 | The wits paraphras'd |  |
1
Sapho to Phaon.
The ARGUMENT.
The Poetess Sapho being forsaken by her Lover Phaon (who was gone from Lesbos to Sicily) and resolved in Despair to drown her self, writes this Letter to him before she dies.
While
Phaon to the Hot-house hies,
With no less Fire poor Sapho fries.
I burn, I burn with Nodes and Poxes,
Like Fields of Corn with brand-tail'd Foxes.
My Bag-pipes can no longer please,
Nor can I get one minutes ease;
Grunting all day I sit alone,
And all my old dear Cronies shun.
The Lesbian Sparks must claim no part,
Where thou hast stung me to the heart.
Ah wretch! how cou'dst thou be so cruel,
In my hot bloud to raise a fuel!
When Youth and Beauty bid you stay,
Then play the Rogue, and run away?
If nought oblige but equal pelf,
Go, keep your favours to your self.
With no less Fire poor Sapho fries.
I burn, I burn with Nodes and Poxes,
Like Fields of Corn with brand-tail'd Foxes.
My Bag-pipes can no longer please,
Nor can I get one minutes ease;
Grunting all day I sit alone,
And all my old dear Cronies shun.
The Lesbian Sparks must claim no part,
Where thou hast stung me to the heart.
2
In my hot bloud to raise a fuel!
When Youth and Beauty bid you stay,
Then play the Rogue, and run away?
If nought oblige but equal pelf,
Go, keep your favours to your self.
Yet, silly as I am, I knew
The time, (which I shall ever rue;)
A time for all your mighty looks,
When I was something in your books:
A thousand Tales of fustion-stuff;
For I remember well enough
How close about my Neck you hung,
When I began a Bawdy Song.
You thought me chief amongst the Misses,
And often stopt my mouth with Kisses,
Whose melting touch my heart did stab,
In Earnest of a coming Job.
You us'd a thousand wanton tricks,
And play'd the Devil on two sticks.
We to the business stifly stood,
And did as long as doing's good;
Nor cou'd we for our lives give o're,
'Till we were fit to do no more.
The time, (which I shall ever rue;)
A time for all your mighty looks,
When I was something in your books:
A thousand Tales of fustion-stuff;
For I remember well enough
How close about my Neck you hung,
When I began a Bawdy Song.
You thought me chief amongst the Misses,
And often stopt my mouth with Kisses,
Whose melting touch my heart did stab,
In Earnest of a coming Job.
3
And play'd the Devil on two sticks.
We to the business stifly stood,
And did as long as doing's good;
Nor cou'd we for our lives give o're,
'Till we were fit to do no more.
Beware, Sicilian Wenches; he
Will coaks you all as well as me.
If you'll take notice of his Shams,
He'll tell you a thousand lying Flams:
'Tis such another flattering Villain,
He'll cheat you all, were you a million.
My Hair hangs down about my Knees,
And falls as fast as Leaves from Trees.
Of all ill luck I am the Pattern;
You'd swear I'm grown a very Slattern.
For whom shou'd I go fine and gawdy?
Why without him I am no body;
And I ne'er lov'd to trick or trim
My self for any one but him.
Will coaks you all as well as me.
If you'll take notice of his Shams,
He'll tell you a thousand lying Flams:
'Tis such another flattering Villain,
He'll cheat you all, were you a million.
My Hair hangs down about my Knees,
And falls as fast as Leaves from Trees.
Of all ill luck I am the Pattern;
You'd swear I'm grown a very Slattern.
For whom shou'd I go fine and gawdy?
Why without him I am no body;
4
My self for any one but him.
Oh! if I cou'd but once more see
That subtile piece of Letchery;
'Tis not thy Love I ask, not thine,
So thou wilt but accept of mine:
But to sneak off when none did hold thee
Without Farewel, I needs must scold thee.
You might have said, you ill-bred Bumkin,
God b'w'ye, Kiss my Arse, or something:
You might have ta'n your leave at least,
And not have gone off like a Beast:
For hadst thou but the least word spoken,
I had gi'n thee something for a Token;
Tho' naught behinde was left by thee,
But Shankers, Shame, and Infamie.
That subtile piece of Letchery;
'Tis not thy Love I ask, not thine,
So thou wilt but accept of mine:
But to sneak off when none did hold thee
Without Farewel, I needs must scold thee.
You might have said, you ill-bred Bumkin,
God b'w'ye, Kiss my Arse, or something:
You might have ta'n your leave at least,
And not have gone off like a Beast:
For hadst thou but the least word spoken,
I had gi'n thee something for a Token;
Tho' naught behinde was left by thee,
But Shankers, Shame, and Infamie.
My Friends can witness what a quarter
And din I made at thy Departure.
When of thy baseness I was told,
I was ready e'en to die with cold;
Speechless, one word I cou'd not utter,
Onely what in my Cups I mutter:
And tho they brought good store of Ale-in,
I cou'd not speak one word for railing.
At last, my passion finding vent,
In a Distraction out I went,
And like a Bedlam run about
The streets, in hope to smell thee out.
Exposing all I had to see,
E'en all that Jove had sent to me;
Without respect to Modestie,
Forgetting Shame, and all but thee;
So ill does Shame and Love agree.
And din I made at thy Departure.
5
I was ready e'en to die with cold;
Speechless, one word I cou'd not utter,
Onely what in my Cups I mutter:
And tho they brought good store of Ale-in,
I cou'd not speak one word for railing.
At last, my passion finding vent,
In a Distraction out I went,
And like a Bedlam run about
The streets, in hope to smell thee out.
Exposing all I had to see,
E'en all that Jove had sent to me;
Without respect to Modestie,
Forgetting Shame, and all but thee;
So ill does Shame and Love agree.
For thee alone my Rest I want;
I cannot sleep for dreaming on't:
Which made the Night more welcome to me
Than any Day since you went from me.
Yet little did I dream you went:
For who'd dream of a Parliament?
Or you wou'd leave me here a widow,
To feed my fancy with your shadow?
Yet spight of absence, I make shift
To help my self at a dead lift.
Wrapt in thy arms the stroaks I number,
And do enjoy thee in a slumber.
Thy Words I hear, thy Kisses feel,
With all the Joys I blush to tell.
I cannot sleep for dreaming on't:
6
Than any Day since you went from me.
Yet little did I dream you went:
For who'd dream of a Parliament?
Or you wou'd leave me here a widow,
To feed my fancy with your shadow?
Yet spight of absence, I make shift
To help my self at a dead lift.
Wrapt in thy arms the stroaks I number,
And do enjoy thee in a slumber.
Thy Words I hear, thy Kisses feel,
With all the Joys I blush to tell.
But when I wake, and miss thee there,
How I begin to curse and swear!
Then to divert my present pain,
Take t'other Nap, and to't again.
How I begin to curse and swear!
Then to divert my present pain,
Take t'other Nap, and to't again.
Soon as I rise mad as a Hawk
To see my self so plaguy bawk't,
I run to Bawdy-house and Stoves,
The Scenes of our unhappy Loves.
Then like a drunken Bitch I ramble,
And rail alone at every Shamble.
Then do I cast my Eyes about
Upon the little bawdy Vault,
Whose mossie floor, and roof of stone,
Pleas'd better than a Bed of Down.
But when I spy'd the grassie Bed
Retains the print our bodies made,
On thy dear side I squat me down,
And with a Flood the place I drown,
For to refresh the wither'd Trees,
Since thou art gone, with Virgin-Lees.
To see my self so plaguy bawk't,
7
The Scenes of our unhappy Loves.
Then like a drunken Bitch I ramble,
And rail alone at every Shamble.
Then do I cast my Eyes about
Upon the little bawdy Vault,
Whose mossie floor, and roof of stone,
Pleas'd better than a Bed of Down.
But when I spy'd the grassie Bed
Retains the print our bodies made,
On thy dear side I squat me down,
And with a Flood the place I drown,
For to refresh the wither'd Trees,
Since thou art gone, with Virgin-Lees.
No Birds frequent the Valleys now,
But the vile Screetch-Owl, or the Crow;
Who onely mourn for scarcitie
Of Carrion, as I long for thee.
But the vile Screetch-Owl, or the Crow;
Who onely mourn for scarcitie
Of Carrion, as I long for thee.
8
Oh, Phaon, didst thou know my pain,
Thou wou'd, thou wou'dst come back again.
With the Disease I got from you,
My Eyes have got the Running too:
My constant Tears the Paper stain;
My hand can scaroe direct my Pen.
Or cou'dst thou see a little further,
How I my self intend to murther:
Didst thou but spy the fatal Loop,
Sure thou wou'd strive to cut the Rope.
Thou wou'd, thou wou'dst come back again.
With the Disease I got from you,
My Eyes have got the Running too:
My constant Tears the Paper stain;
My hand can scaroe direct my Pen.
Or cou'dst thou see a little further,
How I my self intend to murther:
Didst thou but spy the fatal Loop,
Sure thou wou'd strive to cut the Rope.
Peace, Sapho, cease thy idle gabble;
Thou may'st as well appease the Rabble:
Thou may (since thou art left behind)
As well go piss against the wind.
Cease, fool, and since thou art forsook,
What you have lost you may go look.
No more thy hopeless Love attend,
But hang thy self, and there's an end.
Thou may'st as well appease the Rabble:
Thou may (since thou art left behind)
As well go piss against the wind.
Cease, fool, and since thou art forsook,
What you have lost you may go look.
No more thy hopeless Love attend,
But hang thy self, and there's an end.
| The wits paraphras'd | |