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. |
The Glutton.
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 | II. |
 | The English Dance of Death |  |
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The Glutton.
AMONG those vices which the Law
Does not controul or keep in awe,
Which look not to the grave intent
Of any Act of Parliament;
Are subject to no other rule
Than what is taught in Reason's school,
But, straying from her general plan,
Degrade the character of Man;
Among them all, who can descry
A vice more mean than Gluttony?
Of any groveling slave of sense,
Not one can claim so small pretence
To that indulgence which the wise
Allow to human frailties,
As the inglorious, beastly sinner,
Whose only object is—a dinner.
The Miser, who heaps up his store,
May prove a Treasurer for the poor;
And, by his avarice, prepare
The funds by which his gen'rous heir
Can, with unbounded grace, impart
The kindness of a feeling heart.
—The thoughtless, but the jovial souls,
Who pleasure find in flowing bowls,
Enjoy the day, or pass the nights
In Bacchanalian delights:—
Though their excesses do not give
The happiness for which we live:
Yet, round their table mirth prevails,
And Humour laughs, though Reason fails.
Does not controul or keep in awe,
Which look not to the grave intent
Of any Act of Parliament;
Are subject to no other rule
Than what is taught in Reason's school,
But, straying from her general plan,
Degrade the character of Man;
Among them all, who can descry
A vice more mean than Gluttony?
Of any groveling slave of sense,
Not one can claim so small pretence
To that indulgence which the wise
Allow to human frailties,
As the inglorious, beastly sinner,
Whose only object is—a dinner.
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May prove a Treasurer for the poor;
And, by his avarice, prepare
The funds by which his gen'rous heir
Can, with unbounded grace, impart
The kindness of a feeling heart.
—The thoughtless, but the jovial souls,
Who pleasure find in flowing bowls,
Enjoy the day, or pass the nights
In Bacchanalian delights:—
Though their excesses do not give
The happiness for which we live:
Yet, round their table mirth prevails,
And Humour laughs, though Reason fails.
Scourge me the man who dares to say
The belly claims superior sway,
And, in the various scale of sense,
Can boast a fair pre-eminence;
Whose pleasure lies in luscious meats,
And reasons only while he eats;
On whom the subject never palls
Of poult'rers' shops and butchers' stalls;
Who scents no odours so bewitching,
As sav'ry steams from well-fed kitchen;
Who does with real rev'rence look
On the perfections of a Cook;
Whose gloating eyes view every dish,
Of boil'd, and roast, of soup and fish,
Of callipash and fatten'd haunch,
Till he has fill'd his bloated paunch;
And then the rich ragouts restore
The stomach, till it holds no more.
—For whom does he prepare the feast,
And daily play the greedy beast?
Nature resents the sensual show,
And, sick'ning, often tells him so:
She leaves his rav'nous maw to share
His banquets with the Scavenger.
Such was Sir Gabriel Lamprey, Knight,
The belly claims superior sway,
And, in the various scale of sense,
Can boast a fair pre-eminence;
Whose pleasure lies in luscious meats,
And reasons only while he eats;
On whom the subject never palls
Of poult'rers' shops and butchers' stalls;
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As sav'ry steams from well-fed kitchen;
Who does with real rev'rence look
On the perfections of a Cook;
Whose gloating eyes view every dish,
Of boil'd, and roast, of soup and fish,
Of callipash and fatten'd haunch,
Till he has fill'd his bloated paunch;
And then the rich ragouts restore
The stomach, till it holds no more.
—For whom does he prepare the feast,
And daily play the greedy beast?
Nature resents the sensual show,
And, sick'ning, often tells him so:
She leaves his rav'nous maw to share
His banquets with the Scavenger.
Who thought that a sharp appetite,
With a good dinner, form'd a blessing,
Of all life's goods, most worth possessing
71
Did Honour to the City chair:
But he had long outliv'd the taste
For any pleasure, but a feast:
And thus, as folks were us'd to say,
He pass'd each regulated day.
—The chicken-broth was brought at nine,—
He then arose to ham and wine;
And, with a philosophic air,
Decided on the Bill of Fare.
He took his bitters just at two,
To give his appetite its cue;
The coach then drew up to the door,
And gave him exercise till four.
At five the steady bell inform'd
That dinner's ready to be storm'd.
But a sad day arriv'd at last,
When, as he view'd the rich repast,
DEATH enter'd, to proclaim a fast;
And freely took an empty chair
Which happen'd to be standing there.
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The napkin dangling from his chin:
The Cook, with apprehension big,
Drops from his hands the roasted pig;
The women scream'd, the dishes chatter'd;
The floor with sauce was all bespatter'd;
When the Knight thought 'twere best be civil,
And hold the candle to the Devil.
“Do lay that ugly dart aside:
“A knife and fork shall be supplied.
“Come, change your glass for one of mine,
“That shall appear brimfull of wine.
“Perhaps you're hungry, and may feel
“A hankering to make a meal;
“So without compliment or words,
“Partake of what the house affords.”
“Avaunt,” cried Death, “no more ado:—
“I'm come to make a meal of you.”
| The English Dance of Death | |