 | Poetical Tales |  |
16
THE CANTERBURY TALE.
'Twas in the times of elves and fairies,
Creatures that no man could confide in,
With griffins to supply their dairies,
And dragons for their common riding,
Who put poor sophists in a maze,
Confounded nature tête à tête,
And criticiz'd the book of fate
A thousand different ways;—
In short, it was in Arthur's days,
Caprone liv'd, a courteous wight,
Young, rich, and handsome, and a Knight;
Not like the blustering knights of fable,
A gentle knight, a knight of Arthur's table.
Creatures that no man could confide in,
With griffins to supply their dairies,
And dragons for their common riding,
Who put poor sophists in a maze,
Confounded nature tête à tête,
And criticiz'd the book of fate
A thousand different ways;—
In short, it was in Arthur's days,
Caprone liv'd, a courteous wight,
Young, rich, and handsome, and a Knight;
Not like the blustering knights of fable,
A gentle knight, a knight of Arthur's table.
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And so—I don't know why—
Our hero took it in his head
To womanize a maid;
And so he was condemn'd to die.
Madam, you think this mighty odd,
And so I think it was, by G---d.
But one mistake I do believe
Heighten'd the nature of his crime,
'Twas that the youth, from want of time,
Had never ask'd the Lady's leave.
Now this appear'd to all the quorum
A most prodigious indecorum:
To see a stripling at his years
Such an œconomist in tears!
Beginning, like a common boor,
At the wrong end of an amour!
Our hero took it in his head
To womanize a maid;
And so he was condemn'd to die.
Madam, you think this mighty odd,
And so I think it was, by G---d.
But one mistake I do believe
Heighten'd the nature of his crime,
'Twas that the youth, from want of time,
Had never ask'd the Lady's leave.
Now this appear'd to all the quorum
A most prodigious indecorum:
To see a stripling at his years
Such an œconomist in tears!
Beginning, like a common boor,
At the wrong end of an amour!
But Arthur's Queen, who understood
The force of youthful flesh and blood,
And who, as ancient poets sing,
When wearied with the pomp of pow'r,
Would sometimes pass a leisure hour
In cuckolding the King,
Most humbly begg'd to take upon her
The vindication of her sex's honour.
The penance she impos'd was this:
“That culprit in one year must find
“That idol of the female mind
“Which charms alike Mama and Miss,
“And reigns unrival'd o'er all womankind.
“Should he return without success,
“The court no longer term could give,
“But that in justice they could do no less
“Than hang him up to teach him how to live.”
The force of youthful flesh and blood,
And who, as ancient poets sing,
When wearied with the pomp of pow'r,
Would sometimes pass a leisure hour
In cuckolding the King,
Most humbly begg'd to take upon her
The vindication of her sex's honour.
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“That culprit in one year must find
“That idol of the female mind
“Which charms alike Mama and Miss,
“And reigns unrival'd o'er all womankind.
“Should he return without success,
“The court no longer term could give,
“But that in justice they could do no less
“Than hang him up to teach him how to live.”
Now might I tell (as Smollet erst has done)
How oft he slept
At wretched inns,
And wept
His sins,
That forc'd him thus like English Lord to run,
And still at every post enquire
The object of all womankind's desire.
Some nam'd the glory of high blood,
The reputation of a face,
Or the sweet liberty of widowhood,
Or the delights of flattery and praise,
And some pretended in one spot to find
The great controuler of the female mind.
This spot's the strangest and the oddest!
Madam, you need not hide your face—
My Muse is so extremely modest
She will not name the place.
It is a kind of secret locket,
A locket that a lady carries
For her virginity to sleep in.
It sleeps as if 'twas in her pocket,
Until she marries,
When 'tis no longer worth the keeping.
How oft he slept
At wretched inns,
And wept
His sins,
That forc'd him thus like English Lord to run,
And still at every post enquire
The object of all womankind's desire.
Some nam'd the glory of high blood,
The reputation of a face,
Or the sweet liberty of widowhood,
Or the delights of flattery and praise,
And some pretended in one spot to find
The great controuler of the female mind.
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Madam, you need not hide your face—
My Muse is so extremely modest
She will not name the place.
It is a kind of secret locket,
A locket that a lady carries
For her virginity to sleep in.
It sleeps as if 'twas in her pocket,
Until she marries,
When 'tis no longer worth the keeping.
But to my tale. The day was come
When poor Caprone must come home.
By constant disappointments cross'd,
He journey'd on pensive and mute,
For well he knew that all was lost,
And if he gave up the pursuit,
He with it must give up the ghost.
When poor Caprone must come home.
By constant disappointments cross'd,
He journey'd on pensive and mute,
For well he knew that all was lost,
And if he gave up the pursuit,
He with it must give up the ghost.
While thus disconsolate he rode
Through the thick horrors of an aged wood,
A thousand dulcet sounds were heard,
A thousand angel forms appear'd:
But while he flew along the path,
The dancers vanish'd with as much dispatch
As the fidlers do at Bath
When Mr. Wade holds up his watch.
Instead of these, upon the green,
Sedately sitting on her bum,
Like Contemplation, sucking either thumb,
A female form was seen.
Not of those forms which at each glance inspire
The strong convulsive throbbings of desire,
But rather like a kitchen fender
To keep us from Love's fire,
For she was uglier than the Witch of Endor.
At such a sight, the Knight,
Though not exactly in a fright,
Yet felt a sort of tribulation,
And panic,
Not being used to incantation
And operations satanic,
Manœuvres such as “entre nous”
Might startle either me or you.
Through the thick horrors of an aged wood,
A thousand dulcet sounds were heard,
A thousand angel forms appear'd:
But while he flew along the path,
The dancers vanish'd with as much dispatch
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When Mr. Wade holds up his watch.
Instead of these, upon the green,
Sedately sitting on her bum,
Like Contemplation, sucking either thumb,
A female form was seen.
Not of those forms which at each glance inspire
The strong convulsive throbbings of desire,
But rather like a kitchen fender
To keep us from Love's fire,
For she was uglier than the Witch of Endor.
At such a sight, the Knight,
Though not exactly in a fright,
Yet felt a sort of tribulation,
And panic,
Not being used to incantation
And operations satanic,
Manœuvres such as “entre nous”
Might startle either me or you.
But she, who guest
At the occasion of his fears,
Promis'd to save his neck and ears,
If he would grant her one request.
The Knight you'll think was nothing loth,
So that the oath
Was quickly ratified by both.
At the occasion of his fears,
Promis'd to save his neck and ears,
If he would grant her one request.
The Knight you'll think was nothing loth,
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Was quickly ratified by both.
And now, with exhortations meet,
The female Mansfield takes her seat;
While anxious for the dread decree,
The Jury sit with solemn eyes,
Ruminating, and looking wise,
Like oxen in a reverie.
Then thus our Hero to the court
Made his report.—
“The Master-mover of your sex,
“The cause of all your arts and wiles,
“Your well-dissembled tears and smiles
“With which mankind you sooth or vex,
“Seem kind and civil,
“Or play the devil,
“Is the insatiate love of rule.
“If I'm deceiv'd,
“Friend Satan is a fool,
“And shall no longer be believ'd.”
The female Mansfield takes her seat;
While anxious for the dread decree,
The Jury sit with solemn eyes,
Ruminating, and looking wise,
Like oxen in a reverie.
Then thus our Hero to the court
Made his report.—
“The Master-mover of your sex,
“The cause of all your arts and wiles,
“Your well-dissembled tears and smiles
“With which mankind you sooth or vex,
“Seem kind and civil,
“Or play the devil,
“Is the insatiate love of rule.
“If I'm deceiv'd,
“Friend Satan is a fool,
“And shall no longer be believ'd.”
The answer was by all applauded,
And he with liberty rewarded.
But still new storms, which there is no foreseeing,
O'ercloud the passage of this wretched life;
For now the cursed hag insists on being—
O strange and horrible!—his wife!
In vain he swore 'twas worse than porter's work,
Worse than the galley of a Turk,
With such a worn-out wither'd witch to wed
A damn'd sexagenary maidenhead;
His oath is past, and he is put to bed!
The bride so sweetly her soft wishes mutter'd,
You would have sworn her mouth was butter'd,
'Till grown impatient with desire,
She fum'd, and gap'd, and sputter'd,
Just like an oyster in the fire.
Yet all in vain;
Caprone could not ease her pain;
For the good witch had such a face and shape, as
Would damp the vigour of a young Priapus.
Her nose—you'd swear had been forgot,
But through her nostrils without pain
You might have look'd into her brain,
And trac'd each wand'ring thought.
Her eyes—but they long since had fled,
And taken refuge in her head,
So I can't tell with much precision
Whether they were black or blue.
Her eyelids, like the beauties of a Jew,
Seem'd just escap'd from circumcision.
And he with liberty rewarded.
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O'ercloud the passage of this wretched life;
For now the cursed hag insists on being—
O strange and horrible!—his wife!
In vain he swore 'twas worse than porter's work,
Worse than the galley of a Turk,
With such a worn-out wither'd witch to wed
A damn'd sexagenary maidenhead;
His oath is past, and he is put to bed!
The bride so sweetly her soft wishes mutter'd,
You would have sworn her mouth was butter'd,
'Till grown impatient with desire,
She fum'd, and gap'd, and sputter'd,
Just like an oyster in the fire.
Yet all in vain;
Caprone could not ease her pain;
For the good witch had such a face and shape, as
Would damp the vigour of a young Priapus.
Her nose—you'd swear had been forgot,
But through her nostrils without pain
You might have look'd into her brain,
And trac'd each wand'ring thought.
Her eyes—but they long since had fled,
And taken refuge in her head,
So I can't tell with much precision
Whether they were black or blue.
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Seem'd just escap'd from circumcision.
Now, Ladies, you may see
My Tale draws near to a conclusion,
Or what we call catastrophe,
By the confusion
Among the Dramatis Personæ.
We've left our Hero in a scrape,
And in some danger of a rape;
But soft—the Lady thus address'd Caprone:—
“Canst thou, regardless of the vow
“For which I sav'd thy forfeit life,
“Canst thou no other gift allow,
“But the cold, empty name of wife?
“Alas! to what shall virtue trust,
“By the keen glance of envy view'd,
“If every wrinkle can disgust
“The flattering eye of gratitude?
“Say, does thy foolish pride disdain
“Within this wither'd breast to reign?
“Speak but the word, and I assume
“The vernal rose's morning bloom:
“All that the stoic breast can warm;
“Each grace of feature, shape, and hue;
“More than thy youthful thought can form,
“Or fancy's pencil ever drew.
“Yet think'st thou, that by passion fann'd,
“Thy flame shall never, never fail?
“Shall ne'er reflection's meddling hand
“From folly snatch fair beauty's veil?
“Say, can thy jealous fear provide
“'Gainst each insidious, winning art,
“Each wile by foul seduction try'd,
“To gain, and to corrupt the heart?
“Reflect! and let the fatal doom
“By calm discretion's hand be sign'd:
“Nor rashly seek from beauty's bloom
“What only centers in the mind!”
My Tale draws near to a conclusion,
Or what we call catastrophe,
By the confusion
Among the Dramatis Personæ.
We've left our Hero in a scrape,
And in some danger of a rape;
But soft—the Lady thus address'd Caprone:—
“Canst thou, regardless of the vow
“For which I sav'd thy forfeit life,
“Canst thou no other gift allow,
“But the cold, empty name of wife?
“Alas! to what shall virtue trust,
“By the keen glance of envy view'd,
“If every wrinkle can disgust
“The flattering eye of gratitude?
“Say, does thy foolish pride disdain
“Within this wither'd breast to reign?
“Speak but the word, and I assume
“The vernal rose's morning bloom:
“All that the stoic breast can warm;
“Each grace of feature, shape, and hue;
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“Or fancy's pencil ever drew.
“Yet think'st thou, that by passion fann'd,
“Thy flame shall never, never fail?
“Shall ne'er reflection's meddling hand
“From folly snatch fair beauty's veil?
“Say, can thy jealous fear provide
“'Gainst each insidious, winning art,
“Each wile by foul seduction try'd,
“To gain, and to corrupt the heart?
“Reflect! and let the fatal doom
“By calm discretion's hand be sign'd:
“Nor rashly seek from beauty's bloom
“What only centers in the mind!”
At first he ponder'd,
And then look'd wise, and blunder'd,
And wonder'd,
And tost and flounder'd,
Just like the famous pigs of yore,
The pigs that jump'd into the water,
The pigs that had “le diable au corps,”
The pigs that play'd “le diable à quatre.”
And then look'd wise, and blunder'd,
And wonder'd,
And tost and flounder'd,
Just like the famous pigs of yore,
The pigs that jump'd into the water,
The pigs that had “le diable au corps,”
The pigs that play'd “le diable à quatre.”
At length recovering, God knows how,
“Madam,” says he, “you must allow
“'Twas no excessive predilection
“Either for your parts or figure,
“But a redundancy of vigour,
“That brought me into this connection.
“But since the fatal knot is tied,
“The only way to shew my wit
“Is to submit,
“And to be govern'd by my bride.
“To you my power I resign,
“My life, my fortune, all is thine.”
“Madam,” says he, “you must allow
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“Either for your parts or figure,
“But a redundancy of vigour,
“That brought me into this connection.
“But since the fatal knot is tied,
“The only way to shew my wit
“Is to submit,
“And to be govern'd by my bride.
“To you my power I resign,
“My life, my fortune, all is thine.”
He spoke—at once each wrinkle disappears,
And every word blots out the trace of years.
But now, dear Muse! my earnest pray'r is,
That you'd not take these damn'd vagaries;
Do not my richest colours taint,
Nor some curs'd sign-post beauty paint,
Some goddess of a city ball,
In whose fat cheeks the red and white
Most matrimonially unite,
Like brick and mortar on a wall:
You've heard of Venus' shape and air—
With them let fancy deck the fair.
Is fancy of the task afraid?—
Steal them from Gr---nby ready made.
Gr---nby, of half her charms bereft,
Will be unconscious of the theft.
Here nature seem'd to mock Pygmalion's art,
All that proportion, all that form can give,
Venus once more had play'd Prometheus' part,
And bid the beauteous wonder love, and live.
To meet the touch now rose her eager breast,
As proud to feel the passion it inspir'd,
And now, by meddling modesty repress'd,
Slow, and reluctant, from the hand retir'd.
Her eyes a thousand tender thoughts reveal'd,
And blushes told whate'er those eyes conceal'd.
And every word blots out the trace of years.
But now, dear Muse! my earnest pray'r is,
That you'd not take these damn'd vagaries;
Do not my richest colours taint,
Nor some curs'd sign-post beauty paint,
Some goddess of a city ball,
In whose fat cheeks the red and white
Most matrimonially unite,
Like brick and mortar on a wall:
You've heard of Venus' shape and air—
With them let fancy deck the fair.
Is fancy of the task afraid?—
Steal them from Gr---nby ready made.
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Will be unconscious of the theft.
Here nature seem'd to mock Pygmalion's art,
All that proportion, all that form can give,
Venus once more had play'd Prometheus' part,
And bid the beauteous wonder love, and live.
To meet the touch now rose her eager breast,
As proud to feel the passion it inspir'd,
And now, by meddling modesty repress'd,
Slow, and reluctant, from the hand retir'd.
Her eyes a thousand tender thoughts reveal'd,
And blushes told whate'er those eyes conceal'd.
The youth beheld, and madd'ning with desire,
Impetuous rush'd upon the tender maid;
The tender maid, with well-dissembled fire,
And feign'd reluctance, each embrace o'erpaid.
With plaintive notes, half smother'd, half express'd,
She seem'd, like Philomel, her fate to mourn;
Yet strain'd the rude invader to her breast,
And met, like Philomel, the fatal thorn;
In speechless transport clos'd her languid eye,
And on his trembling lip pour'd forth her parting sigh.
Impetuous rush'd upon the tender maid;
The tender maid, with well-dissembled fire,
And feign'd reluctance, each embrace o'erpaid.
With plaintive notes, half smother'd, half express'd,
She seem'd, like Philomel, her fate to mourn;
Yet strain'd the rude invader to her breast,
And met, like Philomel, the fatal thorn;
In speechless transport clos'd her languid eye,
And on his trembling lip pour'd forth her parting sigh.
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