Mr. Cooke's Original Poems with Imitations and Translations of Several Select Passages of the Antients, In Four Parts: To which are added Proposals For perfecting the English Language |
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 | Mr. Cooke's Original Poems |  |
141
[SATIRES.]
SATIRE the First. Love and Old Age.
No
more, Melissa, 'tis too much to see.
What, not a Blush, and this Reproof from me?
O! where is all our antient Virtue fled!
What, at it still? Not mind a Word I've say'd!
These wanton Airs shall not uncensur'd pass:
Bear hence the Idol, or I'll break the Glass.
What, not a Blush, and this Reproof from me?
O! where is all our antient Virtue fled!
What, at it still? Not mind a Word I've say'd!
These wanton Airs shall not uncensur'd pass:
Bear hence the Idol, or I'll break the Glass.
Thus rav'd Canidia, as the lovely Fair
Made the Position of a Patch her Care.
No sooner had the Nymph just step'd aside,
But from the Box, her Magazine of Pride,
A thousand Implements the Table spread,
Teeth, Eyes, the Perfume, and the liquid Red.
With paralytic Hands she pulls the Caul
From Head as naked as the Billiard-ball:
But see the Metamorphose of an Hour:
Her Forehead rises in a nutbrown Tow'r;
Her Cheeks are flush'd with a vermilion Dy;
And her Teeth shine of polish'd Ivory.
To whom, or what, is this Devotion pay'd?
All to the Lust of Youth, and Masquerade.
Behold Canidia with Melissa strive,
Soft tripping in the Bloom of Sixty-five;
Some unexperienc'd Fool her Eyes explore,
Just come to practice what he'd hear'd before;
Raw to the Town, and weary of his Wife,
He seeks the Pleasures of a rakish Life;
Him, by a forc'd Coquettry, she decoys
To be the Partner of her private Joys,
And the next Day, the virtuous Maid reproves,
For reading Acon's and Lavinia's Loves .
Made the Position of a Patch her Care.
No sooner had the Nymph just step'd aside,
But from the Box, her Magazine of Pride,
A thousand Implements the Table spread,
Teeth, Eyes, the Perfume, and the liquid Red.
With paralytic Hands she pulls the Caul
From Head as naked as the Billiard-ball:
But see the Metamorphose of an Hour:
Her Forehead rises in a nutbrown Tow'r;
142
And her Teeth shine of polish'd Ivory.
To whom, or what, is this Devotion pay'd?
All to the Lust of Youth, and Masquerade.
Behold Canidia with Melissa strive,
Soft tripping in the Bloom of Sixty-five;
Some unexperienc'd Fool her Eyes explore,
Just come to practice what he'd hear'd before;
Raw to the Town, and weary of his Wife,
He seeks the Pleasures of a rakish Life;
Him, by a forc'd Coquettry, she decoys
To be the Partner of her private Joys,
And the next Day, the virtuous Maid reproves,
For reading Acon's and Lavinia's Loves .
Pleas'd Gallus smil'd, hearing the Story told,
Gallus himself both impotent and old:
The Pride of Courts he shin'd in former Days,
Know'd well to give, and know'd to merit, Praise,
The Depths of Senates and Intrigues could scan;
And him the Women call'd a Woman's Man:
But why will Gallus against Nature strive
To keep the Flame, without the Pow'r, alive?
Have you not seen upon a burning Plain
Some glowing Embers of a Fire remain,
Which, without Matter, must inactive be?
Believe me, Gallus, 'tis the same with thee:
Think therefore when you jeer the wanton Dame,
As feeble is thy Pow'r, alike thy Flame.
Gallus himself both impotent and old:
The Pride of Courts he shin'd in former Days,
Know'd well to give, and know'd to merit, Praise,
The Depths of Senates and Intrigues could scan;
And him the Women call'd a Woman's Man:
But why will Gallus against Nature strive
To keep the Flame, without the Pow'r, alive?
143
Some glowing Embers of a Fire remain,
Which, without Matter, must inactive be?
Believe me, Gallus, 'tis the same with thee:
Think therefore when you jeer the wanton Dame,
As feeble is thy Pow'r, alike thy Flame.
144
SATIRE the Second. Love and Old Age.
When youthful Passion first assumes the Rein,And grows predominant in ev'ry Vein,
Our dayly Fancys, and our nightly Dreams,
Are full of shady Groves and purling Streams;
Various Ideas all our Thoughts employ;
And first we revel in romantic Joy.
Nature grows fiercer as the Blood boils high,
Then on to more substantial Bliss we fly;
From Fair to Fair in Search of Prey we range,
Constant to Nothing but the Lust of Change:
Thus on we rove, while our Desires are strong,
Till sad Experience tells us we are wrong.
How weak the Efforts of our Reason prove,
When all the Soul is but a Flame of Love!
But what Allurements can the Soul betray
When the Blood only serves to warm the Clay?
145
To vy in Dress with Belles of twenty-five?
When sev'nty Years have furrow'd o'er her Face,
With all the Symptoms of a finish'd Race,
In vain with White she would confound the Grey;
Death will not be deceiv'd, nor give a Day.
Why all these Pains the wrinkled Brow to hide?
We thro the Mask can see the needless Pride.
No more frequent the Mall, the Box, the Ball,
Thou art memento mori to them all.
| Mr. Cooke's Original Poems | |