University of Virginia Library

O cupid! God of whining speeches,
Sighs and tears, and fond beseeches,
Folded arms, and sleepish looks,
Trifling griefs, and serious jokes:
God of dears, of sweets, and honies,
Flames, and darts, and fools, and ninnies;
That doat on damsels more than guineas:
God of fond, endearing prate,
Hugs, and kisses, and all that
Which sets poor hearts a-pit a-pat:
God of squeezes, nods, and winks,
And wishes,—which the muse but thinks:
O God of all these pretty things!
Aid my pen, thy power she sings:
Thy dreadful power o'er mortal life
With halter, poison, pistol, knife.
Yet this no cut-throat business is,
No hang, nor drowning matter this;
But a sad tale, which late befel
To a poor knight that lov'd too well;
Too well, as you shall hear, alas!
And thus the dismal story was.

In Cornwal, or in Cumberland,
Or somewhere else, we understand,
Lately there dwelt a knight of fame,
Sir Am'rous Whimsie was his Name.
This knight was gay, and brisk, and young,
And dress'd, and danc'd, and laugh'd, and sung;
And with these airs, this life and spirit,
He thought himself a man of merit;
Thought himself qualify'd to strole
Amongst the fair without controul:
Imagin'd these his shining parts
Must rend, and tear, and sadly maul their hearts.

Fine feathers make fine birds, 'tis true;
But they don't make fine singers too:
Nor is the value altogether,
Determin'd by the gaudiest feather:
For if they han't a tuneful Note,
To some they are not worth a groat.
So tho' our knight in gaudy vest
With gold and silver lace was dress'd;
Altho' his locks in ringlets twirl'd,
Was powder'd, scented, crimp'd, and curl'd;
Tho' he cou'd ogle, smile, and bow,
And hum an opera tune, or so;
Yet these his utmost limits was,
All further he was but an ass:
His silly, pert, insipid prate;
His airs, and gestures, and all that,
Declar'd their source an empty pate.

Thus wanting wit, or rather sense,
To check his vain impertinence:
The fair, disgusted with the fool,
Far from admiring, ridicule.
But when they laugh, his vain conceit
Imagines they applaud his wit;
In vain they jeer, in vain they flout,
The coxcomb can't his merit doubt;
Enamour'd of his own dear parts,
He's sure they all belie their hearts;
And, tho' they seemingly deride,
Wou'd each be glad to be his bride.

Thus, vain of int'rest with the fair,
As all your empty coxcombs are,
He struts in triumph thro' the throng
Of witty, amiable, and young;
Gaining imagin'd victories,
And fancying every heart his prize:
Still boasting to secure his own,
Amidst his triumphs touch'd by none.

It must be own'd, the best defence
'Gainst Beauty's power is—want of sense.
Yet fools and sops submit to fate,
And feel its influence soon or late.
And now, his fatal hour being come,
Our warriour knight came wounded home:
Cælia, the fair, his heart betray'd;
Cælia, the fair, the cruel maid.
Shot from her eyes the conquering dart
That found a passage to his heart.
And now he feels the pleasing fire,
And languishes in soft desire;
Her fair idea charms his soul;
But then her eyes his hopes controul:
He there observes a scornful pride,
And fears his suit will be deny'd.
Anxious, he fain wou'd silence break,
But feels he knows not how to speak.
Love, which refines the brightest wit,
First taught this fool his want of it.
He who before thro' crouds cou'd rove,
Now knows not how to say—I love.

But soon the coxcomb gains th' ascendant:
He'll speak, he vows, and there's an end on't.
Shall I, who have made thousands bow,
Despair of conquering Cælia too?
Faith I'm a puppy if I do.
Is not my air, my shape admir'd?
Who is more handsomely attir'd?
In short, I'll tell her I'm her man,
Let her deny me if she can.

With this resolve away he goes,
And now before the fair he bows.
Cælia, surpriz'd, observ'd his mein,
Saw the confusion he was in;
And quickly, from his silly face,
Imagin'd what the matter was.
For, 'spite of all his vain pretences,
Her presence so o'er aw'd his senses,
And love within so tim'rous made him,
He fear'd to say what might degrade him.
Confounded thus, he stood awhile,
Cælia survey'd him with a smile:
At this the coxcomb bolder grew,
Dam it, I'll speak; now, now's my cue:
“Well, Ma'm, said he, and how d'ye do?
The witty Cælia, with much pain,
From downright laughing did refrain;
And gravely as 'twas possible,
Thank'd him, and told him, very well.
“'Tis curious weather, Madam, this.
Yes, Sir, said she, and so it is.
“But won't it rain d'ye think to day?
Why truly, Sir, perhaps it may.
Here the knight scratch'd his empty head,
And bit his fingers 'till they bled,
Before another word was said.
At last, his watch pull'd out to look,
“Pray, Ma'm, said he, what is't a clock?
Cælia, with wond'rous Gravity,
Look'd on his watch, and told him, three.
Our knight had now no more to say,
And must of course have sneak'd away,
Had not a lucky accident
Given him the wish'd-for argument.

Whether by chance, or by design,
Shall now be no concern of mine;
But Cælia let her thimble drop,
Which, with great joy, Sir knight catch'd up.
And now for some fine thing to say,
In giving it, that might display
At once his love, and ready wit;
Quick was the thought—and this was it.
“O, Ma'm, said he, with a low bow,
“That we were in a church just now,
“And this here thimble was a ring,
“And you and I were bargaining,
“Before the priest, for term of life,
“To have and hold, as man and wife!
“I say no more—but what say you?
“Wou'dn't it be very pretty now?
Cælia again was hard put to't,
To keep herself from laughing out,
But willing one more speech to hear,
She let not the least smile appear;
But feign'd to seem she knew not how,
And blush'd, and said, she didn't know.

Sir knight in's sleeve begun to laugh,
And thought he had her safe enough;
Triumphing, to himself he cry'd,
I knew I cou'dn't be deny'd!
Dam it, who'd ever be afraid
Of speaking to a silly maid?
Then turning to the blushing fair,
With a more pert, familiar air,
“Well, Ma'm, said he, methinks I find
“You're not to cruelty enclin'd;
“Therefore, in short, to tell you true,
“I'm deep in love, and 'tis with you:
“And this is all I have to say,
“If you'll be happy, Ma'm, you may.

Cælia cou'd now no longer seign,
Contempt and scorn at once were seen;
And quick resentment in her look,
Whilst thus ironical she spoke.
“Dear Sir, no doubt I should be bless'd,
“But I'm afraid you're but in jest;
“Might I but on your words rely,
“Sure my poor heart would burst with joy!
“To see myself the happy bride
“Of one who thousands had deny'd,
“How wou'd it gratify my Pride?
“How pleasant too 'twou'd be! how sweet!
“To sit and listen to your wit!
“A specimen of which I've seen
“Most wonderful, since you came in.
“What wit there was, when spoke by you,
“In that same—Well, and how d'ye do?
“And then—What curious weather 'tis?
“No doubt a bright transition this!
“As sure it was a pleasant joke,
“To look, then ask—What is't a Clock?
“But that which follow'd next to this,
“The thimble metamorphosis,
“Alias, Sir Knight's wit's master-piece:
“O 'twas a wond'rous piece of wit!
“Sure none but he cou'd thought of it!
“Yes,—when this parlour here shoots up
“A church, with a long spire a top;
“When time, which changes every thing,
“Shall change this thimble to a ring;
“When this old chair's a priest, and when
“This stool starts up, and says, Amen:
“When all these things shall come to pass,
“Then I'll be married to an ass.
Here she burst into a laugh;
The knight like fury scamper'd off:
Home he retir'd in deep disgrace,
Resolv'd no more to shew his face,
Nor man, nor woman see again,
For death, he swore, shou'd end his pain.
Thus raging mad, he from the wall,
Takes down a pistol charg'd with ball;
And now before the glass he stood,
Resolv'd to wash this stain away in blood;
But seeing his own shade appear,
Confus'd, he thought himself was there;
And hast'ly aiming at his head,
This moment is thy last, he said;
Then furiously the tricker drew,
Slap, thro' the glass the bullet flew:
Down fell the mirrour, down the knight;
That with the blow, this with the fright.
Struggling a while he lay; at length,
Fetching a groan with all his strength,
His heart, or something from him broke,
And these few words were all he spoke:
“Oh! oh! I'm dead, or just as good—
“I feel my breeches full of blood.