Poems by St. John Honeywood . with some pieces in prose |
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The Sweets of Matrimony Triumphant, or one Bachelor
CONVERTED.
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 | Poems by St. John Honeywood . |  |
The Sweets of Matrimony Triumphant, or one Bachelor CONVERTED.
When each fond hope had sunk in night,
A love-crost Bard, in dismal plight,
On sacred Wedlock wreak'd his spite
In many a piteous whine:
So Reynard, in a luckless hour,
Expell'd, by vintners, from the bower,
Archly exclaim'd, “Your grapes are sour,”
And spurn'd the cluster'd vine.
A love-crost Bard, in dismal plight,
On sacred Wedlock wreak'd his spite
In many a piteous whine:
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Expell'd, by vintners, from the bower,
Archly exclaim'd, “Your grapes are sour,”
And spurn'd the cluster'd vine.
Ye wedded dames, of sapient age,
Whose minds maternal cares engage,
Oh! let this penitential page
Those sland'rous lays atone!
Long since I've join'd blithe Hymen's train,
And found so light his silken chain,
I doubt the axiom schools maintain,
That two are more than one.
Whose minds maternal cares engage,
Oh! let this penitential page
Those sland'rous lays atone!
Long since I've join'd blithe Hymen's train,
And found so light his silken chain,
I doubt the axiom schools maintain,
That two are more than one.
I, whilom, was a weary wight,
(The shadow of Don Quixote's sprite)
Who pin'd by day, and froze by night,
Apprentice to the rhyming trade:
Quaint madrigals and rueful songs,
Short epigrams, with forked prongs,
And whate'er else to verse belongs,
Of every price and size, I made.
(The shadow of Don Quixote's sprite)
Who pin'd by day, and froze by night,
Apprentice to the rhyming trade:
55
Short epigrams, with forked prongs,
And whate'er else to verse belongs,
Of every price and size, I made.
Pegasus once, in antic sport,
Kick'd up, and hove me in the dirt;
Where long I lay, most sadly hurt,
And su'd th'unfeeling powers in vain;
When Hymen chanc'd to cross the way:
He rais'd me up, and deign'd to say—
“Since, madman like, you're prone to stray,
“I'll bind you with my magic chain.”
Kick'd up, and hove me in the dirt;
Where long I lay, most sadly hurt,
And su'd th'unfeeling powers in vain;
When Hymen chanc'd to cross the way:
He rais'd me up, and deign'd to say—
“Since, madman like, you're prone to stray,
“I'll bind you with my magic chain.”
Around my waist his chain he threw;
“Sir Pard,” quoth he, “'tis late to rue,
“What heav'n has done man can't undo,
“So follow where I point the way:
“My counsel is, your books to close—
“Your rhyming stock on hand dispose
“For solid coin, or decent prose,
“And live beneath my gentle sway.”
“Sir Pard,” quoth he, “'tis late to rue,
“What heav'n has done man can't undo,
“So follow where I point the way:
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“Your rhyming stock on hand dispose
“For solid coin, or decent prose,
“And live beneath my gentle sway.”
He led me to the blissful spot,
Where, since, I rear'd my humble cot—
Where, all ambitious cares forgot,
I live, in joyful bondage free.
Ye swains, whose lots were mark'd like mine,
Take courage hence, nor more repine—
Be just to Nature's first design—
“Espouse a wife, and follow me!”
Where, since, I rear'd my humble cot—
Where, all ambitious cares forgot,
I live, in joyful bondage free.
Ye swains, whose lots were mark'd like mine,
Take courage hence, nor more repine—
Be just to Nature's first design—
“Espouse a wife, and follow me!”
| Poems by St. John Honeywood . | |