Poems or, A Miscellany of Sonnets, Satyrs, Drollery, Panegyricks, Elegies, &c. At the Instance, and Request of Several Friends, Times, and Occasions, Composed; and now at their command Collected, and Committed to the Press. By the Author, M. Stevenson |
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Pallor in ore Sedet.
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 | Poems |  |
Pallor in ore Sedet.
Her piteous looks may happly move
Compassion in Me, never Love.
Shall I bow down, or kneel to that,
Which seems to me inanimate.
So while I to my sute addict her,
I pray with Papists to a Picture,
Do ye not see how meager death,
Seems through her Organs to steal breath?
As Succubus had from the dust,
Reard her to gratify his Lust.
Compassion in Me, never Love.
Shall I bow down, or kneel to that,
Which seems to me inanimate.
So while I to my sute addict her,
I pray with Papists to a Picture,
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Seems through her Organs to steal breath?
As Succubus had from the dust,
Reard her to gratify his Lust.
Tell me pale Phebe, do'nt you climb
Old walls to banquet on the Lyme.
I know you love such Festivals,
Your white-washt cheeks resemble walls.
Say Mother piteous, do you not
For Oatmeal, rob the Porridg-pot?
Run you not into private holes,
To break your Fast with Salt, and Coals?
I might a thousand knacks repeat,
What could I name, but you wou'd eat?
In shame whereof, your blood refrains
Your Cheeks, and lurks within your veines.
Until it be Subpœna'd thence,
By your flagitious Conscience.
Nor are you Lilly like, but sallow,
And sappy-countenanc'd, like tallow.
For when your dripping Nose you handle,
You seem to me to snuff a Candle.
And they that keep you reap disgrace,
Whilst Men read Famine on your Face.
Nature's besieg'd, and all her pores
Obstructed, block up her recourse.
Nor can she such improvement feel,
In Allome Posset, or crude steel.
To whom, alas, there's nothing can
Be so Effectual, as Man.
VVhat need we then care for such Wives?
That marry but to save their Lives.
He must as much, that weddeth thee,
Thy Doctor, as thy Husband be.
Old walls to banquet on the Lyme.
I know you love such Festivals,
Your white-washt cheeks resemble walls.
Say Mother piteous, do you not
For Oatmeal, rob the Porridg-pot?
Run you not into private holes,
To break your Fast with Salt, and Coals?
I might a thousand knacks repeat,
What could I name, but you wou'd eat?
In shame whereof, your blood refrains
Your Cheeks, and lurks within your veines.
Until it be Subpœna'd thence,
By your flagitious Conscience.
Nor are you Lilly like, but sallow,
And sappy-countenanc'd, like tallow.
For when your dripping Nose you handle,
You seem to me to snuff a Candle.
And they that keep you reap disgrace,
Whilst Men read Famine on your Face.
Nature's besieg'd, and all her pores
Obstructed, block up her recourse.
Nor can she such improvement feel,
In Allome Posset, or crude steel.
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Be so Effectual, as Man.
VVhat need we then care for such Wives?
That marry but to save their Lives.
He must as much, that weddeth thee,
Thy Doctor, as thy Husband be.
No, I'le to Tavern, where being come,
The first Attendant shews a Room.
The next presents a glancing Lass,
Like Venus in a Venice-Glass.
VVith that I knock, and as some sprite,
I conjure up pure Red, and White.
My Circle's a round Table; And,
In midst thereof does Hymen stand,
VVith a light Tapour, when I call,
To Celebrate my Nuptiall.
Here do I a French Madam place,
And there a sweet-lipt Spainish Lass.
Here all in white a Lady dances,
And there in Red another glances.
And, least mine Eye want fresh delight,
Here sets Claretta, Red, and VVhite.
Nor do I Complement I tro',
But tell 'um plain, 'tis so, and so.
They struggle not, nor are they Coy;
But, I may what I will enjoy:
No, there's no Coile made for a kiss,
Though melting, melting, melting Bliss.
No shifting from the friendly Cup,
But I may freely all take up.
And in each face, if I so please?
I'le court mine own Effigies.
Who would not then on this Stage act Narcissus,
Where lively Lips so sweetly say come kiss us.
The first Attendant shews a Room.
The next presents a glancing Lass,
Like Venus in a Venice-Glass.
VVith that I knock, and as some sprite,
I conjure up pure Red, and White.
My Circle's a round Table; And,
In midst thereof does Hymen stand,
VVith a light Tapour, when I call,
To Celebrate my Nuptiall.
Here do I a French Madam place,
And there a sweet-lipt Spainish Lass.
Here all in white a Lady dances,
And there in Red another glances.
And, least mine Eye want fresh delight,
Here sets Claretta, Red, and VVhite.
Nor do I Complement I tro',
But tell 'um plain, 'tis so, and so.
They struggle not, nor are they Coy;
But, I may what I will enjoy:
No, there's no Coile made for a kiss,
Though melting, melting, melting Bliss.
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But I may freely all take up.
And in each face, if I so please?
I'le court mine own Effigies.
Who would not then on this Stage act Narcissus,
Where lively Lips so sweetly say come kiss us.
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