The Works of John Hall-Stevenson ... Corrected and Enlarged. With Several Original Poems, Now First Printed, and Explanatory Notes. In Three Volumes |
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| MORAL TALES.
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 | The Works of John Hall-Stevenson |  |
181
MORAL TALES.
A CHRISTMAS NIGHT'S ENTERTAINMENT.
BY LADY *******.
187
MY LADY'S TALE.
TALE I.
Rash, poor, and ever in a hurry,
Till he was far advanc'd in age,
A certain General like ******,
At last grew cautious, rich, and sage:
With all the subsidies of life,
All but an heir and a young lively wife;
Young she must be, for reasons good,
Not to excite passionate dealings,
To keep him warm with her warm blood,
And to indulge his sober feelings:
The wife he got, he left the care
To Providence and her, to make his heir.
At first a blaze, or two at most
Appear'd, just like a fire of stubble,
That cannot either bake or roast,
Or broil, or make the kettle bubble:
But seldom, after that auspicious day,
The noble General fired, except in play.
One night he gave a false alarm,
Which she most patiently endur'd;
“I thank my stars there is no harm!”
She whisper'd to herself, insur'd .
Howe'er, to cover his disgrace,
She let him keep manœuvring round the place.
His nightly fondling and stroking,
She bore with resignation meek;
When he became downright provoking,
She made him quiet for a week.
It was not oft, you understand,
That she was forc'd to take the task in hand.
Tir'd of his motions and parading,
To drop all metaphors of war,
She made him stick to serenading,
To twang and finger her guitar,
Like a child's fiddle, to divert young chicks,
From clamb'ring up and playing naughty tricks
By independence held out to his dear,
By a sincere emancipation,
He gain'd, like Fox, peace and good cheer,
Besides a helping hand upon occasion:
As to their love, content with these concessions
They left their jewels to their own discretions.
The General thus address'd the Fair,
Tossing and tumbling in her nest:
“Get me a Deputy—indeed a pair,
For fear of accidents, is best:
But first, consult your wise, experienc'd dam,
Trust her judicious eye, my tender lamb.”
He might have spar'd his curtain lecture,
His tender lamb, for all her youth,
Was never guided by conjecture,
Or mere appearances of truth:
Neither consenting nor denying,
She took no measures without trying.
So by repeated trials, in the end,
And wisely taking nought for granted,
She found the steady friend,
And Deputy, the General wanted.
In fine, without more fuss or teasing,
She made her choice, and chose discreetly:
The stream of time, flow'd smooth and pleasing,
Not only pleasingly, but sweetly;
So much, that the whole veteran corps
Envied the General more and more.
Replete with gratitude, the dame,
Yielded to all his weakest fancies;
And by a blush of simpering shame,
Vouch'd for his feats, and conjugal romances.
All which, as I before related,
Made the old General envied, if not hated.
Young folks are apt, in many a case,
Left to themselves, without a warden,
To disregard both time and place,
Like Eve and Adam in the garden.
They take a turn, they look about,
And, seeing nought to fear, conceive no doubt:
Taking their pastime in an arbour,
Our friends were by the Chaplain spied,
Like frigates riding in an arbour,
With their sails furled, in naked pride:
The Priest, like Satan, sigh'd, and saw with spite
Adam and Eve in primitive delight.
Before they reach'd the bower of bliss,
At the first glance, you may suppose,
Down dropt the Priest, squat like a Miss,
Stepping aside to pluck a rose.
Cowering he watch'd, amidst the shrubs hard by
An envious toad, like Milton's wicked spy.
When the scene clos'd the spy withdrew,
With marks of grief and indignation,
Revealing every thing he knew,
Relating to the incarnation.
“Lock'd in each other's arms they play'd,
Fasten'd and glew'd from head to foot,
The pair conjoined, you would have said,
Were grown together like a double nut.
Their springs and movements equal and exact,
As if they were but one in fact.”
The General smil'd, and heard the Doctor's tattle,
Calm and serene, as in a field of battle.
“'Twas a fine sight, I envy you the pleasure;
I know, said he, your hate to blabs and praters,
And am rejoic'd and happy beyond measure,
That none but God and you were the spectators.
Depend upon't, she shall be told,
When she's disposed to go so light and thin;
To run no more such risks of catching cold,
But take her exercise within.
I love my wife, I feel her merits,
I am her doctor, and advise,
For her hystericks, and low spirits,
This brisk de-obstruent exercise.
A hundred pounds a year I pay her squire,
I feed him sumptuously, and therewithal
The labourer is worthy of his hire,
And always ready at a call.
Know you, the General said to the Divine,
A General's lady better off than mine?”
The priest replied, and answer'd well,
“Sir, if I knew, I would not tell.
I could name one, one every way
As capable as brisk and stout,
A much more proper Cicesbi
Either within doors, or without;
And one he said, cocking his thumb,
That would have done the job for half the sum.”
Till he was far advanc'd in age,
A certain General like ******,
At last grew cautious, rich, and sage:
With all the subsidies of life,
All but an heir and a young lively wife;
Young she must be, for reasons good,
Not to excite passionate dealings,
To keep him warm with her warm blood,
And to indulge his sober feelings:
The wife he got, he left the care
To Providence and her, to make his heir.
188
Appear'd, just like a fire of stubble,
That cannot either bake or roast,
Or broil, or make the kettle bubble:
But seldom, after that auspicious day,
The noble General fired, except in play.
One night he gave a false alarm,
Which she most patiently endur'd;
“I thank my stars there is no harm!”
She whisper'd to herself, insur'd .
Howe'er, to cover his disgrace,
She let him keep manœuvring round the place.
His nightly fondling and stroking,
She bore with resignation meek;
When he became downright provoking,
She made him quiet for a week.
It was not oft, you understand,
That she was forc'd to take the task in hand.
Tir'd of his motions and parading,
To drop all metaphors of war,
189
To twang and finger her guitar,
Like a child's fiddle, to divert young chicks,
From clamb'ring up and playing naughty tricks
By independence held out to his dear,
By a sincere emancipation,
He gain'd, like Fox, peace and good cheer,
Besides a helping hand upon occasion:
As to their love, content with these concessions
They left their jewels to their own discretions.
The General thus address'd the Fair,
Tossing and tumbling in her nest:
“Get me a Deputy—indeed a pair,
For fear of accidents, is best:
But first, consult your wise, experienc'd dam,
Trust her judicious eye, my tender lamb.”
He might have spar'd his curtain lecture,
His tender lamb, for all her youth,
Was never guided by conjecture,
Or mere appearances of truth:
Neither consenting nor denying,
She took no measures without trying.
190
And wisely taking nought for granted,
She found the steady friend,
And Deputy, the General wanted.
In fine, without more fuss or teasing,
She made her choice, and chose discreetly:
The stream of time, flow'd smooth and pleasing,
Not only pleasingly, but sweetly;
So much, that the whole veteran corps
Envied the General more and more.
Replete with gratitude, the dame,
Yielded to all his weakest fancies;
And by a blush of simpering shame,
Vouch'd for his feats, and conjugal romances.
All which, as I before related,
Made the old General envied, if not hated.
Young folks are apt, in many a case,
Left to themselves, without a warden,
To disregard both time and place,
Like Eve and Adam in the garden.
They take a turn, they look about,
And, seeing nought to fear, conceive no doubt:
191
Our friends were by the Chaplain spied,
Like frigates riding in an arbour,
With their sails furled, in naked pride:
The Priest, like Satan, sigh'd, and saw with spite
Adam and Eve in primitive delight.
Before they reach'd the bower of bliss,
At the first glance, you may suppose,
Down dropt the Priest, squat like a Miss,
Stepping aside to pluck a rose.
Cowering he watch'd, amidst the shrubs hard by
An envious toad, like Milton's wicked spy.
When the scene clos'd the spy withdrew,
With marks of grief and indignation,
Revealing every thing he knew,
Relating to the incarnation.
“Lock'd in each other's arms they play'd,
Fasten'd and glew'd from head to foot,
The pair conjoined, you would have said,
Were grown together like a double nut.
Their springs and movements equal and exact,
As if they were but one in fact.”
192
Calm and serene, as in a field of battle.
“'Twas a fine sight, I envy you the pleasure;
I know, said he, your hate to blabs and praters,
And am rejoic'd and happy beyond measure,
That none but God and you were the spectators.
Depend upon't, she shall be told,
When she's disposed to go so light and thin;
To run no more such risks of catching cold,
But take her exercise within.
I love my wife, I feel her merits,
I am her doctor, and advise,
For her hystericks, and low spirits,
This brisk de-obstruent exercise.
A hundred pounds a year I pay her squire,
I feed him sumptuously, and therewithal
The labourer is worthy of his hire,
And always ready at a call.
Know you, the General said to the Divine,
A General's lady better off than mine?”
193
“Sir, if I knew, I would not tell.
I could name one, one every way
As capable as brisk and stout,
A much more proper Cicesbi
Either within doors, or without;
And one he said, cocking his thumb,
That would have done the job for half the sum.”
194
THE MORAL.
BY THE DRAMATIST.
All tales and fables, long or short,
Æsop's or Homer's, feign'd or true,
Must have a Moral of some sort,
For our instruction, says Bossu.
We learn this truth from Homer's songs,
When youth and insolence conspire,
Grievous dissensions and great wrongs
Arise from passion, set on fire.
His tale is founded upon anger,
With anger's terrible effects;
This upon impotence and langour,
With age's visible defects.
They both agree in one conclusion,
Where there's no harmony all is confusion;
In states, in senates, camps and fleets,
And now and then in wedding sheets.
195
With his young bride, and gets next morn,
Instead of his bride's maidenhead,
The maiden-bride's contempt and scorn;
The surest way to set things right,
And to do justice to the bride,
Is to get up and take his flight,
Or take her General for his guide:
Who sail'd through time with a fine breeze,
Through pleasant days and nights of ease:
For the connubial clog and yoke,
Heavy to me, not light to you,
To him was a mere joke,
Easy it sat like an old shoe.
196
THE PARSON'S WIFE.
TALE II.
Sue, and another country lass,
With ploughman Dick, a gibing knave,
Were at the wedding of an Ass,
And all of them look'd very grave.
The marriage ceremony done,
The lasses cried, “Dick, shew your skill,
If you are for a bit of fun,
Chuse one of us, take which you will.”
Richard maliciously reply'd,
Thinking to disconcert the jades,
“Faith! I would rather take the bride,
If I might chuse, than her bride-maids.”
“I do believe you, Dick,” said Sue,
And jogg'd her partner, with a grin:
“We wou'd take Jack rather than you,
If 'twas not for the sin.”
With ploughman Dick, a gibing knave,
Were at the wedding of an Ass,
And all of them look'd very grave.
The marriage ceremony done,
The lasses cried, “Dick, shew your skill,
If you are for a bit of fun,
Chuse one of us, take which you will.”
Richard maliciously reply'd,
Thinking to disconcert the jades,
“Faith! I would rather take the bride,
If I might chuse, than her bride-maids.”
“I do believe you, Dick,” said Sue,
And jogg'd her partner, with a grin:
“We wou'd take Jack rather than you,
If 'twas not for the sin.”
197
MORAL.
This is not an immoral Tale,The Parson, to his praise and glory,
Exhibited over his ale,
A Moral to his spouse's story.
If Moses had not been so clear
And circumstantial in God's orders,
The carnal appetites, I fear,
Would often get beyond the borders;
There would be many a strange wedding,
Some without either bed or bedding.
If the Divine Legation had not shewn it,
How should unletter'd people know,
Whether it was a sin or no?
Even Warburton would not have known it.
And therefore, as I said above,
Moses was told to teach the Jews,
How and with whom they might make love:
God would not let them pick and chuse.
198
Lov'd novelties, as they do now;
God knew that they would leave their wives
At any time to kiss a cow.
The Jewish ladies were like our's,
Fickle, not nice in their amours;
And if it had not been forbid,
Many might have been got with kid.
199
THE PARSON'S TALE;
SEEING IS BELIEVING.
TALE III.
Thomas came running to the mill,
As Will was standing at the door,
“Would you believe it, neighbour Will?”
Said Tom, “my wife's an arrant whore!
With colours flying, drums a pair,
I left her very hard at work,
Tossing the Squire up in the air,
As if he had been made of cork.
You know the burthen is not light,
He was not born to be a jockey,
And, to add something to the weight,
His worship was a little rocky.
From my relation I presume,
Neighbour, you will conclude and gather,
That he was in a plaguy fume,
And she all over in a lather.
I never thought, as I'm a sinner,
That Moll had any sporting blood,
Or any kind of mettle in her,
No more than in a log of wood.
At any moment of the day,
My wife said, Will takes as much pains:
I make her pockets ring and play,
Jingling her keys about like chains.
And yet no sempstress with a thimble,
That sits all day upon her crupper,
Can be more mettlesome and nimble,
Or readier for it, after supper.”
“Where did you leave your wife?” said he—
“Behind yon stack, where she lies dry.
Run and peep through the hedge and see,”
Said Tom, “if she begin to fly.”
Will ran and peep'd, and then crept nigher,
And then cried, “Thomas, you're a liar.
I see them at it, and see clear,
'Tis not your Moll, but my sweet Nell;
The devil, I hope, that brought her here,
Will carry her back with him to hell.”
“I knew, and would have laid my life,”
Said Will, “if I had bid you go,
To see the pastime of your wife,
You would not run to see the show;
But you would scamper to the stack,
To see my wife upon her back.
The only way that I would act,
The only way I would advise,
And the best way to prove the fact,
Is to appeal to your own eyes.”
As Will was standing at the door,
“Would you believe it, neighbour Will?”
Said Tom, “my wife's an arrant whore!
With colours flying, drums a pair,
I left her very hard at work,
Tossing the Squire up in the air,
As if he had been made of cork.
You know the burthen is not light,
He was not born to be a jockey,
And, to add something to the weight,
His worship was a little rocky.
200
Neighbour, you will conclude and gather,
That he was in a plaguy fume,
And she all over in a lather.
I never thought, as I'm a sinner,
That Moll had any sporting blood,
Or any kind of mettle in her,
No more than in a log of wood.
At any moment of the day,
My wife said, Will takes as much pains:
I make her pockets ring and play,
Jingling her keys about like chains.
And yet no sempstress with a thimble,
That sits all day upon her crupper,
Can be more mettlesome and nimble,
Or readier for it, after supper.”
“Where did you leave your wife?” said he—
“Behind yon stack, where she lies dry.
Run and peep through the hedge and see,”
Said Tom, “if she begin to fly.”
Will ran and peep'd, and then crept nigher,
And then cried, “Thomas, you're a liar.
201
'Tis not your Moll, but my sweet Nell;
The devil, I hope, that brought her here,
Will carry her back with him to hell.”
“I knew, and would have laid my life,”
Said Will, “if I had bid you go,
To see the pastime of your wife,
You would not run to see the show;
But you would scamper to the stack,
To see my wife upon her back.
The only way that I would act,
The only way I would advise,
And the best way to prove the fact,
Is to appeal to your own eyes.”
202
MORAL.
Segnius irritant animos dimissa per aurem,
Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quæ
Ipse sibi tradit spectator.—
Quam quæ sunt oculis subjecta fidelibus, et quæ
Ipse sibi tradit spectator.—
An offer from one, of one seventy-four,
Was grateful to the royal hearing,
If one by self one had offer'd one more,
Keppel would think that one was jeering.
“The offer might surprize a tar,”
The Lawyer cried, taking off Lee:
“To see the L---r man of war,
I do confess would surprize me.”—
“There is some difference,” said the scoffer,
“Between an offering and an offer;
Sam offer'd Jack a horse—‘where is he, Sam?
Sam answer'd—‘in the matrix of his dam.’
203
That many a town and province offers?’
‘Sire,’ said the daughter of Therese,
‘Breeding, like Spider's eggs, in empty coffers.”
204
THE ASSOCIATION.
THE SQUIRE'S TALE.
TALE IV.
A village Burgher was Ralph Crop,
A Grocer without guile or malice;
The master of the grocer's shop,
And of Ralph Crop, was Mistress Alice.
When Alice was engaged, her damsel Kate,
When Ralph her spouse was absent too,
Did quite as well, for she could sell and prate,
Better, perhaps, than Crop could do.
Crop was just gone to the market-town,
And all the world was there—'twas the Fair-day—
To buy his wife a cap and gown,
To shew his taste, and make her shew away.
All the world knows, that certain glances
Interpret certain women's fancies.
The Exciseman was a fine observer,
And saw from Alice's black eyes,
That all the world could not preserve her
From being taken by surprise.
Treading the shop, he cast the dye,
He pass'd the Rubicon, and met her;
And in the twinkling of an eye,
Carried his point, and overset her.
He pass'd the Rubicon, it means in verse,
He was not bashful for her looking fierce:
At the first onset, Myles averr'd,
He took the Lion by the beard.
For Hercules, without a scratch or rub,
Taking possession of that feature,
With his great club,
Terrified and subdued the creature.
Myles having conquer'd her disdain
(Alice and Myles were in their prime)
They did not spend their hours in vain,
But made the properest use of time.
Ralph was returning with her fairing,
And at the door, just after pairing.
Neither suspecting any harm,
Behold, Crop enters with his riches,
A gown and cap under his arm,
As Myles was pulling up his breeches.—
“I am glad you left the fair so soon,”
His wife cried out—“the Exciseman there,
Whipt in just now, this afternoon,
Stark staring mad as a March hare.
Had he not known you by your blowing,
Had not he heard you at the door,
That very moment he was going
To s---t upon the parlour floor;
And swore, that if I call'd or stir'd,
The brute would make me eat his—merde.”
“What did you mean,” said Crop, “by this?”
“Nothing at all,” said Myles, “amiss.”
Behold, said one, that shall be nameless,
Before her window, Mistress Blameless;
Poor soul, she looks quite melancholy.
Try, Myles, some heads were made for horns.
To try, said I, would be a monstrous folly,
Try to lick honey off the thorns;
Even suppose what cannot be supposed,
I would not wrong a friend, so well disposed;
I'll put as hard a case, I think,
A rump and dozen—let us wager,
I'll make no love, but make a stink,
Shall cure her vapours, I'll engage her.
Mind; I'll untruss down to the feet,
And do my n---s before her face,
Plump on the floor; and for my treat,
She shall be thankful and say grace.
If you had not stept in between,
I should have won the wager clean,
Nothing amiss was meant, I knew,
My friend here lov'd a harmless joke;
The thought was comical and new,
'Twould make him laugh ready to choak.”
“Marry come up, my dirty Cousin,”
Said Alice, “with your rump and dozen;
Laugh! laugh at what, you filthy beast?
If he had laugh'd at such a thing,
I would have made both his ears ring
For one whole fortnight at the least.
Go, pay the wager you have lost;”
“I'm glad,” said Crop, “that he was taken in,
A rump and dozen's no small cost,
And as to laughing, let them laugh that win.”
A Grocer without guile or malice;
The master of the grocer's shop,
And of Ralph Crop, was Mistress Alice.
When Alice was engaged, her damsel Kate,
When Ralph her spouse was absent too,
Did quite as well, for she could sell and prate,
Better, perhaps, than Crop could do.
Crop was just gone to the market-town,
And all the world was there—'twas the Fair-day—
205
To shew his taste, and make her shew away.
All the world knows, that certain glances
Interpret certain women's fancies.
The Exciseman was a fine observer,
And saw from Alice's black eyes,
That all the world could not preserve her
From being taken by surprise.
Treading the shop, he cast the dye,
He pass'd the Rubicon, and met her;
And in the twinkling of an eye,
Carried his point, and overset her.
He pass'd the Rubicon, it means in verse,
He was not bashful for her looking fierce:
At the first onset, Myles averr'd,
He took the Lion by the beard.
For Hercules, without a scratch or rub,
Taking possession of that feature,
With his great club,
Terrified and subdued the creature.
206
(Alice and Myles were in their prime)
They did not spend their hours in vain,
But made the properest use of time.
Ralph was returning with her fairing,
And at the door, just after pairing.
Neither suspecting any harm,
Behold, Crop enters with his riches,
A gown and cap under his arm,
As Myles was pulling up his breeches.—
“I am glad you left the fair so soon,”
His wife cried out—“the Exciseman there,
Whipt in just now, this afternoon,
Stark staring mad as a March hare.
Had he not known you by your blowing,
Had not he heard you at the door,
That very moment he was going
To s---t upon the parlour floor;
And swore, that if I call'd or stir'd,
The brute would make me eat his—merde.”
“What did you mean,” said Crop, “by this?”
“Nothing at all,” said Myles, “amiss.”
207
Before her window, Mistress Blameless;
Poor soul, she looks quite melancholy.
Try, Myles, some heads were made for horns.
To try, said I, would be a monstrous folly,
Try to lick honey off the thorns;
Even suppose what cannot be supposed,
I would not wrong a friend, so well disposed;
I'll put as hard a case, I think,
A rump and dozen—let us wager,
I'll make no love, but make a stink,
Shall cure her vapours, I'll engage her.
Mind; I'll untruss down to the feet,
And do my n---s before her face,
Plump on the floor; and for my treat,
She shall be thankful and say grace.
If you had not stept in between,
I should have won the wager clean,
Nothing amiss was meant, I knew,
My friend here lov'd a harmless joke;
The thought was comical and new,
'Twould make him laugh ready to choak.”
208
Said Alice, “with your rump and dozen;
Laugh! laugh at what, you filthy beast?
If he had laugh'd at such a thing,
I would have made both his ears ring
For one whole fortnight at the least.
Go, pay the wager you have lost;”
“I'm glad,” said Crop, “that he was taken in,
A rump and dozen's no small cost,
And as to laughing, let them laugh that win.”
209
MORAL.
“A case in point,” said sly Sir John,“To prove two heads better than one.
One gives a hint, and only moves it,
The second takes it, and improves it.”
“I grant your maxim,” said his Dame,
“If both their interests are the same.”
The Baron cried, “the Moral's fine,
I smoke two rogues, and one design.
I see two rogues together pull,
Two patriots set out together,
In dirty roads and in foul weather,
To make a fool of poor John Bull.”
210
HOB IN THE WELL.
SIR JOHN'S TALE.
TALE V.
A taylor, bodkin-stitch, in a few years
Grew rich, and is increasing still,
By the nice conduct of his sheers,
And skill in drawing up a bill.
A bill, like any bill of Chancery,
Or my Lord North's bill of Fine—ansery—
His Budget like a giblet pie,
Furnish'd with gizzards, hearts and liver,
Pinions, necks, feet, and blood for ever,
And Goose-cap heads, that once look'd high.
Twelve miles from York, or thereabout,
Stitch bought a farm, he call'd Surtout—
His agent, every week that came,
Was sure to send him a stout hare,
Pigeons, and now and then some game,
With rabbits, taken in a snare.
In fine, Stitch liv'd like any Lord,
Any Lord Mayor that draws long corks—
Turkeys and geese smok'd on his board,
Like geese upon his board of works.
Besides, his farm produc'd him clear
In cash two hundred pounds a year.
Robin, a Farmer, was his factor,
The Taylor would not part with Hob,
So good a factor and transactor,
For the best regimental job;
Not to take measure of the King,
Although, perhaps, by such an honour,
His wife, a proud disdainful thing,
Might not take quite so much upon her:
A Knight's third cousin, where's the wonder
If Bodkin truckl'd and knock'd under;
Observe, that every Easter Sunday
Hob came to feast on paschal lamb,
And then return'd on Easter Monday
To tansy pudding and a ham.
The beds were full, when Robin came—
As harmless as his namesake bird,
Robin was forc'd to make a third,
And pig with Bodkin and his Dame.
Hob in his breeches went to bed,
And Mistress Stitch was in the middle,
Her face turn'd close to Bodkin's head,
To leather-breeches her bum-fiddle.
Bodkin's horn soon began to blow,
Hob was awake, and she also.
On certain signals from behind,
Hob his mask'd battery disclos'd,
Summon'd the fort, which was resign'd
Upon the terms that he propos'd.
They were oblig'd to take their leave,
At least for fear of a surprize,
Not without tears, you may believe,
And sleep in earnest clos'd their eyes.
Recruited with a few hours nap,
Hob gave her notice of his rising,
First at the door he gave a tap,
And then a rap that was surprizing:
As Madam Stitch in the conclusion
Receiv'd the coup-de-grace and was expiring,
Bodkin was wak'd by a contusion,
Studied the point and could not help admiring;
And then put back his hand, and lo!
He found Hob in the well below.
“Steal off,” said Stich, “and quit your ground,
'Tis well for you she sleeps so sound.
If my wife wakes and finds you got
Out of your road into her quarters,
She'll scratch your eyes out, she's so hot,
And strangle you in her Bath garters.”
“When I got there,” said Hob, “or how,
I know no more than you, I vow;
But in the well have got, through thick and thin—
Oft in my sleep I walk, they say,
And in my sleep must have walk'd in,
Said Hob, that must have been the way.”
Hob vanish'd—Mistress Stitch soon after
Furnish'd another scene for laughter;
She jogg'd her Spouse, and whisper'd low,
“Is Robin up and gone, or no?”
Bodkin replied, “At break of day—
Two hours ago he stole away.”
“I dreamt,” said she, and then awoke,
I thought 'twas you in such a cue,
I doubted whether it was you;
I thought you drove away like smoke:
I never felt so much delight,
Either in sleeping or awake—
I was afraid 'twas some mistake:
What would I give to dream it every night!
I was surpriz'd to find you grown
So lusty, and with so much bone,
And twice as strong, and stronger too,
Than when upon our wedding sheets,
For all that I could say or do,
You robb'd me of my virgin sweets.”
“'Twas but a dream,” said Stitch, “that's plain,
I'll try to make you dream again;”
He did his best, and Morpheus seiz'd her soon,
Bodkin got up at nine; she slept till noon.—
Grew rich, and is increasing still,
By the nice conduct of his sheers,
And skill in drawing up a bill.
A bill, like any bill of Chancery,
Or my Lord North's bill of Fine—ansery—
His Budget like a giblet pie,
Furnish'd with gizzards, hearts and liver,
Pinions, necks, feet, and blood for ever,
And Goose-cap heads, that once look'd high.
Twelve miles from York, or thereabout,
Stitch bought a farm, he call'd Surtout—
211
Was sure to send him a stout hare,
Pigeons, and now and then some game,
With rabbits, taken in a snare.
In fine, Stitch liv'd like any Lord,
Any Lord Mayor that draws long corks—
Turkeys and geese smok'd on his board,
Like geese upon his board of works.
Besides, his farm produc'd him clear
In cash two hundred pounds a year.
Robin, a Farmer, was his factor,
The Taylor would not part with Hob,
So good a factor and transactor,
For the best regimental job;
Not to take measure of the King,
Although, perhaps, by such an honour,
His wife, a proud disdainful thing,
Might not take quite so much upon her:
A Knight's third cousin, where's the wonder
If Bodkin truckl'd and knock'd under;
212
Hob came to feast on paschal lamb,
And then return'd on Easter Monday
To tansy pudding and a ham.
The beds were full, when Robin came—
As harmless as his namesake bird,
Robin was forc'd to make a third,
And pig with Bodkin and his Dame.
Hob in his breeches went to bed,
And Mistress Stitch was in the middle,
Her face turn'd close to Bodkin's head,
To leather-breeches her bum-fiddle.
Bodkin's horn soon began to blow,
Hob was awake, and she also.
On certain signals from behind,
Hob his mask'd battery disclos'd,
Summon'd the fort, which was resign'd
Upon the terms that he propos'd.
They were oblig'd to take their leave,
At least for fear of a surprize,
Not without tears, you may believe,
And sleep in earnest clos'd their eyes.
213
Hob gave her notice of his rising,
First at the door he gave a tap,
And then a rap that was surprizing:
As Madam Stitch in the conclusion
Receiv'd the coup-de-grace and was expiring,
Bodkin was wak'd by a contusion,
Studied the point and could not help admiring;
And then put back his hand, and lo!
He found Hob in the well below.
“Steal off,” said Stich, “and quit your ground,
'Tis well for you she sleeps so sound.
If my wife wakes and finds you got
Out of your road into her quarters,
She'll scratch your eyes out, she's so hot,
And strangle you in her Bath garters.”
“When I got there,” said Hob, “or how,
I know no more than you, I vow;
But in the well have got, through thick and thin—
Oft in my sleep I walk, they say,
And in my sleep must have walk'd in,
Said Hob, that must have been the way.”
214
Furnish'd another scene for laughter;
She jogg'd her Spouse, and whisper'd low,
“Is Robin up and gone, or no?”
Bodkin replied, “At break of day—
Two hours ago he stole away.”
“I dreamt,” said she, and then awoke,
I thought 'twas you in such a cue,
I doubted whether it was you;
I thought you drove away like smoke:
I never felt so much delight,
Either in sleeping or awake—
I was afraid 'twas some mistake:
What would I give to dream it every night!
I was surpriz'd to find you grown
So lusty, and with so much bone,
And twice as strong, and stronger too,
Than when upon our wedding sheets,
For all that I could say or do,
You robb'd me of my virgin sweets.”
215
I'll try to make you dream again;”
He did his best, and Morpheus seiz'd her soon,
Bodkin got up at nine; she slept till noon.—
216
MORAL.
“The sex,” said a physician of the college,“Like men, are either saints or sinners,
Like Eve, they long so much for knowledge,
They scarce have time to eat their dinners.”
The difference between them and us
Is this, the sex, both great and small,
All look as innocent as puss,
The greatest hypocrite of all.
But men oft glory in their shame,
And take our wives for lawful game.
Put not your trust in leather breeches,
Whether your wife's behind you, or before,
They all can tell, they are such witches,
Whether you sleep, or only feign a snore.
She knows her time, she gives an intimation
To Galligaskins; and, if he's inclined,
He will accept of madam's invitation,
Just as it suits, before you or behind.
217
THE DAINTY WIDOW'S TALE.
TALE VI.
My Tale is every bit a Moral,A hint for delicate complexions,
Black, brown, and fair, or red as coral,
May benefit by my reflections.
In artifice, most of us deal;
And ladies, that affect fine feelings,
Mean to declare how fine they feel,
All over in their tender dealings.
“Reach me that peach,” said I, “my dear,
It sets my teeth on edge,” said Prue,
“It makes me feel all over queer,
Has it not that effect on you?”
218
I would not give the creature any quarter;
When you have got Eve's fruit into your hand,
Miss, I suppose,” said I, “your mouth must water.”
Prue redden'd, not from shame, but spite;
“I see,” said I, “my guess is right.”
219
THE BARONESS'S TALE.
TALE VII.
A merry story's better far,
Than a lampoon or witty libel!
Mine is from Margaret of Navarre,
As true as any in the Bible.
Vraie comme l'Evangile, “'tis e'en,
True as the gospel,” says the queen.
“Three Merchants of Savoy, I know not when,
Were travelling, each with his spouse,
Pilgrims to Saint Antonio of Vienne,
All of them bound by previous vows,
In journeying to live together,
Not like their fathers and their mothers,
But like three sisters, and three brothers,
As well in cold as in hot weather.
Like them in beds apart to lie,
In chambers separate, but nigh.
Lest through mistake, sister and brother,
Or in their sleep, or in the dark,
Might tumble one upon another,
And the collision strike a spark;
Which meeting with the tinder box,
Is all that they require;
All such combustibles as smocks,
To make the least inflammable catch fire.
They were all left in full possession
Of every other sense or taste,
That is, to use them with discretion,
You know there's none below the waist.
At Chambery arriving, our three pair
Spared no expence at their hotel,
Excellent wine and plenty of good fare,
All appetites but one fared well.
They supp'd, and seem'd so loath to part;
The brothers and the sisters both,
I am persuaded from my heart,
Had much ado to keep their oath.
The ladies to their room repair'd,
To chat both in and out of bed;
Their beds before had been prepar'd,
Three with one pillow for each head.
But were their husbands there, and thereabout,
Instead of one,
Had there been none,
I do believe they could have done without.
I need not tell you, when three Dames,
Gather'd together, are undressing,
They call things by their naked names,
So plain, they leave no room for guessing:
When the discourse is turn'd from fashions,
To certain objects of the passions:
And in undressing you may swear,
They shew their charms, and they compare.—
Three Monks, all three Father Confessors,
That lay hard-by, wonder'd to hear,
The ladies talking like professors,
In terms of art, distinct and clear:
Which made the holy fathers rise,
And stand and listen with surprize.
Then gliding to the door they spy'd,
Up, on their beds, all in their shifts,
The three fair Dames that scorn'd to hide
Any of God's bounteous gifts,
The Monks much edify'd retir'd,
And by Saint Francis were inspir'd.
They knew they lay without a mate;
And like brave soldiers of Saint Francis,
Resolv'd, they should no longer wait,
And suffer for their husband's fancies.
Saint Francis must have been their guide;
Most certainly Saint Francis knew,
The ladies after the review—
Forgot the key was left on the outside.
Now silence reign'd, the fair ones slept,
And out the watchful brethren came,
Secur'd the door, and softly crept,
Each bold Franciscan to his flame.
There was no time for them to spare,
For preface or solicitation,
They seiz'd Time by the lock of hair,
Without one word on the occasion.
Finding their dears so hot and greedy,
And so soon up and on again;
The ladies, who were also needy,
Found that resistance would be vain.
One of the sisters had a notion,
The alteration was so strange,
That her's had taken some love potion,
To make so very great a change.
They bore it all with patient bearing,
And without uttering a word;
All the three wives, whilst they were pairing,
Thought their's the only pairing bird.
Each held her tongue, and took her feed,
Pitying the two that stood in need.
The Champions, after their great deeds,
Gently retir'd, exhausted quite;
And, with their baggage and their beads,
March'd off as soon as it was light.
The Merchants slept so long, thanks to the wine
So well to both the parties suited,
Their heads, on waking, ach'd no more than mine,
And their wives rose fresh and recruited.
Then huddling on their clothes, in the mean while
Their tongues perpetually wagging,
The smartest cried, with an arch smile,
And with a tone of voice like bragging,
“Pray, were you wak'd, like me, last night?
Had you a visit from your Spouses?—
If yours were in as fine a plight,
They must have been about your houses:
Mine wak'd me, and away he scour'd
At once, and ran me out of breath;
I thought I should have been devour'd;
Press'd, hugg'd, and squeez'd, and crush'd to death.”
“Ours too were in as good condition,”
The others said, “What could it mean?
It must have been the prohibition,”
They all agreed, that made them all so keen.
“Undoubtedly,” said Madam Smart;
“Oft have I wonder'd, for my part,
With what indifference they begin,
And jog on in a lawful deed;
But let it be a mortal sin,
Heavens, with what ardour they proceed!—
The men were up, and in their jackets,
And were just putting on their shoes,
When their wives enter'd with their packets,
Full of glad tidings and great news.
“No wonder that you lay till noon,
After your last night's feats,” said they:
“To come and break your oaths so soon,
And make us break ours too was not fair play.”
Each to her husband then repeated,
How suddenly she was surpriz'd;
How handsomely she had been treated,
For which she hop'd he would not be chastiz'd.
The fault was his; she had no blame;
She was so hurry'd,
Bated and worry'd,
If 'twas to do again, she would do the same.—
“You must be drunk or mad, I fear,”
The husband cried, “'tis a clear case;
I never stirr'd, or I'm not here,
Out of my bed, out of this place.”
And so they one and all declar'd,
And look'd like simpletons and star'd.
The women blush'd up to the ears,
First thought of this, and then of that,
And their suspicions and their fears,
Made them begin to smell a rat.
A Merchant, wiser than the rest,
Making a sign they understood,
Laugh'd and said, “Wife, we were in jest,
My sins, I hope, have done us good,
I hope,” said he, “you'll wish me joy,
And our endeavours and joint labours,
Will be productive of a boy—
I wish the same for my two neighbours.
An act,” said he, “you will allow,
Of so great merit,
It must repair our broken vow,
You know, we broke it with great spirit.”
“'Twas not enough,” said Mrs. Sly,
“To break your oath, but you must run,
And go to bed to make a lie;
For which you don't deserve a son:
And yet I hope and expect rather,
Your son will not be like his father.”
With that the females in a titter,
Retir'd to gather up their litter.
The women gone, the Merchant cried,
“Brothers, you see how matters go;
Our ladies have been monkcupy'd,
Which is not fit for them to know:
We must lock up this secret in our trunks;
For if the faithful partners of our beds
Should know their obligations to the Monks,
Monks will be always running in their heads.
To pocket the affront is right.
As to our wives, 'tis best, you'll own,
To lie with them ourselves at night,
And never let them lie alone.”
Whether the ladies doubts were clear'd away
I never heard, so cannot say;
But I have heard that ever after,
Whene'er they met at any place,
And look'd each other in the face,
They fell into a fit of laughter.
And with great gratitude and reason,
For their devotion in due season,
His blessing Saint Antonio sent,
With three huge boys, made and conceiv'd,
Monastically, 'tis believ'd,
To the six pilgrims great content.—
Than a lampoon or witty libel!
Mine is from Margaret of Navarre,
As true as any in the Bible.
Vraie comme l'Evangile, “'tis e'en,
True as the gospel,” says the queen.
“Three Merchants of Savoy, I know not when,
Were travelling, each with his spouse,
Pilgrims to Saint Antonio of Vienne,
All of them bound by previous vows,
In journeying to live together,
Not like their fathers and their mothers,
But like three sisters, and three brothers,
As well in cold as in hot weather.
220
In chambers separate, but nigh.
Lest through mistake, sister and brother,
Or in their sleep, or in the dark,
Might tumble one upon another,
And the collision strike a spark;
Which meeting with the tinder box,
Is all that they require;
All such combustibles as smocks,
To make the least inflammable catch fire.
They were all left in full possession
Of every other sense or taste,
That is, to use them with discretion,
You know there's none below the waist.
At Chambery arriving, our three pair
Spared no expence at their hotel,
Excellent wine and plenty of good fare,
All appetites but one fared well.
They supp'd, and seem'd so loath to part;
The brothers and the sisters both,
I am persuaded from my heart,
Had much ado to keep their oath.
221
To chat both in and out of bed;
Their beds before had been prepar'd,
Three with one pillow for each head.
But were their husbands there, and thereabout,
Instead of one,
Had there been none,
I do believe they could have done without.
I need not tell you, when three Dames,
Gather'd together, are undressing,
They call things by their naked names,
So plain, they leave no room for guessing:
When the discourse is turn'd from fashions,
To certain objects of the passions:
And in undressing you may swear,
They shew their charms, and they compare.—
Three Monks, all three Father Confessors,
That lay hard-by, wonder'd to hear,
The ladies talking like professors,
In terms of art, distinct and clear:
Which made the holy fathers rise,
And stand and listen with surprize.
222
Up, on their beds, all in their shifts,
The three fair Dames that scorn'd to hide
Any of God's bounteous gifts,
The Monks much edify'd retir'd,
And by Saint Francis were inspir'd.
They knew they lay without a mate;
And like brave soldiers of Saint Francis,
Resolv'd, they should no longer wait,
And suffer for their husband's fancies.
Saint Francis must have been their guide;
Most certainly Saint Francis knew,
The ladies after the review—
Forgot the key was left on the outside.
Now silence reign'd, the fair ones slept,
And out the watchful brethren came,
Secur'd the door, and softly crept,
Each bold Franciscan to his flame.
There was no time for them to spare,
For preface or solicitation,
They seiz'd Time by the lock of hair,
Without one word on the occasion.
223
And so soon up and on again;
The ladies, who were also needy,
Found that resistance would be vain.
One of the sisters had a notion,
The alteration was so strange,
That her's had taken some love potion,
To make so very great a change.
They bore it all with patient bearing,
And without uttering a word;
All the three wives, whilst they were pairing,
Thought their's the only pairing bird.
Each held her tongue, and took her feed,
Pitying the two that stood in need.
The Champions, after their great deeds,
Gently retir'd, exhausted quite;
And, with their baggage and their beads,
March'd off as soon as it was light.
The Merchants slept so long, thanks to the wine
So well to both the parties suited,
Their heads, on waking, ach'd no more than mine,
And their wives rose fresh and recruited.
224
Their tongues perpetually wagging,
The smartest cried, with an arch smile,
And with a tone of voice like bragging,
“Pray, were you wak'd, like me, last night?
Had you a visit from your Spouses?—
If yours were in as fine a plight,
They must have been about your houses:
Mine wak'd me, and away he scour'd
At once, and ran me out of breath;
I thought I should have been devour'd;
Press'd, hugg'd, and squeez'd, and crush'd to death.”
“Ours too were in as good condition,”
The others said, “What could it mean?
It must have been the prohibition,”
They all agreed, that made them all so keen.
“Undoubtedly,” said Madam Smart;
“Oft have I wonder'd, for my part,
With what indifference they begin,
And jog on in a lawful deed;
225
Heavens, with what ardour they proceed!—
The men were up, and in their jackets,
And were just putting on their shoes,
When their wives enter'd with their packets,
Full of glad tidings and great news.
“No wonder that you lay till noon,
After your last night's feats,” said they:
“To come and break your oaths so soon,
And make us break ours too was not fair play.”
Each to her husband then repeated,
How suddenly she was surpriz'd;
How handsomely she had been treated,
For which she hop'd he would not be chastiz'd.
The fault was his; she had no blame;
She was so hurry'd,
Bated and worry'd,
If 'twas to do again, she would do the same.—
226
The husband cried, “'tis a clear case;
I never stirr'd, or I'm not here,
Out of my bed, out of this place.”
And so they one and all declar'd,
And look'd like simpletons and star'd.
The women blush'd up to the ears,
First thought of this, and then of that,
And their suspicions and their fears,
Made them begin to smell a rat.
A Merchant, wiser than the rest,
Making a sign they understood,
Laugh'd and said, “Wife, we were in jest,
My sins, I hope, have done us good,
I hope,” said he, “you'll wish me joy,
And our endeavours and joint labours,
Will be productive of a boy—
I wish the same for my two neighbours.
An act,” said he, “you will allow,
Of so great merit,
It must repair our broken vow,
You know, we broke it with great spirit.”
227
“To break your oath, but you must run,
And go to bed to make a lie;
For which you don't deserve a son:
And yet I hope and expect rather,
Your son will not be like his father.”
With that the females in a titter,
Retir'd to gather up their litter.
The women gone, the Merchant cried,
“Brothers, you see how matters go;
Our ladies have been monkcupy'd,
Which is not fit for them to know:
We must lock up this secret in our trunks;
For if the faithful partners of our beds
Should know their obligations to the Monks,
Monks will be always running in their heads.
To pocket the affront is right.
As to our wives, 'tis best, you'll own,
To lie with them ourselves at night,
And never let them lie alone.”
Whether the ladies doubts were clear'd away
I never heard, so cannot say;
228
Whene'er they met at any place,
And look'd each other in the face,
They fell into a fit of laughter.
And with great gratitude and reason,
For their devotion in due season,
His blessing Saint Antonio sent,
With three huge boys, made and conceiv'd,
Monastically, 'tis believ'd,
To the six pilgrims great content.—
229
MORAL.
Cleave to your wives, the Scripture says;I say, that cleaving is a blessing:
But you must stick and cleave always,
Or else your head may get a dressing.
As close, as if you were tied and buckled,
So close no creature can get at her;
You might, my Lord, be made a cuckold,
And I know nothing of the matter.
To make a vow to leave your wife in danger,
And let her lie alone and fob her,
Is to lock up your cash before a stranger,
And tempt him to become a robber:
Which was exemplified, you find,
In three bold Monks, all of one mind—
This truth will follow from that sequel,
Which ought to be observ'd and known,
That one of us left quite alone,
Or three of us together, are things equal.
230
THE LAWYER'S TALE.
TALE VIII.
My story's true, as well as new,
Of folks I know, that shall be nameless;
Their real names are nought to you,
I'll call my knight, Sir Joseph Shameless.
His lady's woman, Kitty Patience,
With wicked eyes, her teeth two rows of pearl,
And all the sequel of the girl
A complication of temptations.
The knight had now and then the gout;
To have it only now and then
Is of great use to many men,
It has its merits without doubt.
Amongst the proverbs of my sire,
The gout I have often heard him call
The potent parent of desire,
Without whose aid his doings were but small—
I mean, he was not half so stout,
And sometimes could not make it out
—At all.
My Lady in her stays, and Kitty lacing;
My Lady's fingers busy round the border,
Giving her snowy breasts a proper bracing,
To keep them at a distance, and in order;
So proud and bold they stand when they are parted,
When they are near they droop, and look faint-hearted.
The Knight came in—Said he, “how finely
You plump them out, they look divinely—
Kitty's tetons have got no stay,
They seem to scorn any assistance;
If they should happen to give way,
They'll turn again, and make resistance:”
With that he thrusts his hand into her neck,
My Lady turn'd about and smil'd,
Without the least rebuke or check,
She only said, “you should not let him, child.”
Patience replied, with downcast eye,
“I thought there was no harm; as you were by—”
My Lady said, “No, not the least—
Kitty, I have seen you quite undrest;
If you will treat him with a feast,
These two are vouchers for the rest.”
Kitty was then mistress of arts;
The Knight, without a cry of murther,
Long since had visited those parts,
And gone till he could go no further.
His Lady knew that he lov'd change;
He knew her passions were as strong,
She could not be averse to range,
She was so apt to fancy things and long.
They went and came without each other's knowing,
Both of them lov'd to change the scene;
They never ask'd where they were going,
Nor once enquir'd where each had been—
One day the Knight fell fast asleep,
The Knight was in his gouty chair;
A Captain and my Lady fair,
On the settee in meditation deep.
She rose and went behind the screen,
And he, to see what she could mean.
They staid not there, you must have thought,
Standing like fools and doing nought.
At the conclusion of their sport,
And whilst the room and screen were shaking,
Sir Joseph heard her breathing short,
Just at the moment he was waking.
He was acquainted with her notes,
And knew, that from her dying song,
Her time was come, 'twould not be long
Before she shook her petticoats:
Her petticoats to smooth the gathers,
Just like a hen, that shakes her feathers—
As long as he could hear them prancing
He would not interrupt their dancing.
“What noise was that?” Sir Joseph cried,
“'Twas a strange noise I heard just now.”
My Lady readily replied,
“I can't account for it I vow;
For God's sake let us run away,
It was an earthquake, I dare say.”
“An a*se quake,” said the Knight, “it was a squàll!
A sudden gust of wind, that's all—”
And so she said the Captain said before:—
“The Captain's in the right,” Sir Joseph swore.—
They took their evening walk, she and her friend,
Kitty came down to make Sir James's tea:
The Knight told Kitty in the end,
What he had heard; but could not stir to see.
“If you can catch them in the fact,
And can but see what I heard now,
With proofs enough to get an act,
Who knows but I may marry you?
Kitty, you shall not lie alone,
I'll either marry you or none.”
Patience, whose name implies submission,
Soon executed her commission,
Kitty's was oscular demonstration,
The Captain sitting like a lout,
Her Lady in a situation,
As if the Captain had the gout.
Said he, “do shew me how she did it.”
She answer'd modestly, “I'll try;”
And then she dandled it, and slid it,
And Kitty did it by and by.
'Twas the first time she play'd upon the stage.
But afterwards few could play better,
In any part she could engage,
The ablest Manager could set her.
So far from bold, Kitty till then,
Was so discreet, you could not guess;
Especially amongst the men,
Which were more modest, Kitty's looks or dress.
But now she soon threw off the mask,
She gave herself prodigious airs,
You may be sure you need not ask,
As well above as below stairs.
There was a Lawyer that liv'd near,
For whom at last Sir Joseph sent,
And order'd Kitty to appear,
Having told the Lawyer his intent.
“Patience,” said he, “it is no shame,
Be not asham'd to speak the truth;
You must describe the romping game,
My Lady, romping with the youth.”
Kitty look'd down, put on a frown,
Look'd up, and then she look'd aside;
She pull'd a pin out of her gown,
Look'd at the pin, and then reply'd—
“I saw my Lady with her legs astride,
Wagging her tail upon the Captain's knee;
And after she had done her ride,
Sit like a bird perch'd on a tree:
Upon her perch she did not long remain,
He gave a spring, and she set out again.
I never could have thought of such a trick—
I saw it through my Lady's closet door;
The very sight made me so sick,
I could not stay to see it any more;
But ran directly from the place,
And went into the open air,
And after told his Honour the whole case;
Sitting exactly then as he sits there
Although the gout had left his feet,
Tell it again, he said, and bring a seat.
I knew Sir Joseph's meaning, I dare say;
Sir Joseph thought that I would vary,
In my relating her vagary,
He knows I always told it the same way.
For he has made me tell it o'er and o'er,
A dozen times at least, if not a score—”
“Did you see rem in re?” said he—
“I did,” said she; “first on dry land,
I saw rem in my Lady's hand;
And, after that, saw rem in re.
She put it there; I saw how it was teaz'd—
Now it was quite up to the chin,
And then again half out half in,
Just as my Lady pleas'd.
Her stays and petticoats upon the floor,
She in her shift and gown, with nothing more.
And all the time her shift and gown
Up to her shoulders like a shawl,
As she went up and down,
I saw it all.—”
The Lawyer said, “were you alone?
Was there none else?”—Said she, “not one.”
“One witness, Madam, will not do.
Why Miss,” said he, “were there not two?
And as Sir Joseph sent you out—
He told me so;
Why would you go
Alone to scout?—
I had a case the other night—
Exactly the same case, as it was stated,
Between a Damsel and a Knight,
But not by far so well related.
The evidence is not deficient,
For there are three; two are sufficient.
And therefore I advise, Miss Kitty,
To leave off spying; I know spies
They talk and see, although their eyes
Are not so fine, nor teeth so pretty;
And females that are as discerning,
But very short of Miss in learning.—”
Upon some hints thrown out by Patience,
Before my Lady, she from thence
Set maids to watch, made preparations,
And got enough for her defence.
Before the Lawyer's wife they came,
With all the facts, clearly describ'd and well;
They could not have told him for shame,
All that she undertook to tell;
Sir Joseph said, “Kitty, you see
A spy is but a sorry trade;
I found, I thought, one cunning jade,
I find my Lady has found three.
And therefore we must be content,
And lie together with my wife's consent:
She will not care with whom I'm sleeping,
Provided both are bound and ty'd,
That information got by peeping,
Shall not avail on either side.
So both remain, coupled per force,
Till Death has got her in his power,
Or she's entitled to her dower,
Neither can suffer a divorce.”
Of folks I know, that shall be nameless;
Their real names are nought to you,
I'll call my knight, Sir Joseph Shameless.
His lady's woman, Kitty Patience,
With wicked eyes, her teeth two rows of pearl,
And all the sequel of the girl
A complication of temptations.
The knight had now and then the gout;
To have it only now and then
Is of great use to many men,
It has its merits without doubt.
231
The gout I have often heard him call
The potent parent of desire,
Without whose aid his doings were but small—
I mean, he was not half so stout,
And sometimes could not make it out
—At all.
My Lady in her stays, and Kitty lacing;
My Lady's fingers busy round the border,
Giving her snowy breasts a proper bracing,
To keep them at a distance, and in order;
So proud and bold they stand when they are parted,
When they are near they droop, and look faint-hearted.
The Knight came in—Said he, “how finely
You plump them out, they look divinely—
Kitty's tetons have got no stay,
They seem to scorn any assistance;
If they should happen to give way,
They'll turn again, and make resistance:”
232
My Lady turn'd about and smil'd,
Without the least rebuke or check,
She only said, “you should not let him, child.”
Patience replied, with downcast eye,
“I thought there was no harm; as you were by—”
My Lady said, “No, not the least—
Kitty, I have seen you quite undrest;
If you will treat him with a feast,
These two are vouchers for the rest.”
Kitty was then mistress of arts;
The Knight, without a cry of murther,
Long since had visited those parts,
And gone till he could go no further.
His Lady knew that he lov'd change;
He knew her passions were as strong,
She could not be averse to range,
She was so apt to fancy things and long.
233
Both of them lov'd to change the scene;
They never ask'd where they were going,
Nor once enquir'd where each had been—
One day the Knight fell fast asleep,
The Knight was in his gouty chair;
A Captain and my Lady fair,
On the settee in meditation deep.
She rose and went behind the screen,
And he, to see what she could mean.
They staid not there, you must have thought,
Standing like fools and doing nought.
At the conclusion of their sport,
And whilst the room and screen were shaking,
Sir Joseph heard her breathing short,
Just at the moment he was waking.
He was acquainted with her notes,
And knew, that from her dying song,
Her time was come, 'twould not be long
Before she shook her petticoats:
Her petticoats to smooth the gathers,
Just like a hen, that shakes her feathers—
234
He would not interrupt their dancing.
“What noise was that?” Sir Joseph cried,
“'Twas a strange noise I heard just now.”
My Lady readily replied,
“I can't account for it I vow;
For God's sake let us run away,
It was an earthquake, I dare say.”
“An a*se quake,” said the Knight, “it was a squàll!
A sudden gust of wind, that's all—”
And so she said the Captain said before:—
“The Captain's in the right,” Sir Joseph swore.—
They took their evening walk, she and her friend,
Kitty came down to make Sir James's tea:
The Knight told Kitty in the end,
What he had heard; but could not stir to see.
“If you can catch them in the fact,
And can but see what I heard now,
235
Who knows but I may marry you?
Kitty, you shall not lie alone,
I'll either marry you or none.”
Patience, whose name implies submission,
Soon executed her commission,
Kitty's was oscular demonstration,
The Captain sitting like a lout,
Her Lady in a situation,
As if the Captain had the gout.
Said he, “do shew me how she did it.”
She answer'd modestly, “I'll try;”
And then she dandled it, and slid it,
And Kitty did it by and by.
'Twas the first time she play'd upon the stage.
But afterwards few could play better,
In any part she could engage,
The ablest Manager could set her.
So far from bold, Kitty till then,
Was so discreet, you could not guess;
Especially amongst the men,
Which were more modest, Kitty's looks or dress.
236
She gave herself prodigious airs,
You may be sure you need not ask,
As well above as below stairs.
There was a Lawyer that liv'd near,
For whom at last Sir Joseph sent,
And order'd Kitty to appear,
Having told the Lawyer his intent.
“Patience,” said he, “it is no shame,
Be not asham'd to speak the truth;
You must describe the romping game,
My Lady, romping with the youth.”
Kitty look'd down, put on a frown,
Look'd up, and then she look'd aside;
She pull'd a pin out of her gown,
Look'd at the pin, and then reply'd—
“I saw my Lady with her legs astride,
Wagging her tail upon the Captain's knee;
And after she had done her ride,
Sit like a bird perch'd on a tree:
Upon her perch she did not long remain,
He gave a spring, and she set out again.
237
I saw it through my Lady's closet door;
The very sight made me so sick,
I could not stay to see it any more;
But ran directly from the place,
And went into the open air,
And after told his Honour the whole case;
Sitting exactly then as he sits there
Although the gout had left his feet,
Tell it again, he said, and bring a seat.
I knew Sir Joseph's meaning, I dare say;
Sir Joseph thought that I would vary,
In my relating her vagary,
He knows I always told it the same way.
For he has made me tell it o'er and o'er,
A dozen times at least, if not a score—”
“Did you see rem in re?” said he—
“I did,” said she; “first on dry land,
I saw rem in my Lady's hand;
And, after that, saw rem in re.
She put it there; I saw how it was teaz'd—
Now it was quite up to the chin,
238
Just as my Lady pleas'd.
Her stays and petticoats upon the floor,
She in her shift and gown, with nothing more.
And all the time her shift and gown
Up to her shoulders like a shawl,
As she went up and down,
I saw it all.—”
The Lawyer said, “were you alone?
Was there none else?”—Said she, “not one.”
“One witness, Madam, will not do.
Why Miss,” said he, “were there not two?
And as Sir Joseph sent you out—
He told me so;
Why would you go
Alone to scout?—
I had a case the other night—
Exactly the same case, as it was stated,
Between a Damsel and a Knight,
But not by far so well related.
The evidence is not deficient,
For there are three; two are sufficient.
239
To leave off spying; I know spies
They talk and see, although their eyes
Are not so fine, nor teeth so pretty;
And females that are as discerning,
But very short of Miss in learning.—”
Upon some hints thrown out by Patience,
Before my Lady, she from thence
Set maids to watch, made preparations,
And got enough for her defence.
Before the Lawyer's wife they came,
With all the facts, clearly describ'd and well;
They could not have told him for shame,
All that she undertook to tell;
Sir Joseph said, “Kitty, you see
A spy is but a sorry trade;
I found, I thought, one cunning jade,
I find my Lady has found three.
And therefore we must be content,
And lie together with my wife's consent:
240
Provided both are bound and ty'd,
That information got by peeping,
Shall not avail on either side.
So both remain, coupled per force,
Till Death has got her in his power,
Or she's entitled to her dower,
Neither can suffer a divorce.”
241
MORAL.
There are not more than six or seven,I think, at farthest, in a year,
Of weddings that are made in Heaven,
All other weddings are made here;
At concerts, balls, at fairs, and races,
Scarb'rough, and all terraqueous places.
Suppose you have no friend above,
And it should chance to be your fate,
Instead of a celestial dove,
To get a wild-goose for your mate:
E'en let her take her flight and roam,
Never let that disturb your rest;
Provide a substitute at home,
Of a bad bargain make the best;
The best you can, I ought to say;
The best is—putting her away.
242
THE BARON'S TALE.
TALE IX.
“Ladies,” said Frank, with ladies walking,“Please to observe that avery there,
Suppose their singing goes for talking,
Their down, for any downy hair.
They are the types of our gay world,
You know fine feathers make fine birds;
Our belles, like theirs painted and curl'd
With crimson cheeks, and breasts like curds.
Our macaronies with their muffs,
Are not like singing birds, but piping ruffs.
The only difference I find,
Our beaux are vain, the ruffs are proud,
All our belles feign, theirs speak their mind,
But are as talkative and loud.
Pray, ladies, walk a little nearer,
You'll see the microcosm clearer;
243
With little interludes of billing,
Others proceeding without wooing,
Both are so amorous and willing;
Their hops, love-feasts, and agapees;
Our balls, methodist night-wakes, cotteries;
That bird in dishabille alone
Is a fine lady in the pout,
'Till her fine feathers are full grown
Her ladyship frequents no rout.—”
Said Lady Bridget, “your remarks are smart,
But where are there old maids, I pray?
With your sharp eyes and all your art,
Can you descry one bachelor grown grey?”
“Faith,” Frank replied, “'twould be the same thing here,
Could we contract, like them, from year to year.”
“Maids can contract on credit now,
She said, “but not with folks like you.
244
A wife is easy to bespeak,
Though you are not a precious stone,
She'll take you for a verd antique.”
“My sins might have been pardon'd long ago,
I could,” said Frank, “have married you, you know.
At thirty, one may venture on a wife,
At forty-eight, I dare not for my life.
Listen, and I will tell you why
At forty there is so much danger;
Ladies, a story hangs thereby,
None of you ever heard a stranger.
In Lombard-street there dwelt a Banker,
Not quite a hundred years ago;
At thirty-nine he dropp'd his anchor,
About the purlieus of Soho.
Service of plate, pinery, villa;
Yet God forgive him for his pride;
And with a Venus for his pillow,
This Banker was not satisfied.
245
But by deep study and reflection,
And by conversing with the great,
He found the want of a connexion:
That honour seldom is conferr'd
On people of our rank and station;
Unless it cannot be deferr'd,
It requires great consideration.
At last, a Peer offer'd his niece,
That had been offer'd to a pleader,
A fine, plump, buxom, roomy piece,
Calculated for a breeder.
Miss and her Lover scarce were seated—
At once she yielded to the Banker;
His errand was not twice repeated,
Before he rose to kiss and thank her.
This also is the ton at present,
And more compendious and pleasant.
Upon the wedding night, in sum,
Having arriv'd at kingdom come;
246
Forc'd barricades, gates, and portcullis,
With its attendant chains and pullies,
He broke into the dungeon tower:
But when he thought his victory complete,
A sudden sally forc'd him to retreat—
You never read of such a Knight,
In any chronicle before,
A little boy put him to flight,
And drove him from the dungeon door:
Screaming aloud, as the Knight fled,
Behold the bride was brought to bed!
Hearing the shout, the Bridemaids blush'd;
One man cried, “girls, the castle's won,
Such an affair must not be hush'd,
But the Bride's part seems overdone.
Why scream and shriek, 'twas not like taking Troy?
Up with the posset; let us wish them joy.”
They ran up stairs; then rapp'd and cried,
Refreshment for the Groom and Bride,
247
No answer came; the Bridegroom rose,
And leisurely put on his cloaths,
Sat by the fire, and bad them enter.
Our Bridemaids thought the place was ta'en,
That both the citadel and town
Were laid in ashes, or pull'd down,
They heard the shrieks and cries so plain:
“At present, they have chang'd their mind,”
Said one, “or else they must be blind.
For, far from a triumphant form,
His downcast eyes and drooping crest
Pronounce it a defective storm,
Or a drawn battle at the best.”
The Bridegroom cried, “the cause lies yonder,
A cause to ruminate and ponder;
'Twould make the richest Nabob stare,
Such an expence he could not bear;
Hardly the King, much less a Peer,
If every time he takes a bout,
A Master or a Miss pops out,
What must they 'mount to in a year?”
248
Somewhat abash'd, but not dismay'd.
He turn'd the clothes down, and subjoin'd,
“'Tis worth your while to see what's in't,
Ecce Homo! stamp'd and coin'd,
An hour ago, fresh from the mint;”
Then made his bow, and march'd off smiling,
Without reproaching or reviling.
In ten days after, she and her homuncle,
Return'd to their right honourable uncle.
He knew, before he took her to Soho,
The whole house knew it by the bye,
She had not many weeks to go,
But did not think her time so nigh.
A Privy Council was then sitting,
In Cloacina's temple met,
Of females arguing and sh---,
About a certain famous bet.
What share my Lord had in the cow and calf,
Whether the whole or only half?
The sentence, without an appeal,
Wrote on the wall, seal'd with the Privy Seal.
249
The calf should not be cut in two,
The Butler should enjoy it whole,
His Lordship might divide the cow,
And Lord have mercy on her soul.
Said Lady Bridget, “great or small,
There is some risk, I do confess,
At forty, nay, perhaps at less;
Marry before, or not at all:”
Which, for a Moral, may suffice,
For any Bachelor that's wise .—
A Lady upon her wedding night was brought to bed, in the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles—The Tale is taken from this hint—the hint, and very little more beside.
250
THE PHYSICIAN'S TALE.
TALE X.
Amongst the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles,Some Tales unmodernis'd remain,
Which I would not attempt to tell,
Had they been told by La Fontaine:
And this of mine amongst the rest,
Call'd antidote de la Peste.
Said Mrs. Slip Slop, “that may be,
But of all stories I admior
Hans Carvel told by Matthew Prior,
No one can tell a tale like he.
Carvel impossible and old,
His finger in his wife's gold ring;”
“How do you know that it was gold?”
The Doctor said, “'twas no such thing.
251
Is always drawn with auburn hair;
Like Mrs. Slip Slop's, lock for lock,
Bushy and curling very fine,
Just like the tendrils of a vine,
About a stake or stumpy stock.”
“Doctor, proceed in your own way,”
My Lady cried; “Slip Slop have done,
You talk and know not what you say,
When once your tongue begins to run.
In Dauphiny, by his relation,
A plague arose that rag'd as sore,
And caus'd as great a desolation,
As that of Athens heretofore.
When once the plague is upon duty,
To punish mortals for their sins,
She neither cares for youth nor beauty,
For high nor low, for outs nor ins—
Upon a sweet young lady's face,
She breath'd her pestilential breath,
The fair one wou'd not quit the place,
Neither for the plague nor death.
252
Whate'er betide,
For a young maiden to abide,
And take the accidents of war.
Struck on a sudden and dismay'd,
To a good widow she repair'd,
Who neither was herself afraid,
Nor for her lovely friend despair'd;
But gave her cordials, and, in brief,
Hope, the best cordial for grief.
“This is no season for disguise;
“Have you,” said she, “eat of the Tree of Life,
That makes us at fifteen as wise,
As a sage dowager or wife?”
The poor thing cry'd, “oh! if I had,
I should not think my fate so bad!
Many die young, and in full bloom,
But few like me go to their tomb;
Not one, if we could know the truth,
When Love in every artery beats,
253
Without once tasting of its sweets.
Even now, Death would not be so frightful,
If I could get, before I go,
A hearty meal of what you know,
And what I am told is so delightful—
And, if God please,
May be a cure for the disease.”
Her friend reply'd, “that is soon done;
For, God be thank'd, there are enow,
Enow, that have nought else to do.”
The fair maid cry'd, “for God's sake run:
I know at least of three or four,
That I have oft' refus'd before;
One very much against my will:
'Tis master John, bring him anon;
For, by St. Luke, my master John
Must either cure or kill.”
Behold him ready at her beck,
Behold her arms about his neck;
254
There was no petite oye, no toys,
Like half-fledg'd girls and foolish boys,
To antecede parfait amour.
Finish'd, repeated o'er and o'er,
'Till master John could do no more.
She staid and play'd, not without pain,
But found it all labour in vain:
“My dear,” said she, “you have done me good;
I thank you for your good intention,
But yet you cannot cool my blood,
With all your goodness and attention.
Go, my dear love, and go to bed,
And send the Marquis in your stead.”
He sent the Marquis, then laid down,
Sent for the Curate and confess'd;
And after that obtain'd the crown
Of martyrdom amongst the bless'd.—
The Marquis far'd the very same,
And died without quenching her flame.
255
A subject for the vacant chair,
A swain that never was perplex'd,
Either with thinking or with care;
Form'd and constructed on a plan,
To build a complete widow's man;
During the whole co-operation,
Far more severe than I can paint;
Till he was forc'd to quit his station,
She never utter'd a complaint.
He went home jaded, you'll believe;
But how, without St. Luke's protection,
He should escape without infection,
Is not so easy to conceive.
Her Father, hearing she was smitten,
Sent a sedan and chairmen able,
To bring her home as was befitting,
But first to land her in the stable,
Till they were ready to receive her,
And all things got that could relieve her.
256
Before she went to the pest room,
She took a handsome farewell bout,
Concluding with her Father's Groom.
The Damsel, when her bed was ready,
Leaning upon her Nurse retir'd,
Resign'd and steady;
And four hours after the poor groom expir'd.
Consign'd to her old Nurse's care,
She had not lain above two hours,
Before the sweat broke out in showers,
Next came on each side, you know where,
A bijou very fine to see,
This like her watch, and that like her etui;
Then fell into a sleep profound,
And wak'd next morning safe and sound.
Three months were past, the fact was clear,
She prov'd with child, nor would deny it—
To her good Mother, as you'll hear,
She own'd in part how she came by it.—
257
Three she destroy'd you know before,
Three out of four;
Therefore it fell to the surviving one,
On whom she was bestow'd in marriage;
And put an end to all dispute,
About the planter and the fruit,
Next day by a miscarriage.—”
258
THE DOCTOR'S ADVICE.
Nature has taken special care,If you consider and examine,
To guard the fair
Against plague, pestilence, and famine.
Therefore we ought to give God praise,
That they're not scarce, but in great plenty,
Or otherwise, for such a dainty,
We should be cutting throats always.
For our sakes, Ladies, and your own,
If there should happen to appear
The Influenza, like last year,
Follow this regimen alone.
As to the dose, I cannot guess,
Unless I knew your constitution;
It may be more, it may be less,
But, more or less, take it with resolution.—
This you must note,
A plague requires much more than a sore throat.
259
THE APOTHECARY'S TALE.
TALE XI.
Apothecaries are not fit,
None but Apothecary King,
To deal in gallantry or wit—
They may tell tales, or ditties sing.
Always providing and supposing,
They are not of their own composing;
As I am call'd on in succession,
I shall stick close to my profession.
A Quack, in a small country town,
According to report,
Got great renown,
For his great cures of every sort.
He never used to bleed or blister,
Or to give bolus, pill, or potion;
His panacea was a lotion,
Or a detergent, call'd a clyster;
And this was constantly apply'd,
Upon the spot where he resided,
To every backside
That would abide it.
A cobler came from a great distance,
With a full confidence possess'd,
Imploring his assistance,
Taking him for a conjuror profess'd.
For he had heard in various places
Of his success in conjuring cases.
Beside his stall and cobling gift,
He kept a stye,
And therein kept a boar, whereby
He made a tolerable shift.
An ancient pig, of that fair sex,
Came on a visit to the boar;
The boar was gone, which needs must vex,
And make the matron gruntle sore.
The Cobler's trust was in the cunning man,
He search'd woods, valleys, hills and plains,
But all in vain, for all his pains;
So to the conjuror he ran.
“The Ladies ought to know, before
Your Tale goes on,” said the Physician,
“The definition of a boar—
'Tis Mrs. Slip Slop's definition—
An animal with a curl'd tail,
With testibles like melons more than figs,
The most continuaceous male,
Ingeniously contriv'd for making pigs:
Pigs, made between sleeping and waking,
They take so long a time in making.
From whence, by Mrs. Slip Slop's leave,
To make the matter still more plain,
A metaphor is taken,
That from her drawing you'll conceive.
Thus, all the maccaroni corps,
Call a long story, or narration,
Which is a slow dull operation, A boar.
You understand it now, thanks to your vestal;
And, my dear Ladies, I implore you,
Hark to the Knight of the great Pestle,
I promise you, he will not boar you.”
The Cobler squeezing through the crowd,
The Doctor heard him ask his aid,
But could make nought of what he said,
The Doctor's patients talk'd so loud.
“Take him away,” the Doctor cried,
“Convey him quickly to the artist,
Let him immediately be plied
With an injection of the smartest.”
On which they took him as directed,
And all at once; not by degrees,
Crispin was copiously injected,
Then set at large, paying his fees.
As he march'd home, he made a stop,
The remedy began to work;
Which forc'd the Cobler to uncork,
A dunghill drank it every drop:
Like bachelors and black-legg'd gamblers,
Boars run about and are great ramblers.
Our Cobler's boar was lodging there,
And, grunting at the noise, put out his snout,
On which the Cobler turn'd about,
Held up his hands, and utter'd a short pray'r.
“The Lord be prais'd!” said he, “and for the same,
“Laudamus to the Conjuror's name.”
Not only he, his wife, his sister,
The Parish and the Vicar too,
Believe it was the Doctor's clyster,
That found his pig out—“what think you?”
None but Apothecary King,
To deal in gallantry or wit—
They may tell tales, or ditties sing.
Always providing and supposing,
They are not of their own composing;
As I am call'd on in succession,
I shall stick close to my profession.
A Quack, in a small country town,
According to report,
Got great renown,
For his great cures of every sort.
He never used to bleed or blister,
Or to give bolus, pill, or potion;
His panacea was a lotion,
Or a detergent, call'd a clyster;
260
Upon the spot where he resided,
To every backside
That would abide it.
A cobler came from a great distance,
With a full confidence possess'd,
Imploring his assistance,
Taking him for a conjuror profess'd.
For he had heard in various places
Of his success in conjuring cases.
Beside his stall and cobling gift,
He kept a stye,
And therein kept a boar, whereby
He made a tolerable shift.
An ancient pig, of that fair sex,
Came on a visit to the boar;
The boar was gone, which needs must vex,
And make the matron gruntle sore.
The Cobler's trust was in the cunning man,
He search'd woods, valleys, hills and plains,
But all in vain, for all his pains;
So to the conjuror he ran.
261
Your Tale goes on,” said the Physician,
“The definition of a boar—
'Tis Mrs. Slip Slop's definition—
An animal with a curl'd tail,
With testibles like melons more than figs,
The most continuaceous male,
Ingeniously contriv'd for making pigs:
Pigs, made between sleeping and waking,
They take so long a time in making.
From whence, by Mrs. Slip Slop's leave,
To make the matter still more plain,
A metaphor is taken,
That from her drawing you'll conceive.
Thus, all the maccaroni corps,
Call a long story, or narration,
Which is a slow dull operation, A boar.
You understand it now, thanks to your vestal;
And, my dear Ladies, I implore you,
Hark to the Knight of the great Pestle,
I promise you, he will not boar you.”
262
The Doctor heard him ask his aid,
But could make nought of what he said,
The Doctor's patients talk'd so loud.
“Take him away,” the Doctor cried,
“Convey him quickly to the artist,
Let him immediately be plied
With an injection of the smartest.”
On which they took him as directed,
And all at once; not by degrees,
Crispin was copiously injected,
Then set at large, paying his fees.
As he march'd home, he made a stop,
The remedy began to work;
Which forc'd the Cobler to uncork,
A dunghill drank it every drop:
Like bachelors and black-legg'd gamblers,
Boars run about and are great ramblers.
Our Cobler's boar was lodging there,
And, grunting at the noise, put out his snout,
On which the Cobler turn'd about,
Held up his hands, and utter'd a short pray'r.
263
“Laudamus to the Conjuror's name.”
Not only he, his wife, his sister,
The Parish and the Vicar too,
Believe it was the Doctor's clyster,
That found his pig out—“what think you?”
264
MORAL.
In times of troubles and of war,A Conjuror's no bad vocation,
Better by far
Than in a quiet situation.
The country vulgar always run
To the Attorney, Parson, Squire,
Or London Rider, to enquire,
Whether or no they are undone:
And we that think ourselves their betters,
Apply to some great man of letters:
To Doctor Johnson, not the amphibious;
To Dr. Priestley, Franklin's rival;
Or to the reverend and ambiguous
Mr. W---ll;
Who send us to some cunning man,
To Fox or Burke,
Or my Lord Smirk,
The cunningest of all the clan
265
One deals in amulets and charms,
Another sells a famous nostrum,
That animates, corrects, and warms;
The third, a subtile distillation
To numb the sense of amputation.
If any of them should by chance
Guess right, and make a lucky hit,
Mercy upon us! how they prance!
How we sing praises and are bit .
Over the Doctor's door was written, in capitals: REMEDIUM UNIVERSALE; with a motto from Horace:
------Id quodÆque pauperibus prodest Locupletibus æque
Æque neglectum pueris, Senibus que nocebit.
This Tale in part is taken from the Cent Nouvelles Nouvelles; it is not every one that can read them; if the Reader can, he is desired to compare with those the Tales that are in some measure borrowed from thence, and which are always mentioned; and he will observe, that the Author is neither a translator, nor an imitator; but has an indisputable right, with Fontaine, to originality. The Lady is too modest to have made the request herself; it is made at the request of the Publisher.
267
THE CONFESSION OF SIR FRANCIS OF MEDENHAM, AND OF THE LADY MARY HIS WIFE.
[_]
The sins of Lubricity, however shocking or unnatural, are handled in this absurd and impious manner by Escobar, and all the most celebrated Casuists amongst the Jesuits.
269
THE CONFESSION OF THE KNIGHT.
The good Frier was in the Confessional Chair,
“By my Faith,” said Sir Francis, “I'm glad you are there;
My sins are so heavy, and gall me so sore,
Till you lighten their weight I can carry no more.
“By my Faith,” said Sir Francis, “I'm glad you are there;
My sins are so heavy, and gall me so sore,
Till you lighten their weight I can carry no more.
Derry down, down, &c.
Proceed, said the Frier, no trifles I pray,
I expect all the wives of the Parish to-day,
My sins, said Sir Frank, are not many, nor old;
But no trifles I bring, they're as sterling as gold.
I expect all the wives of the Parish to-day,
My sins, said Sir Frank, are not many, nor old;
But no trifles I bring, they're as sterling as gold.
Derry down, &c.
270
As your time is so precious, to save repetitions,
Without any comment or any omissions,
I will open my budget, and lay down my deeds,
Rank and file in a string, like St. Francis's beads.
Without any comment or any omissions,
I will open my budget, and lay down my deeds,
Rank and file in a string, like St. Francis's beads.
Derry down, &c.
Like a Hotspur young cock he began with his mother,
Cheer'd three of his sisters one after another;
And oft tried little Jen, but gain'd so little ground,
Little Jen lost her patience, and made him compound.
Cheer'd three of his sisters one after another;
And oft tried little Jen, but gain'd so little ground,
Little Jen lost her patience, and made him compound.
Derry down, &c.
Jen play'd on the flute, with her fingers so white,
And twinkled her eyes, and kept time very right,
Then he serv'd up his cousin, a delicate blade,
And old Bridget his aunt, for the sake of her maid.
And twinkled her eyes, and kept time very right,
Then he serv'd up his cousin, a delicate blade,
And old Bridget his aunt, for the sake of her maid.
Derry down, &c.
And, lastly, he ravish'd his Lady so meek,
When she had not lain-in much more than a week,
Although she declar'd she would give her consent,
But had vow'd the last week to lie fallow in Lent.
When she had not lain-in much more than a week,
271
But had vow'd the last week to lie fallow in Lent.
Derry down, &c.
“These are eight deadly sins,” said Sir Francis, and cried;
“Yet the gates,” said the Frier, “of mercy are wide;
I can reckon but five, for I pass little Jen,
And old Bridget's a penance instead of a sin.
“Yet the gates,” said the Frier, “of mercy are wide;
I can reckon but five, for I pass little Jen,
And old Bridget's a penance instead of a sin.
Derry down, &c.
As to wives—there's no part of a wife is her own,
For the church gives a part, and the parts are well known;
To withhold what she gives you is sinful and strange,
And courtesy gives you the rest for a change.
For the church gives a part, and the parts are well known;
To withhold what she gives you is sinful and strange,
And courtesy gives you the rest for a change.
Derry down, &c.
The wife is to blame that replies or demurs;
If the act is a sin, 'tis her husband's, not her's:
Let her yield to his fancies, his right is so strong;
And his bargain so hard, he can hardly go wrong.
If the act is a sin, 'tis her husband's, not her's:
Let her yield to his fancies, his right is so strong;
And his bargain so hard, he can hardly go wrong.
Derry down, &c.
272
Though to cuckold the church is a sin that's unclean,
Yet, when the blood's heated, as your's must have been,
We have power to suspend the effect of her curse,
If you had not done that, you must needs have done worse.
Yet, when the blood's heated, as your's must have been,
We have power to suspend the effect of her curse,
If you had not done that, you must needs have done worse.
Derry down, &c.
Thank God, you have none—had you brothers a dozen,
They would all have been serv'd the same sauce with your cousin:
But tell me sincerely, my penitent son,
How long were you doing before you had done.
They would all have been serv'd the same sauce with your cousin:
But tell me sincerely, my penitent son,
How long were you doing before you had done.
Derry down, &c.
I perceive, by the last, that your fever was strong;
So I guess, quoth the Frier, 'twas not very long;
For, if there had been any great intermission,
You must have thrown in a small dose of contrition.”
So I guess, quoth the Frier, 'twas not very long;
For, if there had been any great intermission,
You must have thrown in a small dose of contrition.”
Derry down, &c.
273
“'Twas all done in six hours,” said the Knight to the Frier.
“You'll be damned,” cried the Monk, “for a damnable liar;
Neither you can dispatch, nor the devil, in fine,
As much work in six hours as will take a monk nine.
“You'll be damned,” cried the Monk, “for a damnable liar;
Neither you can dispatch, nor the devil, in fine,
As much work in six hours as will take a monk nine.
Derry down, &c.
After all,” said the Frier, “in all kinds of sport
A keen sportsman is apt to believe the time's short:
So your sins I absolve; but to wipe them out quite,
I enjoin you to lie with old Bridget all night.”
A keen sportsman is apt to believe the time's short:
So your sins I absolve; but to wipe them out quite,
I enjoin you to lie with old Bridget all night.”
Derry down, down, down, derry down.
274
THE LADY'S CONFESSION.
With a veil o'er her eyes and her bosom all bare,
Lady Mary kneel'd down, whilst the tears of despair
Down her cheeks and round breasts like hillocks of snow,
Descended in rills to the valley below.
Lady Mary kneel'd down, whilst the tears of despair
Down her cheeks and round breasts like hillocks of snow,
Descended in rills to the valley below.
Derry down, down, &c.
“Such tears of remorse, my fair penitent child,
Flow seldom in vain,” said the Frier and smiled:
“I'll ensure you quite through, you have nothing to dread,
From the sole of your foot to the hair of your head.
Flow seldom in vain,” said the Frier and smiled:
“I'll ensure you quite through, you have nothing to dread,
From the sole of your foot to the hair of your head.
Derry down, &c.
Though he neither minds bell, book, and candle, nor grate,
And is constantly tempting you early and late,
The tempter of Adam will at last, I believe,
Be too cunning and strong for the tempter of Eve.
And is constantly tempting you early and late,
The tempter of Adam will at last, I believe,
Be too cunning and strong for the tempter of Eve.
Derry down, &c.
275
All the devil can do with his pricking and spurring
Is to set you a longing and set you a stirring,
Like boys o'er an orchard half dropping, half sticking,
From longing you soon fall to handling and picking.
Is to set you a longing and set you a stirring,
Like boys o'er an orchard half dropping, half sticking,
From longing you soon fall to handling and picking.
Derry down, &c.
And when you have handled and pick'd what you will,
From the ladies at court to the lass of the mill,
You come here and repent with great sorrow and shame,
And the devil must go back like a fool as he came.
From the ladies at court to the lass of the mill,
You come here and repent with great sorrow and shame,
And the devil must go back like a fool as he came.
Derry down, &c.
The devil can easily trip up your heels;
But what then? You are all such a parcel of eels,
When your sins lie upon you, you'll every one
Riggle out like an eel that lies under a stone.
But what then? You are all such a parcel of eels,
When your sins lie upon you, you'll every one
Riggle out like an eel that lies under a stone.
Derry down, &c.
Then take courage, dear daughter, unburthen your mind,
And be sure, above all, you leave nothing behind;
'Tis no shame to discover what is death to conceal,
For your doctor must visit the parts he must heal.”
And be sure, above all, you leave nothing behind;
276
For your doctor must visit the parts he must heal.”
Derry down, &c.
“In you, my good father and heavenly guide,
I put my whole trust,” the fair lady replied,
“And will therefore premise, with most scrupulous truth,
A few of the sins I concealed in my youth.
I put my whole trust,” the fair lady replied,
“And will therefore premise, with most scrupulous truth,
A few of the sins I concealed in my youth.
Derry down, &c.
I was taught at sixteen, by a masculine nun,
Till I learnt, from a pistol, to handle a gun;
And then I encounter'd a frier from Furne's
That used to serve her and the abbess by turns.
Till I learnt, from a pistol, to handle a gun;
And then I encounter'd a frier from Furne's
That used to serve her and the abbess by turns.
Derry down, &c.
No Flanderkin monk, since good monks were begot,
Could furnish more game for an abbess's pot;
But how the nun came by such luck should be known,
You must know that the abbess was deaf as a stone.
Could furnish more game for an abbess's pot;
But how the nun came by such luck should be known,
You must know that the abbess was deaf as a stone.
Derry down, &c.
277
Though as deaf as a stone, yet so sound and so nice,
Was her judgement, when steer'd by the frier's advice,
She consign'd to my nun, as the flower of the flock,
The keys of St. Peter, to open and lock.
Was her judgement, when steer'd by the frier's advice,
She consign'd to my nun, as the flower of the flock,
The keys of St. Peter, to open and lock.
Derry down, &c.
Thus my nun watch'd the signals, and had for her pains,
Both the abbess's leavings, and other small gains;
For the abbess to balance and make accounts fair,
Put all the young novices under her care.
Both the abbess's leavings, and other small gains;
For the abbess to balance and make accounts fair,
Put all the young novices under her care.
Derry down, &c.
Now, whether in Sappho 'twas passion or whim,
She amused herself better with me than with him;
So we struck up a bargain that pleased us all three,
And I stuck to the frier, and she stuck to me.
She amused herself better with me than with him;
So we struck up a bargain that pleased us all three,
And I stuck to the frier, and she stuck to me.
Derry down, &c,
Like a filly, quite aukward at first in a manage,
I neither had action or grace in my carriage;
But from the first lesson to every new chapter
He found me improve, and I found myself apter.
I neither had action or grace in my carriage;
278
He found me improve, and I found myself apter.
Derry down, &c.
And thus we went on in a round of delight,
When, to vary the scene, I fell in with a knight,
Who had found a way into my cell like a fairy,
And went out, like a surfeited rat from a dairy.
When, to vary the scene, I fell in with a knight,
Who had found a way into my cell like a fairy,
And went out, like a surfeited rat from a dairy.
Derry down, &c.
Between frier and knight, my Lesbian's brother,
I was like to become an unfortunate mother;
But by her assistance and skill I miscarried,
And at last, through her means, to Sir Francis was married.
I was like to become an unfortunate mother;
But by her assistance and skill I miscarried,
And at last, through her means, to Sir Francis was married.
Derry down, &c.
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
[OMITTED]
Twas his confessor's trick, 'twas the frier of Flanders,
To whom all the friers on earth are but ganders;
Who, to save the knight's soul, set his sister a dreaming,
When 'twas mortgaged so deep it was scarce worth redeeming.
To whom all the friers on earth are but ganders;
279
When 'twas mortgaged so deep it was scarce worth redeeming.
Derry down, &c.
Since the time that the frier has quitted this quarter
I have sometimes had luck and sometimes caught a Tartar;
But I never yet played with a squire or a knight
That could play with such temper and lose the whole night.”
I have sometimes had luck and sometimes caught a Tartar;
But I never yet played with a squire or a knight
That could play with such temper and lose the whole night.”
Derry down, &c.
I know, said the frier, they all are slack mettled,
And you'll always be changing and always unsettled,
Instead of one sin you'll have four sins to score,
And your profits and income be less than before.
And you'll always be changing and always unsettled,
Instead of one sin you'll have four sins to score,
And your profits and income be less than before.
Derry down, &c.
The sins of your youth are forgiven and sunk,
From the first of the nun to the last of the monk;
But there's nothing can take out a burn like the fire,
Nor the heat a monk leaves but the heat of a frier.
From the first of the nun to the last of the monk;
280
Nor the heat a monk leaves but the heat of a frier.
Derry down, &c.
I soon could convince you my counsel is right;
Said my lady, “Good father, convince me to-night,
Do but come to the door of our garden at ten.”
“Adieu,” said the frier, “fair daughter, till then.”
Said my lady, “Good father, convince me to-night,
Do but come to the door of our garden at ten.”
“Adieu,” said the frier, “fair daughter, till then.”
Derry down, down, down, derry down.
281
ANOTHER TALE, FOR THE ENTERTAINMENT OF MY MILITARY FRIENDS.
MDCCLXXXII.
283
283
THE AID-DE-CAMP EFFECTIVE: OR, THE CONSCIENCIOUS PARSON.
'Tis seldom seen, 'tis seldom read,
And 'tis, my friends, as seldom said,
When Man to Mate you tie, or tether,
That old and young agree together.—
Whence comes it?—Each, of different age,
A different passion will assuage:
While Madam follows Pleasure's plan,
Perhaps Ambition guides the Man;
Or Avarice goads him on to Riches,
While vixen Wife would wear the Breeches.
But, in the day, the discord's slight,
To what they must expect at night;
For sad! indeed, the Husband's lot,
Should Spouse's blood but prove too hot.
Yet that can be avoided too,
If what our story tells be true.—
And 'tis, my friends, as seldom said,
When Man to Mate you tie, or tether,
That old and young agree together.—
Whence comes it?—Each, of different age,
A different passion will assuage:
While Madam follows Pleasure's plan,
Perhaps Ambition guides the Man;
Or Avarice goads him on to Riches,
While vixen Wife would wear the Breeches.
But, in the day, the discord's slight,
To what they must expect at night;
For sad! indeed, the Husband's lot,
Should Spouse's blood but prove too hot.
Yet that can be avoided too,
If what our story tells be true.—
284
A General, ancient in the wars,
Whose front was mark'd with twenty scars,
To make his hours the lighter pass,
In Friendship married a young lass.
Skill'd too he was in arts of peace,
Nor thought to live in perfect ease:
He'd pass his days in dismal plight,
Were dearest Rib not pleas'd at night.
So, soon as settled in their house,
He kindly thus address'd his spouse:—
Whose front was mark'd with twenty scars,
To make his hours the lighter pass,
In Friendship married a young lass.
Skill'd too he was in arts of peace,
Nor thought to live in perfect ease:
He'd pass his days in dismal plight,
Were dearest Rib not pleas'd at night.
So, soon as settled in their house,
He kindly thus address'd his spouse:—
“Think not, my Love, I was so vain,
(Forgive me, if I speak too plain),
As to suppose, when I did wed,
I was a match for you—in bed—
Ah! no;—I took thee for my wife,
To soothe me in declining life;
Thy converse sweet is all I want;
For other joys thy heart must pant;
My blood now flows in gentle pace,
But thine must run its youthful race;
Choose then, in all my handsome corps,
A young gallant, to please thee more.—
Blush not, my Love, and do not fear
To own thy flame;—I am sincere.”
(Forgive me, if I speak too plain),
As to suppose, when I did wed,
I was a match for you—in bed—
Ah! no;—I took thee for my wife,
To soothe me in declining life;
Thy converse sweet is all I want;
For other joys thy heart must pant;
My blood now flows in gentle pace,
But thine must run its youthful race;
285
A young gallant, to please thee more.—
Blush not, my Love, and do not fear
To own thy flame;—I am sincere.”
With modest look and downcast eyes,
His spouse express'd unfeign'd surprise;
Then feign'd resentment at his speech,
As if he meant to make a breach,
And cast her off for doxy dearer;
But, when he spoke his meaning clearer,
And swore it was to please them both,
She gave consent (but seeming loth)
An Aid-de-Camp, at country house,
Shou'd e'er attend upon her spouse;
And secret, there, perform his duty—
(Per General's Orders) to her beauty.
His spouse express'd unfeign'd surprise;
Then feign'd resentment at his speech,
As if he meant to make a breach,
And cast her off for doxy dearer;
But, when he spoke his meaning clearer,
And swore it was to please them both,
She gave consent (but seeming loth)
An Aid-de-Camp, at country house,
Shou'd e'er attend upon her spouse;
And secret, there, perform his duty—
(Per General's Orders) to her beauty.
It so fell out—the garden wall
Was much too low to cover all.
The Parson, from his window, saw
In neighbour's wife a filthy flaw.
What Parson wou'd not take amiss,
To see the pair so loving kiss?
So often dance, so often frisk,
As thinking nought of sin or risk?—
At last his very bowels boil'd,
To see the dame so oft defil'd;
His neighbour wrong'd, too, by a friend,
On whose firm faith he should depend;—
Eke Envy stirr'd him;—so sly John
A grave and saintly face put on;—
Then, taking gown and cleanest band,
He went to neighbour, hat in hand;
And, begging much to be excused,
For the great liberty he used,
He told him how he was abused
By Friend and Spouse, in whom he trusted,
Who nought but for each other lusted.—
Was much too low to cover all.
The Parson, from his window, saw
In neighbour's wife a filthy flaw.
286
To see the pair so loving kiss?
So often dance, so often frisk,
As thinking nought of sin or risk?—
At last his very bowels boil'd,
To see the dame so oft defil'd;
His neighbour wrong'd, too, by a friend,
On whose firm faith he should depend;—
Eke Envy stirr'd him;—so sly John
A grave and saintly face put on;—
Then, taking gown and cleanest band,
He went to neighbour, hat in hand;
And, begging much to be excused,
For the great liberty he used,
He told him how he was abused
By Friend and Spouse, in whom he trusted,
Who nought but for each other lusted.—
The General smil'd, and thus reply'd:
“Is that all, John, you have espy'd?
Why, Man, this Aid-de-Camp I give
Free bed and board, with us to live;
And fifty pounds a-year, beside,
To do—the very thing you spy'd.”—
“Is that all, John, you have espy'd?
Why, Man, this Aid-de-Camp I give
Free bed and board, with us to live;
287
To do—the very thing you spy'd.”—
“If so, quoth John, I was to blame,
For hinting at your Honour's shame.
Good friends and neighbours we should be:
Wou'd you but still apply to me,
(Your spouse, I doubt, is not too nice)
I'd serve her, Sir, for half the price.”
For hinting at your Honour's shame.
Good friends and neighbours we should be:
Wou'd you but still apply to me,
(Your spouse, I doubt, is not too nice)
I'd serve her, Sir, for half the price.”
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