Moral and political fables ancient and modern. Done into Measurd Prose intermixd with Ryme. By Dr. Walter Pope |
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Fab. CVIII. The Nose. |
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 | Moral and political fables |  |
Fab. CVIII. The Nose.
What shall I do with this prodigious Nose?
On which a cluster of young Noses grows,
Of various Magnitudes, and different Shapes,
All Red as Rubies, or Burgundian Grapes.
A Nose that's pointed at by all I meet,
That frights the Boys and Women in the street,
And my self too, when, in a Glass, I see't.
A Nose, that every hour, worse and worse grows.
I can't endure it longer. Off it goes.
Bring me a Razor, Boy, or a sharp Knife.
Thus spoke, a Man, weary of's Nose, and Life.
But when the Knife toth' root of's Nose was laid,
He stopt, and to himself thus calmly said:
Hold, think a while, may I not, by this Fact,
Incur the Penalties of the Coventry Act?
Instead of mending, shall I not spoil my Face,
And bring upon me, Pain, Expence, Disgrace?
Strangers will swear 'twas a Venereal Wound,
And shun my Conversation, as Unsound.
Out of the same Glass they'll refuse to drink,
And stop their Noses, at my Notches, stink.
My Smart will be increas'd, my Cure delayd,
Until the Surgeon's bountifully payd.
I shall repent too late, when thou art gone,
'Tis better to have an Ugly Nose, than none.
If we two part, I run risque of my Life.
Nose, keep thy Place, Boy, take away the Knife.
On which a cluster of young Noses grows,
Of various Magnitudes, and different Shapes,
All Red as Rubies, or Burgundian Grapes.
A Nose that's pointed at by all I meet,
That frights the Boys and Women in the street,
And my self too, when, in a Glass, I see't.
A Nose, that every hour, worse and worse grows.
I can't endure it longer. Off it goes.
Bring me a Razor, Boy, or a sharp Knife.
Thus spoke, a Man, weary of's Nose, and Life.
But when the Knife toth' root of's Nose was laid,
He stopt, and to himself thus calmly said:
116
Incur the Penalties of the Coventry Act?
Instead of mending, shall I not spoil my Face,
And bring upon me, Pain, Expence, Disgrace?
Strangers will swear 'twas a Venereal Wound,
And shun my Conversation, as Unsound.
Out of the same Glass they'll refuse to drink,
And stop their Noses, at my Notches, stink.
My Smart will be increas'd, my Cure delayd,
Until the Surgeon's bountifully payd.
I shall repent too late, when thou art gone,
'Tis better to have an Ugly Nose, than none.
If we two part, I run risque of my Life.
Nose, keep thy Place, Boy, take away the Knife.
The Moral.
Some Remedies are worse than the Disease. | Moral and political fables | |