To some uneasy, cheerless strain—
“My daughter, who, in shape and feature,
“Is a bright Paragon of Nature:
“Form'd in the highest ranks to shine,
“I say it, though the girl is mine,
“Yet is she doom'd to pass her hour,
“Like some unheeded, beauteous flower
“That never is expos'd to view,
“And fades away where first it grew.
“Augusta sings, but no one hears her;
“Augusta plays, but no one cheers her;
“Augusta smiles, but no one sees:—
“We might as well be shrubs and trees!
“Such is our dull, inactive state,
“We little more than vegetate.
“What do we see in this poor town?
“Scarce any faces but our own;
“Unless, a rare and lucky chance,
“Of trav'ller gay we catch a glance.”
Madam and Miss no more behold
The liv'ried train obedient wait
Behind their chair, or at their gate;
Compell'd, but not content, to own
A Villa in a Country Town;
Whose household state alone display'd
A curly foot-boy and a maid:
Where nought of finery was seen
But a Veranda, pink and green;
While humble neighbours as they pass,
Admire the drap'ry, through the glass,
Whose folds in wide luxuriance spread,
With fringe and tassels blue and red.
Here they deplor'd their hapless fate,
Their lowly fall and humbled state:
Chang'd the Barouche and four bright bays
For, now-and-then, an hired chaise:
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In their small house they liv'd alone,
Almost unseen, and quite unknown;
And, which is no uncommon lot,
By all their former friends forgot.
But it has been observ'd by men,
Who wrote it with a knowing pen,
That Pride, whatever ill o'ertakes us,
Is the last feeling that forsakes us;
And, beat in every other part,
Still keeps the fortress of the heart.
Thus, to the Vicar's humble wife,
They'd talk of fashionable life,
And number up, among their cousins,
Ladies and Duchesses by dozens;
Would quite surprize her with the story
Of all their former days of glory;
And then, in pride, return again
To some uneasy, cheerless strain—
“My daughter, who, in shape and feature,
“Is a bright Paragon of Nature:
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“I say it, though the girl is mine,
“Yet is she doom'd to pass her hour,
“Like some unheeded, beauteous flower
“That never is expos'd to view,
“And fades away where first it grew.
“Augusta sings, but no one hears her;
“Augusta plays, but no one cheers her;
“Augusta smiles, but no one sees:—
“We might as well be shrubs and trees!
“Such is our dull, inactive state,
“We little more than vegetate.
“What do we see in this poor town?
“Scarce any faces but our own;
“Unless, a rare and lucky chance,
“Of trav'ller gay we catch a glance.”
Dear Mistress Goodly, who had heard
Her husband preach the sacred word,
That doth the voice of comfort speak
To those who, with devotion, seek
In heav'nly mercy the relief
That's sure to heal our mortal grief;
Would say 'twas wisdom to submit
To what the Powers above thought fit;
And Patience taught in humble phrase,
With cheering hope of better days:
That Happiness doth not depend
Upon the wealth we have to spend;
That oft, the rich, with all their store,
Are not so happy as the poor;
That soon or late pale Death will come
To call them to one common Home;
And then, the great event will rest,
Not on the rich, but on the best.
—Thus when her Sermon she had done,
Had curtsied, and was fairly gone,
She furnish'd both Mamma and Daughter,
With an whole evening full of laughter.
—But, to be brief—these clouds were soon
Converted to an Honey Moon.
Her husband preach the sacred word,
That doth the voice of comfort speak
To those who, with devotion, seek
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That's sure to heal our mortal grief;
Would say 'twas wisdom to submit
To what the Powers above thought fit;
And Patience taught in humble phrase,
With cheering hope of better days:
That Happiness doth not depend
Upon the wealth we have to spend;
That oft, the rich, with all their store,
Are not so happy as the poor;
That soon or late pale Death will come
To call them to one common Home;
And then, the great event will rest,
Not on the rich, but on the best.
—Thus when her Sermon she had done,
Had curtsied, and was fairly gone,
She furnish'd both Mamma and Daughter,
With an whole evening full of laughter.
—But, to be brief—these clouds were soon
Converted to an Honey Moon.
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Affects to scorn the Sons of Trade;
And yet, at length, will join the train
Of City Dames in Mincing Lane:
Augusta too forgot her pride,
And sunk into a Merchant's Bride.
It happen'd, just about this time,
That, as the year was in its prime.
Mr. Pengethly travell'd down
To strut about his native Town:
—He was a Tradesman of renown:—
When waggish Cupid, from his quiver
Drew forth a dart and pierc'd his liver;
Or, in his breast, 'tis much the same,
Augusta's charms rais'd such a flame;
So fierce it burn'd that, from her eye,
The sentence beam'd to live or die.
What, though her fortune was but small,
Her Mother said—'twas none at all:
Because she thought th'enamour'd Cit
Would take it out in charms and wit;
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The treasure was Augusta's self.
He sought no more; the point was carried,
And John Pengethly soon was married.
The bells ne'er ceas'd throughout the day;
The Bridegroom ne'er was seen so gay.
The Bride appear'd with blushing grace,
Cover'd with muslin, silk and lace.
The Banquet follow'd—and the Ball:—
John drew his purse and paid for all.
At length his town acquaintance greet
The married pair in Fenchurch Street.
He smil'd and smirk'd, but many thought
He had not done the thing he ought;
And e'er three months had said adieu,
Why, he began to think so too.
The Lady was both young and pretty,
But then she did not like the City.
She lov'd expence, and he was saving;
She was for ev'ry pleasure craving;
And his great object was to sow
His money, and to see it grow.
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Fill'd his fond bosom with alarms,
When in the Country first he lov'd;—
In Town a fierce Virago prov'd.
In short, as we may well suppose,
They now were friends, and then were foes.
John's face was sometimes seen to bleed;
'Twas a bad razor did the deed:—
Though chatt'ring folks and loving friends,
Would say—'twas Madam's fingers ends.
He in his bus'ness sought relief,
And getting money sooth'd his grief;
He found the bargain he had made
In marriage, was a losing trade:
But his experience did suggest,—
Of a bad bargain make the best.
All have their common cares in life,
And he had got a scolding wife:
Though, in the matrimonial firm,
'Tis Death alone dissolves the term;
Or something that's unfit to name,
A deadly foe to female fame;
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From the chaste bounds of lawful love.
—He felt with pride his word was good,
That, on firm base, his credit stood;
In ev'ry mart he could command
The richest stores of ev'ry land;
And this with patience made him bear
The burthen of domestic care.
At home, 'twas true, a secret smile
From Molly could that care beguile,
And he would give a squeeze or more
To Molly when she op'd the door.
She knew his rap, and took good care,
With nimble step, to meet him there.
Now, as one night, he cheerless sat
With his cross-rib in bick'ring chat,
The Watchman cried—past twelve o'clock,
When the door rattled with a knock;
And Molly enter'd, pale with fear—
“There's one who wants my Mistress here:
“But such a figure, Ma'am, that, sure,
“Your eyes will ne'er the sight endure.”
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Pengethly trembled—Madam shook;
Away the Shape his Victim bore;
And, as he dragg'd her from the door,
She rav'd and threaten'd, kick'd and swore;
Then call'd the Watch:—but soon the riot
Was heard no more—and all was quiet.
Pengethly follow'd to the gate,
Submissive to the will of Fate.
“Farewell, (he cried) my dearest dear!—
“As I no more shall see you here,
“To my fond wish it may be given,
“That we shall meet again in Heaven;
“And since your daily clamours cease,
“On earth I hope to live in peace.—
“DEATH, far away, my cares hath carried.—
“Molly,—to-morrow we'll be married.”
| The English Dance of Death | |