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 | Letters, by several eminent persons deceased (1772) |  |
Translated from PERSIAN VERSES,
Alluding to the custom of women being buried with their husbands, and men with their wives.
Eternal are the chains, which hereThe generous souls of lovers bind,
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To be for ever true and kind;
And when, by death, the fair are snatch'd away,
Lest we our solemn vows should break,
In the same grave our living corps we lay,
And willing the same fate partake.
ANOTHER.
My dearest spouse, that thou and I
May shun the fear which first should die,
Clasp'd in each others arms we'll live,
Alike consum'd in love's soft fire,
That neither may at last survive,
But gently both at once expire.
May shun the fear which first should die,
Clasp'd in each others arms we'll live,
Alike consum'd in love's soft fire,
That neither may at last survive,
But gently both at once expire.
On ARQUEÄNASSA of COLOPHOS.
Arqueänassa's charms inspireWithin my breast a lover's fire;
Age, its feeble spite displaying,
Vainly wrinkles all her face,
Cupids, in each wrinkle playing,
Charm my eyes with lasting grace:
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Ere he sunk these little caves,
How I pity those who view'd her,
And in youth were made her slaves!
On FULVIA, the wife of ANTONY.
While from his consort false Antonius flies,And doats on Glaphyra's far brighter eyes,
Fulvia, provok'd, her female arts prepares,
Reprisals seeks, and spreads for me her snares.
“The husband's false”—But why must I endure
This nauseous plague, and her revenge procure?
What though she ask!—How happy were my doom,
Should all the discontented wives of Rome
Repair in crowds to me, when scorn'd at home!
“'Tis war,” she says, “if I refuse her charms:”
Let's think—She's ugly—Trumpets sound to arms!
The poetical name for Citheris, an actress, of whom Antony was enamoured. Virgil consoles Gallus for her infidelity (in the xth eclogue) under the name of “Lycoris.” This epigram is preserved by Martial.
277
HUDIBRAS IMITATED.
Written in the year 1710.
O blessed time of reformation,
That's now beginning through the nation!
The Jacks bawl loud for church triumphant,
And swear all whigs shall kiss the rump on't.
See how they draw the beastly rabble
With zeal and noises formidable,
And make all cries about the town
Join notes to roar fanatics down!
As bigots give the sign about,
They stretch their throats with hideous shout.
Black tinkers bawl aloud “to settle
“Church-privilege”—for “mending kettle.”
Each sow-gelder, that blows his horn,
Cries out “to have dissenters sworn.”
The oyster-wenches lock their fish up,
And cry, “No presbyterian bishop!”
The mouse-trap men lay save-alls by,
And 'gainst “low church men” loudly cry,
A creature of amphibious nature,
That trims betwixt the land and water,
And leaves his mother in the lurch,
To side with rebels 'gainst the church!
Some cry for “penal laws,” instead
Of “pudding-pies, and gingerbread:”
And some, for “brooms, old boots, and shoes,”
Roar out, “God! bless our commons house!
Some bawl “the votes” about the town,
And wish they'd “vote dissenters down.”
Instead of “kitchen-stuff,” some cry,
“Confound the late whig-ministry!”
And some, for “any chairs to mend,”
The commons late address commend.
Some for “old gowns for china ware,”
Exclaim against “extempore prayer:”
And some, for “old suits, cloaks, or coats,”
Cry, “D---n your preachers without notes!”
He that cries “coney-skins, or onions.”
Blames “toleration of opinions.”
Blue-apron whores, that sit with furmety,
Rail at “occasional conformity.”
Instead of “cucumbers to pickle,”
Some cry aloud, “No conventicle!”
Masons, instead of “building houses,”
To “build the church,” would starve their spouses,
And gladly leave their trades, for storming
The meeting-houses, or informing.
Bawds, strumpets, and religion-haters,
Pimps, pandars, atheists, fornicators,
Rogues, that, like Falstaff, scarce know whether
A church's inside's stone or leather,
Yet join the parsons and the people
To cry “the church,”—but mean “the steeple.”
That's now beginning through the nation!
The Jacks bawl loud for church triumphant,
And swear all whigs shall kiss the rump on't.
See how they draw the beastly rabble
With zeal and noises formidable,
And make all cries about the town
Join notes to roar fanatics down!
As bigots give the sign about,
They stretch their throats with hideous shout.
Black tinkers bawl aloud “to settle
“Church-privilege”—for “mending kettle.”
Each sow-gelder, that blows his horn,
Cries out “to have dissenters sworn.”
The oyster-wenches lock their fish up,
And cry, “No presbyterian bishop!”
The mouse-trap men lay save-alls by,
And 'gainst “low church men” loudly cry,
A creature of amphibious nature,
That trims betwixt the land and water,
And leaves his mother in the lurch,
To side with rebels 'gainst the church!
278
Of “pudding-pies, and gingerbread:”
And some, for “brooms, old boots, and shoes,”
Roar out, “God! bless our commons house!
Some bawl “the votes” about the town,
And wish they'd “vote dissenters down.”
Instead of “kitchen-stuff,” some cry,
“Confound the late whig-ministry!”
And some, for “any chairs to mend,”
The commons late address commend.
Some for “old gowns for china ware,”
Exclaim against “extempore prayer:”
And some, for “old suits, cloaks, or coats,”
Cry, “D---n your preachers without notes!”
He that cries “coney-skins, or onions.”
Blames “toleration of opinions.”
Blue-apron whores, that sit with furmety,
Rail at “occasional conformity.”
Instead of “cucumbers to pickle,”
Some cry aloud, “No conventicle!”
Masons, instead of “building houses,”
To “build the church,” would starve their spouses,
And gladly leave their trades, for storming
The meeting-houses, or informing.
Bawds, strumpets, and religion-haters,
Pimps, pandars, atheists, fornicators,
279
A church's inside's stone or leather,
Yet join the parsons and the people
To cry “the church,”—but mean “the steeple.”
If, holy mother, such you'll own
For your true sons, and such alone,
Then heaven have mercy upon you,
But the de'il take your beastly crew!
For your true sons, and such alone,
Then heaven have mercy upon you,
But the de'il take your beastly crew!
The HUE and CRY.
O yes!—Hear, all ye beaux and wits,
Musicians, poets, 'squires, and cits,
All, who in town or country dwell!
Say, can you tale or tidings tell
Of Tortorella's hasty flight?
Why in new groves she takes delight,
And if in concert, or alone,
The cooing murmurer makes her moan?
Musicians, poets, 'squires, and cits,
All, who in town or country dwell!
Say, can you tale or tidings tell
Of Tortorella's hasty flight?
Why in new groves she takes delight,
280
The cooing murmurer makes her moan?
Now learn the marks, by which you may
Trace out and stop the lovely stray!
Trace out and stop the lovely stray!
Some wit, more folly, and no care,
Thoughtless her conduct, free her air;
Gay, scornful, sober, indiscreet,
In whom all contradictions meet;
Civil, affronting, peevish, easy,
Form'd both to charm you and displease you;
Much want of judgment, none of pride,
Modish her dress, her hoop full wide;
Brown skin, her eyes of sable hue,
Angel, when pleas'd, when vex'd, a shrew.
Thoughtless her conduct, free her air;
Gay, scornful, sober, indiscreet,
In whom all contradictions meet;
Civil, affronting, peevish, easy,
Form'd both to charm you and displease you;
Much want of judgment, none of pride,
Modish her dress, her hoop full wide;
Brown skin, her eyes of sable hue,
Angel, when pleas'd, when vex'd, a shrew.
Genteel her motion, when she walks,
Sweetly she sings, and loudly talks;
Knows all the world, and its affairs,
Who goes to court, to plays, to prayers,
Who keeps, who marries, fails, or thrives,
Leads honest, or dishonest, lives;
What money match'd each youth or maid,
And who was at each masquerade;
Of all fine things in this fine town,
She's only to herself unknown.
Sweetly she sings, and loudly talks;
Knows all the world, and its affairs,
Who goes to court, to plays, to prayers,
Who keeps, who marries, fails, or thrives,
Leads honest, or dishonest, lives;
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And who was at each masquerade;
Of all fine things in this fine town,
She's only to herself unknown.
By this description, if you meet her,
With lowly bows, and homage greet her;
And if you bring the vagrant beauty
Back to her mother and her duty,
Ask for reward a lover's bliss,
And (if she'll let you) take a kiss;
Or more, if more you wish and may,
Try if at church the words she'll say,
Then make her, if you can—“obey.”
With lowly bows, and homage greet her;
And if you bring the vagrant beauty
Back to her mother and her duty,
Ask for reward a lover's bliss,
And (if she'll let you) take a kiss;
Or more, if more you wish and may,
Try if at church the words she'll say,
Then make her, if you can—“obey.”
1717.
Mrs. Barbier, a celebrated actress and singer, who had then eloped from her father's house with a gallant. Mr. Hughes first recommended her to the notice of the public in the “Spectator,” vol. iii, numb. 231, for “her more than ordinary concern on her first appearance, in the opera of ‘Almahide,’ no less than her agreeable voice and just performance.” She performed the part of Telemachus in Mr. Hughes's opera of “Calypso,” and Daphne in his masque of “Apollo and Daphne.” A late noble lord, who knew her well, expressed his opinion of her as follows: “She never could rest long in a place; her affectations increased with her years. I remember her in the parts of Turnus and Orontes, when the operas of Camilla and Thomyris were represented at Lincoln's-inn-fields. She loved change so well, that she liked to change her sex.”
The MORNING APPARITION.
Written at Wallington-house in Surry.
All things were hush'd, as noise itself were dead;No midnight mice stirr'd round my silent bed;
Not ev'n a gnat disturb'd the peace profound;
Dumb o'er my pillow hung my watch unwound;
No ticking death-worm told a fancy'd doom,
Nor hidden cricket chirrup'd in the room;
282
Nor drops of rain fell soft from off the eaves;
Nor noisy splinter made the candle weep,
But the dim watch-light seem'd itself asleep,
When tir'd I clos'd my eyes—How long I lay
In slumber wrapp'd, I list not now to say:
When hark! a sudden noise—See! open flies
The yielding door—I, starting, rubb'd my eyes,
Fast clos'd awhile; and as their lids I rear'd,
Full at my feet a tall thin form appear'd,
While through my parted curtains rushing broke
A light like day, ere yet the figure spoke.
Cold sweat bedew'd my limbs—nor did I dream;
Hear, mortals, hear! for real truth's my theme.
And now, more bold, I rais'd my trembling bones
To look—when lo! 'twas honest master Jones ;
Who wav'd his hand, to banish fears and sorrow,
Well charg'd with toast and sack, and cry'd “Good morrow!”
1719.
| Letters, by several eminent persons deceased (1772) | |