The Poems of Charles Sackville Sixth Earl of Dorset: Edited by Brice Harris |
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 | The Poems of Charles Sackville |  |
115
Mr. Etherege's Answer
So soft and am'rously you write
Of c--- and p---, the c---'s delight,
That were I still in lantern sweating,
Swallowing of bolus or a-spitting,
I should forgive each injury
The pocky whores have offer'd me,
And only of my fate complain
Because I must from c--- abstain—
The powerful c---, whose very name
Kindles in me an amorous flame!
Begins to make my pintle rise
And long again to fight love's prize,
Forgetful of those many scars
Which he has gotten in those wars.
This shows love's chiefest magic lies
In women's c---, not in their eyes:
There Cupid does his revels keep,
There lovers all their sorrows steep;
For having once but tasted that,
Their miseries are quite forgot.
This may suffice to let you know
That I to c--- am not a foe,
Though you are pleas'd to think me so;
'Tis strange his zeal should be in suspicion
Who dies a martyr for's religion.
Of c--- and p---, the c---'s delight,
That were I still in lantern sweating,
Swallowing of bolus or a-spitting,
I should forgive each injury
The pocky whores have offer'd me,
And only of my fate complain
Because I must from c--- abstain—
The powerful c---, whose very name
Kindles in me an amorous flame!
Begins to make my pintle rise
And long again to fight love's prize,
Forgetful of those many scars
Which he has gotten in those wars.
This shows love's chiefest magic lies
In women's c---, not in their eyes:
There Cupid does his revels keep,
There lovers all their sorrows steep;
For having once but tasted that,
Their miseries are quite forgot.
This may suffice to let you know
That I to c--- am not a foe,
Though you are pleas'd to think me so;
'Tis strange his zeal should be in suspicion
Who dies a martyr for's religion.
But now to give you an account
Of Cuffley, that Whore paramount!
Cuffley, whose beauty warms the age,
And fills our youth with love and rage;
Who like fierce wolves pursue the game,
While secretly the lecherous dame
With some choice gallant takes her flight,
And in a corner f--- all night.
Then the next morning we all hunt
To find whose fingers smell of c---,
With jealousy and envy mov'd
Against the man that was belov'd.
Whilst you to Echo teach her name,
Thus it becomes the voice of fame
In every corner of the town.
We here proclaim her high renown
Whilst you within some neighb'ring grove
Indite the story of your love,
And with your penknife keen and bright
On stately trees your passion write,
So that each nymph that passes through
Must envy her and pity you.
We at the Fleece or at the Bear,
With good case knife, well whet on stair,
(A gentle weapon, made to feed
Mankind and not to let him bleed)
A thousand am'rous fancies scrape.
There's not a pewter dish can 'scape
Without her name or arms, which are
The same that love himself does bear.
Here one, to show you love's no glutton,
I'th' midst of supper leaves his mutton,
And on his greasy plate, with care,
Carves the bright image of the fair.
Of Cuffley, that Whore paramount!
Cuffley, whose beauty warms the age,
And fills our youth with love and rage;
Who like fierce wolves pursue the game,
116
With some choice gallant takes her flight,
And in a corner f--- all night.
Then the next morning we all hunt
To find whose fingers smell of c---,
With jealousy and envy mov'd
Against the man that was belov'd.
Whilst you to Echo teach her name,
Thus it becomes the voice of fame
In every corner of the town.
We here proclaim her high renown
Whilst you within some neighb'ring grove
Indite the story of your love,
And with your penknife keen and bright
On stately trees your passion write,
So that each nymph that passes through
Must envy her and pity you.
We at the Fleece or at the Bear,
With good case knife, well whet on stair,
(A gentle weapon, made to feed
Mankind and not to let him bleed)
A thousand am'rous fancies scrape.
There's not a pewter dish can 'scape
Without her name or arms, which are
The same that love himself does bear.
Here one, to show you love's no glutton,
I'th' midst of supper leaves his mutton,
And on his greasy plate, with care,
Carves the bright image of the fair.
Another, though a drunken sot,
Neglects his wine and on the pot
A band of naked Cupids draws,
With p--- no bigger than wheat straws.
Then on a nasty candlestick
One figures love's hieroglyphic,
A couchant c--- and rampant p---.
And that the sight may more inflame,
The lookers-on subscribe her name:
Cuffley! her sex's pride and shame.
There's not a man but does discover
By some such action he's her lover.
Neglects his wine and on the pot
A band of naked Cupids draws,
With p--- no bigger than wheat straws.
Then on a nasty candlestick
One figures love's hieroglyphic,
A couchant c--- and rampant p---.
And that the sight may more inflame,
117
Cuffley! her sex's pride and shame.
There's not a man but does discover
By some such action he's her lover.
But now 'tis time to give her over,
And let your Lordship know you are
The mistress that employs our care.
Your absence makes us melancholy,
Nor drink nor c--- can make us jolly,
Unless we've you within our arms,
In whom there dwells diviner charms.
Then quit with speed your pensive grove
And here in town pursue your love;
Where at your coming you shall find
Your servants glad, your mistress kind,
All things devoted to your mind;
And let your Lordship know you are
The mistress that employs our care.
Your absence makes us melancholy,
Nor drink nor c--- can make us jolly,
Unless we've you within our arms,
In whom there dwells diviner charms.
Then quit with speed your pensive grove
And here in town pursue your love;
Where at your coming you shall find
Your servants glad, your mistress kind,
All things devoted to your mind;
With your very Humble Servant.—ETHEREGE.
| The Poems of Charles Sackville | |