Satires And Biography By Anthony Pasquin [i.e. John Williams] |
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ANOTHER MORAL EPISTLE FROM THE PAVILION AT BRIGHTON TO CARLTON HOUSE. |
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 | Satires And Biography |  |
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ANOTHER MORAL EPISTLE FROM THE PAVILION AT BRIGHTON TO CARLTON HOUSE.
MY DEAR CARLEY,
'Tis a saying, as ancient as Greece, that none know
In what manner the pantoufle pinches the toe,
But the object who wears it: yet you, in a strain
Of indecorous heat, bid me cease to complain:
All this may be vastly in point, not to fret;
But believe me I'm not so philosophis'd yet.
As to grinning when jobbernowls urin'd upon me,
'Tis false, by my honor:—who d'ye think has undone me?
There's Marlborough House knows, the last time they did it,
I preach'd them a sermon to check and forbid it;
And now e'en the sauciest decently hie
In corners remote from the general eye.
Had I Bangor's huge fist, I'd have pummell'd the scroyles;
But it's best as it is, as I execrate broils.
I've the tedium vitæ, ennui, and look blue;
I've ta'en bark, and liqueurs, and a dram—but 'twon't do.
I could moralize now till the sun left the west,
Till the night cools my lawn, or pale Hecate's undrest.
In a round of enjoyments, my exquisite friend,
Believe me there's neither beginning nor end:
'Tis pursuing a shadow that makes the soul sad,
And, like dogs in a circle, we run ourselves mad:
They enfeeble the mind like a lunatic's dreams,
As our joys, like our beauties, are prov'd by extremes;
Yet the bliss is short-liv'd with the drab or the sot,
As no pleasure remains where the virtues are not.
In what manner the pantoufle pinches the toe,
But the object who wears it: yet you, in a strain
Of indecorous heat, bid me cease to complain:
All this may be vastly in point, not to fret;
But believe me I'm not so philosophis'd yet.
As to grinning when jobbernowls urin'd upon me,
'Tis false, by my honor:—who d'ye think has undone me?
There's Marlborough House knows, the last time they did it,
I preach'd them a sermon to check and forbid it;
And now e'en the sauciest decently hie
In corners remote from the general eye.
19
But it's best as it is, as I execrate broils.
I've the tedium vitæ, ennui, and look blue;
I've ta'en bark, and liqueurs, and a dram—but 'twon't do.
I could moralize now till the sun left the west,
Till the night cools my lawn, or pale Hecate's undrest.
In a round of enjoyments, my exquisite friend,
Believe me there's neither beginning nor end:
'Tis pursuing a shadow that makes the soul sad,
And, like dogs in a circle, we run ourselves mad:
They enfeeble the mind like a lunatic's dreams,
As our joys, like our beauties, are prov'd by extremes;
Yet the bliss is short-liv'd with the drab or the sot,
As no pleasure remains where the virtues are not.
Whate'er your opinion of rustics may be,
We have Rules for Good Breeding, and those you shall see.
I have sent you a copy along with the Ode,
Which I've charg'd Boulton's lads not to lose on the road.
This place is so chang'd, from its manners and mirth,
That I scarce can believe 'tis the spot gave me birth:
Half the houses are lanterns, much brick and much glass;
Half the ladies are tinder; the men lead or brass.
'Tis the rage but to walk on the Steyne in the eve,
When the dews fall as rapid as sand through a sieve;
Till their clothes hang dependent, absorbing a damp,
More fatal than steams from an African swamp:
When the blast's south or east the spray rides in the gale,
Till you're crusted with salt like Dutch herrings for sale;
And when north or east, the impertinent wind
Incessantly cuts, like a razor behind:
If the nerves are too fine, the pedestrian decays;
If not, he's lumbago'd the rest of his days.
The cold humid sod will provoke a disease,
And Catarrhs ride in ambush in every breeze.
Can a station be fitter to make Death elate,
Or suppress an incumbent who clogs an estate;
Take a shrew from a cuckold whom Hymen has given,
Or remove a fond spouse from his deary to heaven?
Sure all nature is twisting, our morals decay,
And every Season is dancing the hay.
Would you dream, gentle Coz, of so base a vagary?—
Both N---lk and W---m have puk'd on my dairy.
The twelve statutes of Charles each domestic derides,
And M---rr---ce's bawdry's been nail'd to my sides:
There it sticks, like a blister, to glad gaping crews,
And I sweat and I writhe while the sensual peruse.—
Some grimalkin, at midnight, pursuing his rib,
Has polluted my cap, and bedribbled my bib:
The owl's deadly screech has awak'd me with fears,
And the vagabond swallows have dung'd in my ears:
Care has furrow'd my visage with terrible ruts;
Some rats have run up me, and injur'd my guts:
How I roar'd for a trap when my proboscis smelt 'em!
How I shiver'd, and rav'd, and blasphem'd when I felt 'em!
When first I complain'd to the medical train,
Some averr'd 'twas a scirrhus, and others a strain:
Others snatching their fees, said, “You're ill, and must die!”
One pronounc'd I was gravell'd—and that was no lie!
Some thought, with deep woe, th'hypogastrium was spread!
They examin'd my vulva, and each shook his head!
Some swore 'twas a scrophula lurking unseen,
Others scurvy, or lues, or something between:
“Take the Syrup de Velnos,” all urg'd, “and be clean:”
And before on what ail'd me these dolts could decide,
The vermin had eaten one third of my side!—
I was courted, last Lammas, by Marlborough House,
Though he's not got a shirt, and is not worth a souse;
He presum'd on his rank, and his being my neighbour,
His blood of the Spencers, and powers of labor:
But my virgin affections he never could steal,
For his carcase is red, and his yard's ungenteel:
No spinster would let such a monster assail her;
By the lord, I'd as soon be in bed with a taylor!
We have Rules for Good Breeding, and those you shall see.
20
Which I've charg'd Boulton's lads not to lose on the road.
21
That I scarce can believe 'tis the spot gave me birth:
22
Half the ladies are tinder; the men lead or brass.
23
When the dews fall as rapid as sand through a sieve;
24
More fatal than steams from an African swamp:
25
Till you're crusted with salt like Dutch herrings for sale;
26
Incessantly cuts, like a razor behind:
If the nerves are too fine, the pedestrian decays;
If not, he's lumbago'd the rest of his days.
The cold humid sod will provoke a disease,
And Catarrhs ride in ambush in every breeze.
Can a station be fitter to make Death elate,
Or suppress an incumbent who clogs an estate;
27
Or remove a fond spouse from his deary to heaven?
Sure all nature is twisting, our morals decay,
And every Season is dancing the hay.
Would you dream, gentle Coz, of so base a vagary?—
Both N---lk and W---m have puk'd on my dairy.
The twelve statutes of Charles each domestic derides,
And M---rr---ce's bawdry's been nail'd to my sides:
There it sticks, like a blister, to glad gaping crews,
And I sweat and I writhe while the sensual peruse.—
Some grimalkin, at midnight, pursuing his rib,
Has polluted my cap, and bedribbled my bib:
The owl's deadly screech has awak'd me with fears,
And the vagabond swallows have dung'd in my ears:
Care has furrow'd my visage with terrible ruts;
Some rats have run up me, and injur'd my guts:
How I roar'd for a trap when my proboscis smelt 'em!
How I shiver'd, and rav'd, and blasphem'd when I felt 'em!
When first I complain'd to the medical train,
Some averr'd 'twas a scirrhus, and others a strain:
Others snatching their fees, said, “You're ill, and must die!”
One pronounc'd I was gravell'd—and that was no lie!
Some thought, with deep woe, th'hypogastrium was spread!
They examin'd my vulva, and each shook his head!
Some swore 'twas a scrophula lurking unseen,
Others scurvy, or lues, or something between:
“Take the Syrup de Velnos,” all urg'd, “and be clean:”
28
The vermin had eaten one third of my side!—
I was courted, last Lammas, by Marlborough House,
Though he's not got a shirt, and is not worth a souse;
He presum'd on his rank, and his being my neighbour,
His blood of the Spencers, and powers of labor:
But my virgin affections he never could steal,
For his carcase is red, and his yard's ungenteel:
No spinster would let such a monster assail her;
By the lord, I'd as soon be in bed with a taylor!
How hard 'tis to tell what young damsels should do,
When a rakehelly bachelor banters to woo:
Should they hapless consent, then the lady's too fond;
Should they not, then they're proud to see lovers despond.
We have passions, yet dare not conjecture they live;
We are lib'ral, yet custom denies us to give;
And while all other animals sate their desires,
Poor Woman's heart melts by her own pent-up sires!
And I've heard some avow, whom his H---ss thought clever,
That good men marry early—sagacious ones never!
When a rakehelly bachelor banters to woo:
Should they hapless consent, then the lady's too fond;
Should they not, then they're proud to see lovers despond.
We have passions, yet dare not conjecture they live;
We are lib'ral, yet custom denies us to give;
And while all other animals sate their desires,
Poor Woman's heart melts by her own pent-up sires!
And I've heard some avow, whom his H---ss thought clever,
That good men marry early—sagacious ones never!
My fair body is cover'd, ah me, what a shame!
With barb'rous designs, like Caractacus' frame:
The foul loves of the Gods, and their bestial enjoyments;
Young, pert, breechless Cupids at naughty employments;
Venus looking behind in a filthy condition;
An old rogue with a snake, whom they call a physician;
A swan and a hussey enfolding and billing;
A girl ravish'd in air, but appearing half-willing;
Nymphs, naked as Folly in Westminster-hall;
And some near undone, yet not seeming to bawl:
At gross feats, such as these, even Grizzle would flout;
Nay, the stones in my joints ope their jaws, and cry out.
Here a patriarch might gaze, and forget how to pray;
Here a vestal might look all her virtue away:
Here Saint Bruno himself would of Bathsheba dream;
And our Queen's maids of honor ideally teem;
Th'electrical plaster will flash on each sense,
Changing faith to loose thoughts, and those thoughts to offence.
This was done while I slept, by a loon clep'd Rebecca;
Pr'ythee seize him, ye Winds; bear the varlet to Mecca:
It is surely enough to be plagu'd with desires,
Without such a bellows to heat the soul's fires.
With barb'rous designs, like Caractacus' frame:
The foul loves of the Gods, and their bestial enjoyments;
Young, pert, breechless Cupids at naughty employments;
Venus looking behind in a filthy condition;
An old rogue with a snake, whom they call a physician;
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A girl ravish'd in air, but appearing half-willing;
Nymphs, naked as Folly in Westminster-hall;
And some near undone, yet not seeming to bawl:
At gross feats, such as these, even Grizzle would flout;
Nay, the stones in my joints ope their jaws, and cry out.
Here a patriarch might gaze, and forget how to pray;
Here a vestal might look all her virtue away:
Here Saint Bruno himself would of Bathsheba dream;
And our Queen's maids of honor ideally teem;
Th'electrical plaster will flash on each sense,
Changing faith to loose thoughts, and those thoughts to offence.
This was done while I slept, by a loon clep'd Rebecca;
Pr'ythee seize him, ye Winds; bear the varlet to Mecca:
It is surely enough to be plagu'd with desires,
Without such a bellows to heat the soul's fires.
Loose caricaturas are stuck on my ribs,
In the spirit all libels—the letter, all fibs:
There's Pitt, as a fungus, the Crown had emitted!
There's suffering Ierne by Beresford spitted!
Farmer George and his housewife both cramming their pigs!
Mun Burke making Bentinck destroy the old whigs!
That vile monster, the Public, o'erladen with taxes!
The rich binding Justice, and stealing her axes!
Tooke marking the busts of our monarchs as ninnies!
Bank Directors exploring their chests for five guineas!
Little Wilberforce tickling the hope of a negro!
Fraud dancing through life like another Allegro!
The Promont'ry of Noses, where, clad as a mumper,
Pepper Arden is seen begging hard for a thumper!
Oh bear me, meek Angels, where slander may cease;
Let my body be tranquil, my spirit have peace:
I would lodge in that row near the town's magazine,
Were there not, at all hours, such nudities seen,
Fellows running about like Di's nymphs without smocks:
Where the devil's the constable?—where are the stocks?
Bite their toes, famish'd crabs, as they lave in the deep;
Scorch their buttocks, high Sol, till they fry and they weep:
Pr'ythee take me to Abraham's bosom to rest;
That is, if the mob have not crowded his breast.
In the spirit all libels—the letter, all fibs:
There's Pitt, as a fungus, the Crown had emitted!
There's suffering Ierne by Beresford spitted!
Farmer George and his housewife both cramming their pigs!
Mun Burke making Bentinck destroy the old whigs!
30
The rich binding Justice, and stealing her axes!
Tooke marking the busts of our monarchs as ninnies!
Bank Directors exploring their chests for five guineas!
Little Wilberforce tickling the hope of a negro!
Fraud dancing through life like another Allegro!
The Promont'ry of Noses, where, clad as a mumper,
Pepper Arden is seen begging hard for a thumper!
Oh bear me, meek Angels, where slander may cease;
Let my body be tranquil, my spirit have peace:
I would lodge in that row near the town's magazine,
Were there not, at all hours, such nudities seen,
Fellows running about like Di's nymphs without smocks:
Where the devil's the constable?—where are the stocks?
Bite their toes, famish'd crabs, as they lave in the deep;
Scorch their buttocks, high Sol, till they fry and they weep:
Pr'ythee take me to Abraham's bosom to rest;
That is, if the mob have not crowded his breast.
Lord, cousin, I'm frighten'd much worse than before;
His H---, enrag'd at our ingrates here, swore
That he'd make me a Barrack;—oh heaven and earth,
Why was I created?—why had I a birth?
And shall my perfum'd body be made such a den?
Pray what lady could please a whole reg'ment of men?
Must I live like a strumpet—my name be revil'd?
Great God! should I prove in the issue with child,
Who would foster the babe? neither Holland nor Wyatt;
Yet how shall I keep such strong roisterers quiet?
S'blood, what will become of my soul in futurity?
I will muzzle their guns: I will bind them in surety:
Th'Orange family must have some small-clothes will suit me;
Perhaps if I scratch 'em, the ruffians will shoot me:
I'll ne'er sleep but in trowsers; you've some of big Sam's,
Would cover me close from my hips to my hams.
I have heard that the prudes of Castile have a way,
To lock up their honor by night and by day:
But suppose they should force me in sleep by surprise,
By the fist of the Virgin I'll tear out their eyes:
I will shriek till the dead rise and ask why I did it;
I will lift up a quarry, and crush those who bid it:
I will tear ope the mountain's rough bowels, and hide me,
I will skulk to the tomb where no sin can misguide me:
I will spread desolation and horror around me;
I will—yet pray why should my anger confound me?
For if such is Fate's order, I think I must share it,
And I hope that my strength will be able to bear it.
His H---, enrag'd at our ingrates here, swore
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Why was I created?—why had I a birth?
And shall my perfum'd body be made such a den?
Pray what lady could please a whole reg'ment of men?
Must I live like a strumpet—my name be revil'd?
Great God! should I prove in the issue with child,
Who would foster the babe? neither Holland nor Wyatt;
Yet how shall I keep such strong roisterers quiet?
S'blood, what will become of my soul in futurity?
I will muzzle their guns: I will bind them in surety:
Th'Orange family must have some small-clothes will suit me;
Perhaps if I scratch 'em, the ruffians will shoot me:
I'll ne'er sleep but in trowsers; you've some of big Sam's,
Would cover me close from my hips to my hams.
I have heard that the prudes of Castile have a way,
To lock up their honor by night and by day:
But suppose they should force me in sleep by surprise,
By the fist of the Virgin I'll tear out their eyes:
I will shriek till the dead rise and ask why I did it;
I will lift up a quarry, and crush those who bid it:
I will tear ope the mountain's rough bowels, and hide me,
I will skulk to the tomb where no sin can misguide me:
32
I will—yet pray why should my anger confound me?
For if such is Fate's order, I think I must share it,
And I hope that my strength will be able to bear it.
Brighton, August 10th, 1796.
Yours, till death do us part, PAVILION.
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