 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
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The Morning Frolick.
By the same.
Half a dozen young Gentlemen, in a certain Sea-Port, propos'd over Night, to take a ride early the next Morning to some publick Gardens, a few Miles out of Town. And to make the Diversion complete, it was agreed, to prevail with some young Ladies of their Acquaintance to favour them with their Company. All succeeded in their Applications, but one, who therefore rode on horseback: the rest were dispos'd into pairs. One couple rode in a Chaise, the other four in a kind of Vehicle, between a Chaise and a Wheelbarrow, drawn by one Horse, and fitted to contain two Persons. The vulgar Natives call them Carts, the better sort of People, Coaches. This suppos'd Adventure is the Subject of the following Poem; which it is hop'd will not offend any grave and serious Tempers, partly on Account of the Innocence of the whole, and partly in regard of the several moral Reflections which are interspers'd throughout the Work.
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The fictitious Names are as follows.
The Gentlemen.
- Manlius.
- Formoso.
- Dulcimore, a Dantzick Gentleman upon his Travels.
- Hilario.
- Mercatorio.
- Florio.
The Ladies.
- Pastorella.
- Ingenia.
- Volatilla.
- Sobrina.
- Grandiforma.
'Twas in a Town, hard by the Ocean,
Where Folks are always in Commotion;
Where gentle Husbands go to Sea,
And Wives make Visits to drink Tea,
To chat of Fashions and the Weather,
And make out who and who's together.
Where Misses from Mamma elope,
At Back-door, Window, sometimes—Shop,
When wheedling Youths frail Maids allure,
To Ev'ning Walk, or Morning Tour:
In this fam'd Town for Mirth and Leisure,
Six gallant Blades (no foes to Pleasure.)
Once Hero-like (as Story goes)
Renounc'd four Hours of sweet Repose,
And vow'd, by Proserpine and Styx,
To meet next Morning—when? by six.
By six? Yes—for the Morning Air
Is wholesom—ask the Doctor there.
But what will Morning Air avail
Without a Female in the Gale,
Whose Breath the Suckling's Scent may raise,
Whose Face may gild Apollo's Rays?
For as our Spirits ebb and flow,
All Objects gay or gloomy show;
And eke, when by the Pow'r of Venus,
Our Blood and Spirits dance within us,
Each joyous Scene will shine more bright,
And fill us with a fresh delight.
'Twas wisely spoke, the Council cry'd,
And to a Nymph each Swain apply'd,
How cou'd such Gentles be deny'd?
No, well-bred Ladies are too good
To nip these Projects in the bud.
So, all as heart could wish succeeded
But one,—alas! in vain he pleaded;
Mamma's irrevocable Doom
Detain'd th' unwilling Nymph at home.
Where Folks are always in Commotion;
Where gentle Husbands go to Sea,
And Wives make Visits to drink Tea,
To chat of Fashions and the Weather,
And make out who and who's together.
Where Misses from Mamma elope,
At Back-door, Window, sometimes—Shop,
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To Ev'ning Walk, or Morning Tour:
In this fam'd Town for Mirth and Leisure,
Six gallant Blades (no foes to Pleasure.)
Once Hero-like (as Story goes)
Renounc'd four Hours of sweet Repose,
And vow'd, by Proserpine and Styx,
To meet next Morning—when? by six.
By six? Yes—for the Morning Air
Is wholesom—ask the Doctor there.
But what will Morning Air avail
Without a Female in the Gale,
Whose Breath the Suckling's Scent may raise,
Whose Face may gild Apollo's Rays?
For as our Spirits ebb and flow,
All Objects gay or gloomy show;
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Our Blood and Spirits dance within us,
Each joyous Scene will shine more bright,
And fill us with a fresh delight.
'Twas wisely spoke, the Council cry'd,
And to a Nymph each Swain apply'd,
How cou'd such Gentles be deny'd?
No, well-bred Ladies are too good
To nip these Projects in the bud.
So, all as heart could wish succeeded
But one,—alas! in vain he pleaded;
Mamma's irrevocable Doom
Detain'd th' unwilling Nymph at home.
And now, just yawning from their Beds,
With staring Eyes, and aching Heads,
In Troops the gay Adventurers meet,
Bow, curtsie, smile, advance and greet;
Then ev'ry Squire his Damsel snatches,
As Bird with Bird in Spring-time matches,
To pass the jovial Season thro' with,
To toy and sing, to bill and coo with.
With staring Eyes, and aching Heads,
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Bow, curtsie, smile, advance and greet;
Then ev'ry Squire his Damsel snatches,
As Bird with Bird in Spring-time matches,
To pass the jovial Season thro' with,
To toy and sing, to bill and coo with.
To Manlius of the gen'rous Mind,
Soft Pastorella was consign'd.
Attractive Fair! thy modest Mien,
Thy gentle Manners, Air serene,
And Eyes with artless Beauty shining.
Conquer all Hearts without designing.
Blest Manlius! blest Formoso too!
With you, Ingenia, pair'd, with you.
Comely Formoso! born to vex,
With Gold-lac'd Beaver, all the Sex.
'Twas cock'd so exquisitely smart,
What Female could defend her Heart?
And cou'd Formoso keep his own,
When once Ingenia's Charms were shown?
When, sweetly eloquent of Tongue,
She pour'd abundant Wit along,
And with such Eyes as never fail,
Enliven'd every well-wrought Tale?
Soft Pastorella was consign'd.
Attractive Fair! thy modest Mien,
Thy gentle Manners, Air serene,
And Eyes with artless Beauty shining.
Conquer all Hearts without designing.
Blest Manlius! blest Formoso too!
With you, Ingenia, pair'd, with you.
Comely Formoso! born to vex,
With Gold-lac'd Beaver, all the Sex.
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What Female could defend her Heart?
And cou'd Formoso keep his own,
When once Ingenia's Charms were shown?
When, sweetly eloquent of Tongue,
She pour'd abundant Wit along,
And with such Eyes as never fail,
Enliven'd every well-wrought Tale?
Hold—I won't make the Ladies wait.
“The Carts are ready at the Gate
“Genteels, cries Tom, in humble Tone,
“Carts, say you, Sirrah? be it known
“That vulgar Term our Rank reproaches,
“We Folks of fashion call them Coaches.
“The Carts are ready at the Gate
“Genteels, cries Tom, in humble Tone,
“Carts, say you, Sirrah? be it known
“That vulgar Term our Rank reproaches,
“We Folks of fashion call them Coaches.
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Fondly industrious to hide
Beneath some honourable Name,
Its Folly, Poverty, or Shame.
But 'tis no time to moralize:
Methinks one of the Ladies cries,
“This Pedant sure is mighty wise.
'Tis a sad World! for Pallas knows
Grave Things won't please 'mong Belles and Beaus,
A Scholar's but an awkward Tool,
And Women chuckle at a Fool.
Each Couple now a Car ascends,
Each Charioteer his Whip extends:
Train'd to the Lash the raw-bon'd Steed
Pricks forward with an Ass-like Speed.
While Florio, pretty Sprig of Beauty,
On ambling Nag rides by on Duty:
Officious Squire! so prone to wait,
So dexterous to open Gate,
And with a lowly well-bred Bow,
Salute the Coach as it goes through.
Each Charioteer his Whip extends:
Train'd to the Lash the raw-bon'd Steed
Pricks forward with an Ass-like Speed.
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On ambling Nag rides by on Duty:
Officious Squire! so prone to wait,
So dexterous to open Gate,
And with a lowly well-bred Bow,
Salute the Coach as it goes through.
What mortal Wight did ever see,
At Wake, at Fair, at Jubilee,
Or Nuptials of the rural Maid,
So fine, so gay a Cavalcade?
There Dulcimore, with melting Eye,
And softest Manners, passes by:
A Native he, of Dantzick City,
Yet thinks our English Ladies pretty:
And as full proof, that Poles love Mirth,
His choice call'd Volatilla forth:
A Nymph, as light as any Feather,
Simpring and giggling in all Weather.
A Nymph who never kept her Seat
The while a Watch two Ticks can beat.
At Wake, at Fair, at Jubilee,
Or Nuptials of the rural Maid,
So fine, so gay a Cavalcade?
There Dulcimore, with melting Eye,
And softest Manners, passes by:
A Native he, of Dantzick City,
Yet thinks our English Ladies pretty:
And as full proof, that Poles love Mirth,
His choice call'd Volatilla forth:
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Simpring and giggling in all Weather.
A Nymph who never kept her Seat
The while a Watch two Ticks can beat.
What Youngster's That, who drives yon way?
O, tis Hilario the gay.
That Female Beaver, which he wears,
Inspires him with those freakish Airs.
This Moment, in a Flight of Joy,
He seiz'd upon the silken Toy.
Swift as a Weaver shoots his Thread,
He whirl'd it from his Fair one's Head:
Sobrina she, of temp'rate Blood,
Dull as a Naiad of the Mud:
Her solemn Tongue was seldom stirring,
Grave as a Cat, in Corner purring;
Unmov'd with every thing that passes,
Nor giv'n to Tears, nor to Grimaces.
O, tis Hilario the gay.
That Female Beaver, which he wears,
Inspires him with those freakish Airs.
This Moment, in a Flight of Joy,
He seiz'd upon the silken Toy.
Swift as a Weaver shoots his Thread,
He whirl'd it from his Fair one's Head:
Sobrina she, of temp'rate Blood,
Dull as a Naiad of the Mud:
Her solemn Tongue was seldom stirring,
Grave as a Cat, in Corner purring;
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Nor giv'n to Tears, nor to Grimaces.
Make room—good Cupid! who are These?
They drive as if they drove for Fees.
How rapidly they whirl along!
They leave afar the lagging Throng:
The Youths stretch o'er the loosen'd rein,
The Coursers scour the dusty Plain.
Formoso and Olinda? Yes—
And who are They that on them press?
They seem to fret at the disgrace,
That Cart shou'd of a Chaise take place.
'Tis GRANDIFORMA, buxom Lass,
No spindle Shape, nor Baby Face;
As the full Moon her Glories shine,
As Juno Grand, her Air Divine.
The Youth, who does her side adorn,
Seems in some soft Desires to burn;
He keeps yon Rival Car in view,
But often turns his Eye askew,
And steals a Glance, and draws a sigh—
Poor Mercatorio! do not dye!
Damsels are nothing now so cruel,
As when sick Knights drank Water-gruel,
And starv'd in Armour half a Year,
To mollify the ruthless Fair.
They drive as if they drove for Fees.
How rapidly they whirl along!
They leave afar the lagging Throng:
The Youths stretch o'er the loosen'd rein,
The Coursers scour the dusty Plain.
Formoso and Olinda? Yes—
And who are They that on them press?
They seem to fret at the disgrace,
That Cart shou'd of a Chaise take place.
'Tis GRANDIFORMA, buxom Lass,
No spindle Shape, nor Baby Face;
As the full Moon her Glories shine,
As Juno Grand, her Air Divine.
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Seems in some soft Desires to burn;
He keeps yon Rival Car in view,
But often turns his Eye askew,
And steals a Glance, and draws a sigh—
Poor Mercatorio! do not dye!
Damsels are nothing now so cruel,
As when sick Knights drank Water-gruel,
And starv'd in Armour half a Year,
To mollify the ruthless Fair.
Hah! on the Credit of a Poet,
That Shock will surely overthrow it;
The Chaise is jostled in the Ditch—
Formoso flies upon the stretch,
Swift the triumphant Victor flies,
Swift as the Motion of our Eyes.
That Shock will surely overthrow it;
The Chaise is jostled in the Ditch—
Formoso flies upon the stretch,
Swift the triumphant Victor flies,
Swift as the Motion of our Eyes.
222
That ruins us ten thousand Ways;
For Thee, Bear-garden Hero bleeds,
Smit with the Love of gen'rous Deeds:
For thee, oft Brother-Poets rue
(Alas! my Ditty is too true)
In aching Bones, and jumbled Brain,
The tossing Blanket, basting Cane:
For Thee, for Thee, e'en now the Lover,
Had well nigh turn'd his Mistress over.
Pardon, good Reader, this Digression,
Among us Poets 'tis the Fashion:
We heav'nly Mad-folks scorn the Rules,
Which fetter up the plodding Schools;
Beyond our Theme we soar away,
And among Clouds and Thunders play.
Among us Poets 'tis the Fashion:
We heav'nly Mad-folks scorn the Rules,
Which fetter up the plodding Schools;
Beyond our Theme we soar away,
And among Clouds and Thunders play.
223
The sought-for Gardens rise in view,
A pretty, solemn, rural Shade,
By Trees of humble lineage made
That front-ways in long order stand,
First the pleas'd Trav'ller's Eye demand.
Delicious, lovely, lonesome Walk,
For all that to themselves wou'd talk!
What tho' no Fountains purl along
Responsive to the Lovers Song;
No River pour his Currents down,
For Swains that are dispos'd to drown;
Yet if to hang they be inclin'd,
Here they may ease their tortur'd Mind.
Here on some Sallow's friendly Bough,
Ye may fulfill the noble Vow;
224
And die, ev'n glorious, in your Shoes.
And while you dangle in the Air,
The Satyrs shall around repair,
To wail your Fate, and curse the Fair.
The Coaches stop, the Knights descend,
Their Hands unto the Ladies lend
And humbly bow: The Smack goes round,
And Mirth and Laughter shake the Ground.
When lo! (ah! dismal to be told,
But still more dismal to behold)
A Gown new-wash'd, and white as Snow
Foul'd by the Leavings of some Cow,
Or ill-bred Steed, who did impart
Their Goings-forth unto the Cart.
Poor Volatilla! such hard Fate
Does on our mix'd Condition wait;
We Mortals ne'er pass through a Day,
But meet some Evil in the Way:
Our Frolicks After-Sorrows bring,
And every Pleasure has its Sting:
Yet, good now, moderate thy Grief,
While Pastorella fetch Relief.
The pitying Nymph obsequious stands,
With Bowl of Water in her Hands,
And now the cleansing Stream she pours,
And now she rubs, and now she scours.
Their Hands unto the Ladies lend
And humbly bow: The Smack goes round,
And Mirth and Laughter shake the Ground.
When lo! (ah! dismal to be told,
But still more dismal to behold)
A Gown new-wash'd, and white as Snow
Foul'd by the Leavings of some Cow,
Or ill-bred Steed, who did impart
Their Goings-forth unto the Cart.
225
Does on our mix'd Condition wait;
We Mortals ne'er pass through a Day,
But meet some Evil in the Way:
Our Frolicks After-Sorrows bring,
And every Pleasure has its Sting:
Yet, good now, moderate thy Grief,
While Pastorella fetch Relief.
The pitying Nymph obsequious stands,
With Bowl of Water in her Hands,
And now the cleansing Stream she pours,
And now she rubs, and now she scours.
So, when black Lies from Slander's Tongue,
On some fair Name with Zeal are flung;
A faithful Friend, with timely Pains,
Wipes off the foul injurious Stains.
On some fair Name with Zeal are flung;
A faithful Friend, with timely Pains,
Wipes off the foul injurious Stains.
226
The Cups are wash'd, the Tea is made,
Now GRANDIFORMA lifts on high
The Pot, conspicuous to the Eye:
Swift forth the reeking Currents flow,
And flash into each Vase below.
The sputt'ring Streams with Froth abound,
The Vases to the Fall resound.
Thus, rushing thro' the Mountain-wood,
Velino's airy rapid Flood
Throws from a Precipice's Height,
His Torrents, dreadful to the Sight.
And dashing on the rocky Plain,
Whirls the black Waves and foams amain.
Loudly the sounding Billows roar,
The Rocks rebellow from the Shore.
Thick Mists, like Clouds of Smoke, arise
And half obscure the Noon-day Skies.
Velino's airy rapid Flood
Throws from a Precipice's Height,
His Torrents, dreadful to the Sight.
And dashing on the rocky Plain,
Whirls the black Waves and foams amain.
Loudly the sounding Billows roar,
The Rocks rebellow from the Shore.
227
And half obscure the Noon-day Skies.
Here might the Muse her Accents raise,
And utter in sublimer Lays,
What mighty Themes, and Talk profound
Employ'd the busy Table round:
How Hats are cock'd, and Heads shou'd sit,
What Edging were for Fanny fit:
How long large Sleeves wou'd be in fashion,
Or Whalebone Hoops molest the Nation;
Whether the Tea was strong or small,
Who'd go at Night unto the Ball:
How Ladies, when they blush'd, look'd pretty,
And Gentles, when they laugh'd, were witty;
With many like important Matters,
Worthy of reasonable Creatures,
Who born for no ignoble end,
Each precious Point of Being spend
In virtuous Deeds, or Converse wise,
And to immortal Honours rise.
And utter in sublimer Lays,
What mighty Themes, and Talk profound
Employ'd the busy Table round:
How Hats are cock'd, and Heads shou'd sit,
What Edging were for Fanny fit:
How long large Sleeves wou'd be in fashion,
Or Whalebone Hoops molest the Nation;
Whether the Tea was strong or small,
Who'd go at Night unto the Ball:
How Ladies, when they blush'd, look'd pretty,
And Gentles, when they laugh'd, were witty;
With many like important Matters,
Worthy of reasonable Creatures,
228
Each precious Point of Being spend
In virtuous Deeds, or Converse wise,
And to immortal Honours rise.
Thus, gentle Reader, ends my Tale;
My Spirits like thy Patience fail:
But if the Fortunes you'd be knowing
Of our Advent'rers, homeward going,
I pray to thy Remembrance bring
That mighty memorable King,
Who twenty thousand brave Men led,
Boldly up to the Mountain's Head;
Who led them up the Hill, I say,
Then led them down the self-same Way.
My Spirits like thy Patience fail:
But if the Fortunes you'd be knowing
Of our Advent'rers, homeward going,
I pray to thy Remembrance bring
That mighty memorable King,
Who twenty thousand brave Men led,
Boldly up to the Mountain's Head;
Who led them up the Hill, I say,
Then led them down the self-same Way.
| Poems on Several Occasions | |