 | Poems on Several Occasions |  |
259
NECK or NOTHING:
A Consolatory Letter from Mr. Dunton to Mr. C**ll, on his being toss'd in a Blanket, &c. In the Year 1716.
Id cogito quod res est, quando eum quæstum occeperis,
Accipiunda et mussitanda injuria adolescentium est.
Ter.
Accipiunda et mussitanda injuria adolescentium est.
Ter.
Truth is truest Poesy.
Cowley.
Lo! I, that erst the Glory spread
Of Worthies, who for Monmouth bled,
In Letters black, and Letters red;
To Thee, dear Mun, condolance write,
A Suff'rer from the Jacobite:
For just as they were Martyrs, so
A Glorious Confessor art Thou:
Else should this matchless Pen of mine
Vouchsafe Thee not a single Line;
Nor wave its Politicks for this,
Its dark and deep Discoveries;
Nor for a Moment should forbear
To charge the Faction in the Rear.
Of Worthies, who for Monmouth bled,
In Letters black, and Letters red;
To Thee, dear Mun, condolance write,
A Suff'rer from the Jacobite:
For just as they were Martyrs, so
A Glorious Confessor art Thou:
Else should this matchless Pen of mine
Vouchsafe Thee not a single Line;
Nor wave its Politicks for this,
Its dark and deep Discoveries;
Nor for a Moment should forbear
To charge the Faction in the Rear.
Could none of thy Poetick Band
Of Mercenary Wits at Hand
Foretell, or ward the coming Blow,
From Garret high, or Cellar low?
Or else at least in Verse bemoan
Their Lord, in double Sense cast down?
Or wast Thou warn'd, and could'st believe
That Habit fitted to deceive,
That corner'd Cap, and hanging Sleeve?
What Protestant of sober Wits
Would trust Folks drest like Jesuits?
And could'st Thou, Mun, be such a Sot
As not to smell a Powder-Plot?
And looking nine Ways could'st not spy
What might be seen with half an Eye?
Of Mercenary Wits at Hand
Foretell, or ward the coming Blow,
From Garret high, or Cellar low?
Or else at least in Verse bemoan
Their Lord, in double Sense cast down?
260
That Habit fitted to deceive,
That corner'd Cap, and hanging Sleeve?
What Protestant of sober Wits
Would trust Folks drest like Jesuits?
And could'st Thou, Mun, be such a Sot
As not to smell a Powder-Plot?
And looking nine Ways could'st not spy
What might be seen with half an Eye?
What Planet rul'd that luckless Day,
When Thou, by Traitors call'd away,
Thy hasty hapless Course did'st steer
To fatal Flogging Westminster?
For Hat and Gloves You call'd in haste,
And down to Execution past.
Small need of Hat and Gloves, I trow;
Thou might'st have left thy Breeches too!
Perhaps thy Soul, to Gain inclin'd,
Did gratis Copies think to find;
Or else, mistaken Hopes! expected
To have at least the Press corrected.
Correction They designing were
More difficult, but better far;
Tho' whatsoe'er the Knaves intended,
Thou'rt but corrected, not amended.
No! let it ne'er by Man be said,
The Pirate's frighted from his Trade:
Tho' vengeful Birch should flea his Thighs,
Tho' toss'd from Blankets he should rise,
Or stand fast nail'd to Pillories.
When Thou, by Traitors call'd away,
Thy hasty hapless Course did'st steer
To fatal Flogging Westminster?
For Hat and Gloves You call'd in haste,
And down to Execution past.
Small need of Hat and Gloves, I trow;
Thou might'st have left thy Breeches too!
Perhaps thy Soul, to Gain inclin'd,
Did gratis Copies think to find;
Or else, mistaken Hopes! expected
To have at least the Press corrected.
Correction They designing were
More difficult, but better far;
Tho' whatsoe'er the Knaves intended,
Thou'rt but corrected, not amended.
No! let it ne'er by Man be said,
The Pirate's frighted from his Trade:
Tho' vengeful Birch should flea his Thighs,
Tho' toss'd from Blankets he should rise,
Or stand fast nail'd to Pillories.
261
To see thee smart for Copy-stealing,
My Bowels yearn with Fellow-feeling.
Have I alone oblig'd the Press
With fifteen hundred Treatises,
Printers and Stationers undone,
A Plagiary in ev'ry one?
Yet always luckily have sped,
Nor suffer'd in my Tail or Head.
My Shoulders oft have ak'd, 'tis true,
Misfortune frequent with us Two!
Law claims from Thieves and Pamphleteers,
Stripes on the Back, and Pain of Ears;
And Cudgels too a Pow'r derive
Around our Sides Executive:
A Pow'r tho' not by Statute lent,
Yet justify'd by Precedent.
But Law or Custom does not give
Such Tyrannous Prerogative,
To turn thy Brains, and then extend
Their Fury to the nether End.
My Bowels yearn with Fellow-feeling.
Have I alone oblig'd the Press
With fifteen hundred Treatises,
Printers and Stationers undone,
A Plagiary in ev'ry one?
Yet always luckily have sped,
Nor suffer'd in my Tail or Head.
My Shoulders oft have ak'd, 'tis true,
Misfortune frequent with us Two!
Law claims from Thieves and Pamphleteers,
Stripes on the Back, and Pain of Ears;
And Cudgels too a Pow'r derive
Around our Sides Executive:
A Pow'r tho' not by Statute lent,
Yet justify'd by Precedent.
But Law or Custom does not give
Such Tyrannous Prerogative,
To turn thy Brains, and then extend
Their Fury to the nether End.
Inhuman Punishment, inflicted
By Stripling Tories, Rogues addicted
To arbitrary Constitution;
Twas Rome! 'twas downright Persecution!
I sweat to think of thy Condition
Before that barb'rous Inquisition.
Lo! wide-extended by the Crowd,
The Blanket, dreadful as a Shroud,
Yawns terrible, for Thee, poor Mun,
To stretch, but not to sleep upon.
Glad would'st Thou give thy Copies now,
And all thy golden Hopes forego;
Some Favour from their Hands to win,
And 'scape but once with a whole Skin:
Yet vain, alas! is thy Repentance,
For Neck or Nothing is thy Sentence.
How dost Thou lessen to the Sight,
With more than a Poetick Flight?
I ken Thee dancing high in Air,
With Limbs alert, and quiv'ring there:
So, whizz'd from Stick, I've seen to rise
A Frog sent sprawling to the Skies,
By naughty Boys, on Sport intent,
Caught straggling from its Element.
This Scene some Graver shall invite,
To stamp thy Form in Black and White;
Haply in future Times to grace
Some ever-open Frontispiece;
With mouldy Veteran Authors stale,
Sustain'd by Packthread and a Rail;
Where Crouch, sweet Story-teller, keeps,
And Bunyan, happy Dreamer, sleeps:
Near him perchance aerial Thou,
Aloft shalt thy Proportion show;
For ever carv'd on Wooden Plate,
Shalt hang i' th' Air like Mahomet.
Whate'er thine Effigy might do,
Thy Person could not hover so.
Happy at Westminster for Thee,
Could'st thou have hung by Geometry:
But ah! the higher Mortals soar,
So Fate ordains, they fall the lower;
With swifter Rapidness down-hasting,
For nothing violent is lasting,
With greater Force thy Forehead came,
Than Engine, or than batt'ring Ram;
Nor Blanket's interposing Wool
Could save the Pavement, or the Scull.
By Stripling Tories, Rogues addicted
To arbitrary Constitution;
Twas Rome! 'twas downright Persecution!
I sweat to think of thy Condition
Before that barb'rous Inquisition.
Lo! wide-extended by the Crowd,
The Blanket, dreadful as a Shroud,
Yawns terrible, for Thee, poor Mun,
To stretch, but not to sleep upon.
262
And all thy golden Hopes forego;
Some Favour from their Hands to win,
And 'scape but once with a whole Skin:
Yet vain, alas! is thy Repentance,
For Neck or Nothing is thy Sentence.
How dost Thou lessen to the Sight,
With more than a Poetick Flight?
I ken Thee dancing high in Air,
With Limbs alert, and quiv'ring there:
So, whizz'd from Stick, I've seen to rise
A Frog sent sprawling to the Skies,
By naughty Boys, on Sport intent,
Caught straggling from its Element.
This Scene some Graver shall invite,
To stamp thy Form in Black and White;
Haply in future Times to grace
Some ever-open Frontispiece;
With mouldy Veteran Authors stale,
Sustain'd by Packthread and a Rail;
Where Crouch, sweet Story-teller, keeps,
And Bunyan, happy Dreamer, sleeps:
Near him perchance aerial Thou,
Aloft shalt thy Proportion show;
For ever carv'd on Wooden Plate,
Shalt hang i' th' Air like Mahomet.
Whate'er thine Effigy might do,
Thy Person could not hover so.
Happy at Westminster for Thee,
Could'st thou have hung by Geometry:
263
So Fate ordains, they fall the lower;
With swifter Rapidness down-hasting,
For nothing violent is lasting,
With greater Force thy Forehead came,
Than Engine, or than batt'ring Ram;
Nor Blanket's interposing Wool
Could save the Pavement, or the Scull.
This sure might seem enough for once, Oh!
This tossing up, and tumbling down so;
And well thy Stomach might incline
To spue without Emetick Wine:
Their Rage goes farther, and applies
More fundamental Injuries.
This tossing up, and tumbling down so;
And well thy Stomach might incline
To spue without Emetick Wine:
Their Rage goes farther, and applies
More fundamental Injuries.
Like Truant, doom'd the Lash to feel,
Thou'rt dragg'd, full sore against thy Will,
To School to suffer more and worse,
No wonder if you hang an Arse,
As thy Posteriors could foresee
Their near-approaching Destiny.
The School, the direful Place of Fate,
Opes her inhospitable Gate,
Which ne'er had yet such Rigour seen,
No! not from Busby's Discipline.
And first of all, the cruel Rabble
Conduct Thee trembling to a Table;
Thy wriggling Corps across they spread,
Two guard the Heels, and two the Head:
The rest around, a threatning Band,
With each his Fasces in his Hand,
Dreadful as Roman Lictors stand.
So oft a four-legg'd Cur I've known,
By hind Legs and by fore kept down
To be dissected, while Physician
Stands o'er with Weapon of Incision.
The Scene they order to disclose;
“Strip, pull his Breeches o'er his Hose;
“Nay, farther, make the Coast yet clearer,
“Tho' near the Shirt, the Skin is nearer.
So said, so done, they soon uncase
Thy only penetrable Face,
The Breech, the Seat of Bashfulness:
As hence we gather, by its Caring
So very rarely for appearing;
Not oft its pretty self revealing,
Devoid of Sight, tho' not of Feeling:
And now upon thy Rump they score thee,
And pink thy fleshy Cushions for thee.
Thou'rt dragg'd, full sore against thy Will,
To School to suffer more and worse,
No wonder if you hang an Arse,
As thy Posteriors could foresee
Their near-approaching Destiny.
The School, the direful Place of Fate,
Opes her inhospitable Gate,
Which ne'er had yet such Rigour seen,
No! not from Busby's Discipline.
And first of all, the cruel Rabble
Conduct Thee trembling to a Table;
Thy wriggling Corps across they spread,
Two guard the Heels, and two the Head:
The rest around, a threatning Band,
With each his Fasces in his Hand,
Dreadful as Roman Lictors stand.
264
By hind Legs and by fore kept down
To be dissected, while Physician
Stands o'er with Weapon of Incision.
The Scene they order to disclose;
“Strip, pull his Breeches o'er his Hose;
“Nay, farther, make the Coast yet clearer,
“Tho' near the Shirt, the Skin is nearer.
So said, so done, they soon uncase
Thy only penetrable Face,
The Breech, the Seat of Bashfulness:
As hence we gather, by its Caring
So very rarely for appearing;
Not oft its pretty self revealing,
Devoid of Sight, tho' not of Feeling:
And now upon thy Rump they score thee,
And pink thy fleshy Cushions for thee.
Come hold him fair, we'll make him know
What 'tis to deal with Scholars—Oh!
Quoth Edmund.—Now, without Disguise,
Confess, quo' they, thy Rogueries.
What makes you keep in Garret high
Poor Bards ty'd up to Poetry?—
I'm forc'd to load them with a Clog,
To make them study.—Here's a Rogue
Affronts the School; we'll make Thee rue it:
—Indeed I never meant to do it!
No? didst Thou not th' Oration print
Imperfect, with false Latin in't?
O Pardon!—No, Sir, have a care,
False Latin's never pardon'd here!
Indeed I'll ne'er do so again,
Pray handle me like Gentlemen.—
Yes, that we will, Sir, never fear it,
Your Betters have been forc'd to bear it.
Thus shaking the Tyrannick Rod,
Insulting thy Backside they stood,
And with a Lash, as is their Fashion,
Finish'd each smart Expostulation.
What 'tis to deal with Scholars—Oh!
Quoth Edmund.—Now, without Disguise,
Confess, quo' they, thy Rogueries.
What makes you keep in Garret high
Poor Bards ty'd up to Poetry?—
I'm forc'd to load them with a Clog,
To make them study.—Here's a Rogue
Affronts the School; we'll make Thee rue it:
—Indeed I never meant to do it!
No? didst Thou not th' Oration print
Imperfect, with false Latin in't?
265
False Latin's never pardon'd here!
Indeed I'll ne'er do so again,
Pray handle me like Gentlemen.—
Yes, that we will, Sir, never fear it,
Your Betters have been forc'd to bear it.
Thus shaking the Tyrannick Rod,
Insulting thy Backside they stood,
And with a Lash, as is their Fashion,
Finish'd each smart Expostulation.
Tho' all that can by Man be said,
Can ne'er beat Sense into thy Head,
Yet sure this Method cannot fail,
Quick to convey it to thy Tail:
As when a Purge, that's upwards ta'en,
Scours not the stubborn Bowels clean,
More surely operating Clyster,
At t' other End they administer.
Can ne'er beat Sense into thy Head,
Yet sure this Method cannot fail,
Quick to convey it to thy Tail:
As when a Purge, that's upwards ta'en,
Scours not the stubborn Bowels clean,
More surely operating Clyster,
At t' other End they administer.
I Westminster so much should hate,
Had I been jerk'd like Thee thereat,
I'm sure I should not care at all
To come so near it as the Hall.
Hast Thou not oft enough in Court
Appear'd, and often smarted for't?
And dost thou not, with many a Brand,
Recorded for a Pirate stand?
Glad that a Fine could pay th' Arrears,
And clear the Mortgage of thy Ears?
Then what Relief dost hope to draw,
From that which still condemns Thee, Law?
And if from Law no Help there be,
I'm sure there's none from Equity:
Lay Hand on Heart, and timely think,
The more Thou stir'st, the more Thou'lt stink:
And tho' it sorely gauls Thee, yet
Well as Thou can'st, sit down with it:
And since to rage will do no Good,
Pull in thy Horns, and kiss the Rod;
And while Thou can'st, retreat, for Fear
They fall once more upon thy Rear.
Had I been jerk'd like Thee thereat,
I'm sure I should not care at all
To come so near it as the Hall.
Hast Thou not oft enough in Court
Appear'd, and often smarted for't?
And dost thou not, with many a Brand,
Recorded for a Pirate stand?
Glad that a Fine could pay th' Arrears,
And clear the Mortgage of thy Ears?
Then what Relief dost hope to draw,
From that which still condemns Thee, Law?
266
I'm sure there's none from Equity:
Lay Hand on Heart, and timely think,
The more Thou stir'st, the more Thou'lt stink:
And tho' it sorely gauls Thee, yet
Well as Thou can'st, sit down with it:
And since to rage will do no Good,
Pull in thy Horns, and kiss the Rod;
And while Thou can'st, retreat, for Fear
They fall once more upon thy Rear.
Tho' 'tis vexatious, Mun, I grant,
To hear the passing Truants taunt,
And ask Thee at thy Shop in Jeer,
Which is the Way to Westminster?
Oh! how th' unlucky Urchins laugh'd,
To think they'd maul'd Thee fore and aft:
'Tis such a sensible Affront,
Why Pope will write an Epick on't!
Bernard will chuckle at thy Moan,
And all the Booksellers in Town,
From Tonson down to Boddington:
Fleet-Street and Temple-Bar around,
The Strand and Holborn, this shall sound;
For ever This shall grate thine Ear,
Which is the Way to Westminster?
To hear the passing Truants taunt,
And ask Thee at thy Shop in Jeer,
Which is the Way to Westminster?
Oh! how th' unlucky Urchins laugh'd,
To think they'd maul'd Thee fore and aft:
'Tis such a sensible Affront,
Why Pope will write an Epick on't!
Bernard will chuckle at thy Moan,
And all the Booksellers in Town,
From Tonson down to Boddington:
Fleet-Street and Temple-Bar around,
The Strand and Holborn, this shall sound;
For ever This shall grate thine Ear,
Which is the Way to Westminster?
| Poems on Several Occasions | |