The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd :: :: University of Virginia Library

Yes—I could rifle grove and bow'r
And strip the beds of every flow'r,
And deck them in their fairest hue,
Merely to be out-blush'd by you.
The lily pale, by my direction,
Should fight the rose for your complexion;
Or I could make up sweetest posies,
Fit fragrance for the ladies' noses,
Which drooping, on your breast reclining,
Should all be withering, dying, pining,
Which every songster can display,
I've more authorities than Gay;
Nay, I could teach the globe its duty
To pay all homage to your beauty,
And, wit's creative pow'r to show,
The very fire should mix with snow;
Your eyes, that brandish burning darts
To scorch and singe our tinder hearts,
Should be the lamps for lover's ruin,
And light them to their own undoing;

While all the snow about your breast
Should leave them hopeless and distrest.

For those who rarely soar above
The art of coupling love and dove,
In their conceits and amorous fictions,
Are mighty fond of contradictions,
Above, in air; in earth, beneath;
And things that do, or do not breathe,
All have their parts, and separate place,
To paint the fair one's various grace.

Her cheek, her eye, her bosom show
The rose, the lily, diamond, snow.
Jet, milk, and amber, vales and mountains,
Stars, rubies, suns, and mossy fountains,
The poet gives them all a share
In the description of his fair.
She burns, she chills, she pierces hearts,
With locks, and bolts, and flames, and darts.
And could we trust th' extravagancy
Of every poet's youthful fancy,
They'd make each nymph they love so well,
As cold as snow, as hot as——

—O gentle lady, spare your fright,
No horrid rhime shall wound your sight.
I would not for the world be heard,
To utter such unseemly word,
Which the politer parson fears
To mention to politer ears.

But, could a female form be shown,
(The thought, perhaps, is not my own)
Where every circumstance should meet
To make the poet's nymph compleat
Form'd to his fancy's utmost pitch,
She'd be as ugly as a witch.

Come then, O muse, of trim conceit,
Muse, always fine, but never neat,
Who to the dull unsated ear
Of French or Tuscan Sonneteer,
Tak'st up the same unvaried tone,
Like the Scotch bagpipe's favourite drone,
Squeezing out thoughts in ditties quaint,
To poet's mistress, whore, or saint;
Whether thou dwell'st on ev'ry grace,
Which lights the world from Laura's sace,
Or amorous praise expatiates wide
On beauties which the nymph must hide;

For wit affected, loves to show
Her every charm from top to toe,
And wanton fancy oft pursues
Minute description from the muse,
Come and pourtray, with pencil fine,
The poet's mortal nymph divine.

Her golden locks of classic hair,
Are nets to catch the wanton air;
Her forehead ivory, and her eyes
Each a bright sun to light the skies,
Orb'd in whose centre, Cupid aims
His darts, protect us! tipt with flames;
While the sly god's unerring bow
Is the half circle of her brow.
Each lip a ruby, parting, shews
The precious pearl in even rows,
And all the loves and graces sleek
Bathe in the dimples of her cheek.
Her breasts pure snow, or white as milk,
Are ivory apples, smooth as silk,
Or else, as fancy trips on faster,
Fine marble hills or alabaster.

A figure made of wax wou'd please
More than an aggregate of these,

Which though they are of precious worth,
And held in great esteem on earth,
What are they, rightly understood,
Compar'd to real flesh and blood?

And I, who hate to act by rules
Of whining, rhiming, loving fools,
Can never twist my mind about
To find such strange resemblance out,
And simile that's only fit
To shew my plenteous lack of wit.
Therefore, omitting flames and darts,
Wounds, sighs and tears, and bleeding hearts,
Obeying, what I here declare,
Makes half my happiness, the Fair,
The favourite subject I pursue,
And write, as who would not, for you.

Perhaps my muse, a common curse,
Errs in the manner of her verse,
Which, slouching in the doggrel lay,
Goes tittup all her easy way.
Yes—an Acrostic had been better,
Where each good-natured prattling letter,
Though it conceal the writer's aim,
Tells all the world his lady's name.

But all Acrostics, it is said,
Shew wond'rous pain of empty head,
Where wit is cramp'd in hard confines,
And fancy dare not jump the lines.

I love a fanciful disorder,
And straggling out of rule and order;
Impute not then to vacant head,
Or what I've writ, or what I've said,
Which imputation can't be true,
Where head and heart's so full of you.

Like Tristram Shandy, I could write
From morn to noon, from noon to night,
Sometimes obscure, and sometimes leaning
A little sideways to a meaning,
And unfatigu'd myself, pursue
The civil mode of teazing you.
For as your folks who love the dwelling
On circumstance in story telling,
And to give each relation grace,
Describe the time, the folks, the place,
And are religiously exact
To point out each unmeaning fact,
Repeat their wonders undesired,
Nor think one hearer can be tired;

So they who take a method worse,
And prose away, like me, in verse,
Worry their mistress, friends or betters,
With satire, sonnet, ode, or letters,
And think the knack of pleasing follows
Each jingling pupil of Apollo's.
—Yet let it be a venial crime
That I address you thus in rhime.
Nor think that I am Phœbus' bit
By the Tarantula of wit,
But as the meanest critic knows
All females have a knack at prose,
And letters are the mode of writing
The ladies take the most delight in;
Bold is the man, whose saucy aim
Leads him to form a rival claim;
A double death the victim dies,
Wounded by wit as well as eyes.

—With mine disgrace a lady's prose,
And put a nettle next a rose?
Who would so long as taste prevails,
Compare St. James's with Versailles?
The nightingale, as story goes,
Fam'd for the music of his woes,

In vain against the artist try'd,
But strain'd his tuneful throat—and died.

Perhaps I sought the rhiming way,
For reasons which have pow'rful sway.
The swain, no doubt, with pleasure sues
The nymph he's sure will not refuse,
And more compassion may be found
Amongst these goddesses of sound,
Than always happens to the share
Of the more cruel human fair;
Who love to fix their lover's pains,
Pleas'd with the rattling of their chains,
Rejoicing in their servant's grief,
As 'twere a sin to give relief.
They twist each easy fool about,
Nor let them in, nor let them out,
But keep them twirling on the fire
Of apprehension and desire,
As cock-chafers, with corking pin
The school-boy stabs, to make them spin.

For 'tis a maxim in love's school,
To make a man of sense a fool;
I mean the man, who loves indeed,
And hopes and wishes to succeed;

But from his fear and apprehension,
Which always mars his best intention,
Can ne'er address with proper ease
The very person he would please.

Now poets, when these nymphs refuse,
Strait go a courting to the muse.
But still some difference we find
'Twixt goddesses and human kind;
The muses' favours are ideal,
The ladies' scarce, but always real.
The poet can, with little pain,
Create a mistress in his brain,
Heap each attraction, every grace
That should adorn the mind or face,
On Delia, Phyllis, with a score
Of Phyllisses and Delias more.
Or as the whim of passion burns,
Can court each frolic muse by turns;
Nor shall one word of blame be said,
Altho' he take them all to bed.
The muse detests coquettry's guilt,
Nor apes the manners of a jilt.

Jilt! O dishonest hatesul name,
Your sex's pride, your sex's shame,

Which often bait their treacherous hook
With smile endearing, winning look,
And wind them in the easy heart
Of man, with most ensnaring art,
Only to torture and betray
The wretch they mean to cast away.
No doubt 'tis charming pleasant angling
To see the poor fond creatures dangling,
Who rush like gudgeons to the bait,
And gorge the mischief they should hate.
Yet sure such cruelties deface
Your virtues of their fairest grace.
And pity, which in woman's breast,
Should swim at top of all the rest,
Must such insidious sport condemn,
Which play to you, is death to them.

So have I often read or heard,
Though both upon a trav'llers word,
(Authority may pass it down,
So, vide Travels, by Ed. Brown)
At Metz, a dreadful engine stands,
Form'd like a maid, with folded hands,
Which finely drest, with primmest grace,
Rcceives the culprit's sirst embrace;

But at the second (dismal wonder!)
Unfolds, clasps, cuts his heart asunder.

You'll say, perhaps, I love to rail,
We'll end the matter with a tale.

A Robin once, who lov'd to stray,
And hop about from spray to spray,
Familiar as the folks were kind,
Nor thought of mischief in his mind,
Slight favours make the bold presume,
Would flutter round the lady's room,
And careless often take his stand
Upon the lovely Flavia's hand.
The nymph, 'tis said, his freedom sought,
—In short, the trifling fool was caught;
And happy in the fair one's grace,
Would not accept an Eagle's place.
And while the nymph was kind as fair,
Wish'd not to gain his native air.
But thought he bargain'd to his cost,
To gain the liberty he lost.

Till at the last, a fop was seen,
A parrot, dress'd in red and green,

Who could not boast one genuine note,
But chatter'd, swore and ly'd—by rote.
“Nonsense and noise will oft prevail,
“When honour and affection fail.”
The lady lik'd her foreign guest,
For novelty will please the best;
And whether it is lace or fan,
Or silk, or china, bird or man,
None sure can think it wrong, or strange,
That ladies should admire a change.
The Parrot now came into play,
The Robin! he had had his day,
But could not brook the nymph's disdain,
So fled—and ne'er came back again.