Satires and miscellaneous poetry and prose Edited by Renbe Lamar |
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REPARTEES between CAT and PUSS at a CATERWALLING
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 | Satires and miscellaneous poetry and prose |  |
135
REPARTEES between CAT and PUSS at a CATERWALLING
In the Modern Heroic Way
It was about the middle Age of Night,
When half the Earth stood in the other's Light;
And Sleep, Death's Brother, yet a Friend to Life,
Gave weary'd Nature a Restorative:
When Puss, wrapt warm in his own native Furs,
Dreamt soundly of as soft and warm Amours,
Of making Galantry in Gutter-tiles,
And sporting on delightful Fagot-piles;
Of bolting out of Bushes in the dark,
As Ladies use at Midnight in the Park;
Or seeking in tall Garrets an Alcove,
For Assignations in th' Affairs of Love.
At once his Passion was both false and true,
And the more false, the more in earnest grew.
He fancy'd, that he heard those amorous Charms,
That us'd to summon him to soft Alarms,
To which he always brought an equal Flame,
To fight a Rival, or to court a Dame:
And, as in Dreams Love's Raptures are more taking,
Than all their actual Enjoyments waking,
His amorous Passion grew to that Extream,
His Dream itself awak'd him from his Dream.
Thought he, what Place is this! or whither art
Thou vanish'd from me, Mistress of my Heart?
But now, I had her in this very Place,
Here, fast imprison'd in my glad Embrace,
And, while my Joys beyond themselves were rapt,
I know not how, nor whither thou'rt escap'd:
Stay, and I'll follow thee—With that he leap'd
Up from the lazy Couch on which he slept;
And, wing'd with Passion, through his known Purlieu,
Swift as an Arrow from a Bow, he flew,
Nor stop'd, until his Fire had him convey'd,
Where many an Assignation h' had enjoy'd;
Where finding, what he sought, a mutual Flame,
That long had stay'd and call'd, before he came,
Impatient of Delay, without one Word,
To lose no further Time, he fell aboard;
But grip'd so hard, he wounded what he lov'd;
While she, in Anger, thus his Heat reprov'd.
C.
When half the Earth stood in the other's Light;
And Sleep, Death's Brother, yet a Friend to Life,
Gave weary'd Nature a Restorative:
When Puss, wrapt warm in his own native Furs,
Dreamt soundly of as soft and warm Amours,
Of making Galantry in Gutter-tiles,
And sporting on delightful Fagot-piles;
Of bolting out of Bushes in the dark,
As Ladies use at Midnight in the Park;
Or seeking in tall Garrets an Alcove,
For Assignations in th' Affairs of Love.
At once his Passion was both false and true,
And the more false, the more in earnest grew.
He fancy'd, that he heard those amorous Charms,
That us'd to summon him to soft Alarms,
To which he always brought an equal Flame,
To fight a Rival, or to court a Dame:
And, as in Dreams Love's Raptures are more taking,
Than all their actual Enjoyments waking,
His amorous Passion grew to that Extream,
His Dream itself awak'd him from his Dream.
Thought he, what Place is this! or whither art
Thou vanish'd from me, Mistress of my Heart?
But now, I had her in this very Place,
Here, fast imprison'd in my glad Embrace,
And, while my Joys beyond themselves were rapt,
I know not how, nor whither thou'rt escap'd:
136
Up from the lazy Couch on which he slept;
And, wing'd with Passion, through his known Purlieu,
Swift as an Arrow from a Bow, he flew,
Nor stop'd, until his Fire had him convey'd,
Where many an Assignation h' had enjoy'd;
Where finding, what he sought, a mutual Flame,
That long had stay'd and call'd, before he came,
Impatient of Delay, without one Word,
To lose no further Time, he fell aboard;
But grip'd so hard, he wounded what he lov'd;
While she, in Anger, thus his Heat reprov'd.
Forbear, foul Ravisher, this rude Address,
Canst thou at once both injure and caress?
P.
Thou hast bewitch'd me with thy pow'rful Charms,
And I, by drawing Blood, would cure my Harms.
C.
He, that does love, would set his Heart a Tilt,
Ere one Drop of his Lady's should be spilt.
P.
Your Wounds are but without, and mine within;
You wound my Heart, and I but prick your Skin:
And while your Eyes pierce deeper than my Claws,
You blame th' Effect, of which you are the Cause.
C.
How could my guiltless Eyes your Heart invade,
Had it not first been by your own betray'd?
Hence 'tis, my greatest Crime has only been
(Not in mine Eyes, but yours) in being seen.
P.
I hurt to love, but do not love to hurt.
C.
That's worse than making Cruelty a Sport.
P.
Pain is the Foil of Pleasure, and Delight,
That sets it off to a more noble Height.
C.
He buys his Pleasure at a Rate too vain,
That takes it up beforehand of his Pain.
P.
Pain is more dear than Pleasure, when 'tis past.
C.
But grows intolerable, if it last.
P.
Love is too full of Honour, to regard
What it enjoys, but suffers, as reward.
What Knight durst ever own a Lover's Name,
That had not been half murther'd by his Flame?
Or Lady, that had never lain at Stake,
To Death, or force of Rivals for his Sake?
137
When Love do's meet with Injury and Pain,
Disdain's the only Med'cine for Disdain.
P.
At once I'm happy, and unhappy too,
In being pleas'd, and in displeasing you.
C.
Prepost'rous Way of Pleasure, and of Love,
That contrary to its own End would move!
'Tis rather Hate, that covets to destroy;
Love's Business is to love, and to enjoy.
P.
Enjoying and destroying are all one,
As Flames destroy that which they feed upon.
C.
He never lov'd at any gen'rous Rate,
That in th' Enjoyment found his Flame abate.
As Wine (the Friend of Love) is wont to make
The Thirst more violent, it pretends to slake;
So should Fruition do the Lovers fire,
Instead of lessening, inflame Desire.
P.
What greater Proof, that Passion do's transport,
When, what I would dye for, I'm forc'd to hurt?
C.
Death among Lovers is a Thing despis'd,
And far below a sullen Humour priz'd.
That is more scorn'd, and rail'd at than the Gods,
When they are crost in Love, or fall at odds.
But since you understand not what you do,
I am the Judge of what I feel, not you.
P.
Passion begins indifferent to prove,
When Love considers any Thing but Love.
C.
The Darts of Love (like Lightning) wound within,
And, though they pierce it, never hurt the Skin;
They leave no Marks behind them, where they fly,
Though through the tend'rest Part of all, the Eye;
But your sharp Claws have left enough to shew,
How tender I have been, how cruel you.
P.
Pleasure is Pain, for when it is enjoy'd,
All it could wish for was but to b' allay'd.
C.
Force is a rugged Way of making Love.
P.
What you like best, you always disapprove.
C.
He that will wrong his Love will not be nice,
T' excuse the Wrong he does, to wrong her twice.
P.
Nothing is wrong, but that which is ill meant.
C.
Wounds are ill cured with a good intent.
138
When you mistake that for an Injury,
I never meant, you do the Wrong, not I.
C.
You do not feel yourself the Pain you give;
But 'tis not that alone, for which I grieve;
But 'tis your want of Passion that I blame,
That can be cruel, where you own a Flame.
P.
'Tis you are guilty of that Cruelty,
Which you at once outdo, and blame in me:
For while you stifle, and inflame Desire,
You burn, and starve me in the self-same Fire.
C.
It is not I, but you, that do the Hurt,
Who wound yourself, and then accuse me for't:
As Thieves, that rob themselves 'twixt Sun and Sun,
Make others pay for what themselves have done.
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