The Poems of Charles Sackville Sixth Earl of Dorset: Edited by Brice Harris |
 | I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| 1 |  | VI. |
| Four Letters in Verse between Dorset and Etherege |
| 1 |
| VII. |
 | The Poems of Charles Sackville |  |
105
Four Letters in Verse between Dorset and Etherege
A Letter from the Lord Buckhurst to Mr. George Etherege
Dreaming last night on Mrs. Farley,
My p--- was up this morning early;
And I was fain without my gown
To rise in th'cold to get him down.
Hard shift, alas, but yet a sure,
Although it be no pleasing cure.
Of old the fair Egyptian slattern,
For luxury that had no pattern,
To fortify her Roman swinger,
Instead of nutmeg, mace and ginger,
Did spice his bowels (as story tells)
With warts of rocks and spawn of shells.
It had been happy for her Grace,
Had I been in the rascal's place;
I, who do scorn that any stone
Shou'd raise my pintle but my own,
Had laid her down on every couch
And sav'd her pearl and diamond brooch
Until her hot-tail'd Majesty,
Being happily reclaim'd by me
From all her wild expensive ways,
Had worn her gems on holidays.
But since her c--- has long done itching,
Let us discourse of modern bitching.
My p--- was up this morning early;
And I was fain without my gown
To rise in th'cold to get him down.
Hard shift, alas, but yet a sure,
Although it be no pleasing cure.
Of old the fair Egyptian slattern,
For luxury that had no pattern,
106
Instead of nutmeg, mace and ginger,
Did spice his bowels (as story tells)
With warts of rocks and spawn of shells.
It had been happy for her Grace,
Had I been in the rascal's place;
I, who do scorn that any stone
Shou'd raise my pintle but my own,
Had laid her down on every couch
And sav'd her pearl and diamond brooch
Until her hot-tail'd Majesty,
Being happily reclaim'd by me
From all her wild expensive ways,
Had worn her gems on holidays.
But since her c--- has long done itching,
Let us discourse of modern bitching.
I must entreat you by this letter,
To inquire for whores, the more the better.
Hunger makes any man a glutton;
If Roberts, Thomas, Mrs. Dutton,
Or any other bawds of note,
Inform of a fresh petticoat,
Inquire, I pray, with friendly care,
Where their respective lodgings are.
Some do compare a man t'a bark—
A pretty metaphor, pray mark—
And with a long and tedious story,
Will all the tackling lay before ye:
The sails are hope, the masts desire,
Till they the gentlest reader tire.
But howsoe'er they keep a pudder,
I'm sure the pintle is the rudder:
The pow'rful rudder, which of force
To town will shortly steer my course.
And if you do not there provide
A port where I may safely ride,
Landing in haste, in some foul creek,
'Tis ten to one I spring a leak.
To inquire for whores, the more the better.
Hunger makes any man a glutton;
If Roberts, Thomas, Mrs. Dutton,
Or any other bawds of note,
Inform of a fresh petticoat,
Inquire, I pray, with friendly care,
Where their respective lodgings are.
Some do compare a man t'a bark—
A pretty metaphor, pray mark—
And with a long and tedious story,
Will all the tackling lay before ye:
The sails are hope, the masts desire,
Till they the gentlest reader tire.
But howsoe'er they keep a pudder,
I'm sure the pintle is the rudder:
The pow'rful rudder, which of force
To town will shortly steer my course.
And if you do not there provide
A port where I may safely ride,
107
'Tis ten to one I spring a leak.
Next, I must make it my request,
If you have any interest,
Or can be any means discover
Some lamentable rhyming lover,
Who shall in numbers harsh and vile,
His mistress “Nymph” or “Goddess” style,
Send all his labors down to me
By the first opportunity.
If you have any interest,
Or can be any means discover
Some lamentable rhyming lover,
Who shall in numbers harsh and vile,
His mistress “Nymph” or “Goddess” style,
Send all his labors down to me
By the first opportunity.
Or any Knights of your Round Table,
To other scribblers formidable,
Guilty themselves of the same crime,
Dress nonsense up in ragged rhyme,
As once a week they seldom fail,
Inspir'd by love and gridiron ale.
To other scribblers formidable,
Guilty themselves of the same crime,
Dress nonsense up in ragged rhyme,
As once a week they seldom fail,
Inspir'd by love and gridiron ale.
Or any paltry poetry,
Tho' from the university,
Who when the King and Queen were there,
Did both their wit and learning spare,
And have, I hope, endeavor'd since
To make the world some recompense.
Such damn'd fustian when you meet,
Be not too rash or indiscreet,
Tho' they can plead no just excuses,
To put 'em to their proper uses—
The fatal privy or the fire,
Their nobler foe—at my desire
Restrain your natural profuseness,
And spare 'em tho' you have a looseness.
Tho' from the university,
Who when the King and Queen were there,
Did both their wit and learning spare,
And have, I hope, endeavor'd since
To make the world some recompense.
Such damn'd fustian when you meet,
Be not too rash or indiscreet,
Tho' they can plead no just excuses,
To put 'em to their proper uses—
The fatal privy or the fire,
Their nobler foe—at my desire
Restrain your natural profuseness,
And spare 'em tho' you have a looseness.
—BUCKHURST.
109
Mr. Etherege's Answer
As crafty harlots use to shrink
From lechers dozed with sleep and drink,
When they intend to make up pack
By filching sheets or shirt from back,
So were you pleas'd to steal away
From me, whilst on your bed I lay;
But long you had not been departed
When pinch'd with cold from thence I started;
Where missing you I stamp'd and star'd,
Like Bacon when he wak'd and heard
His Brazen Head in vain had spoke,
And saw it lie in pieces broke.
Sighing, I to my chamber make,
Where ev'ry limb was stiff as stake,
Unless poor p---, which did feel
Like slimy skin of new-stripped eel,
Or pudding that mischance had got,
And spent itself half in the pot.
With care I cleans'd the sneaking varlet
Which late had been in pool of harlot;
But neither shirt nor water cou'd
Remove the stench of lech'rous mud.
The Queen of Love from sea did spring,
Whence the best c---s still smell like ling.
But sure this damn'd notorious bitch
Was made o'th' foam of Jane Shore's ditch;
Or else her c--- could never stink
Like pump that's foul, or nasty sink.
From lechers dozed with sleep and drink,
When they intend to make up pack
By filching sheets or shirt from back,
So were you pleas'd to steal away
From me, whilst on your bed I lay;
But long you had not been departed
When pinch'd with cold from thence I started;
Where missing you I stamp'd and star'd,
Like Bacon when he wak'd and heard
His Brazen Head in vain had spoke,
And saw it lie in pieces broke.
Sighing, I to my chamber make,
Where ev'ry limb was stiff as stake,
Unless poor p---, which did feel
Like slimy skin of new-stripped eel,
Or pudding that mischance had got,
And spent itself half in the pot.
With care I cleans'd the sneaking varlet
Which late had been in pool of harlot;
But neither shirt nor water cou'd
Remove the stench of lech'rous mud.
The Queen of Love from sea did spring,
Whence the best c---s still smell like ling.
But sure this damn'd notorious bitch
Was made o'th' foam of Jane Shore's ditch;
Or else her c--- could never stink
Like pump that's foul, or nasty sink.
When this was done, to bed I went,
Where that whole day in sleep I spent;
But the next morning, fresh and gay
As citizen on holiday,
I wander'd in the spacious Town,
Amongst the bawds of best renown,
Making enquiry far and near
To find out fresh and wholesome gear.
To Temple I a visit made—
Temple, the beauty of her trade!
The only bawd that ever I
For want of whore could occupy.
She made me friends with Mrs. Cuffley,
Whom we indeed had us'd too roughly,
For by a gentler way I found
The nymph would f--- under ten pound.
So resty jades that scorn to stir,
Tho' oft provok'd by whip and spur,
By milder usage may be got
To fall into their wonted trot.
Where that whole day in sleep I spent;
110
As citizen on holiday,
I wander'd in the spacious Town,
Amongst the bawds of best renown,
Making enquiry far and near
To find out fresh and wholesome gear.
To Temple I a visit made—
Temple, the beauty of her trade!
The only bawd that ever I
For want of whore could occupy.
She made me friends with Mrs. Cuffley,
Whom we indeed had us'd too roughly,
For by a gentler way I found
The nymph would f--- under ten pound.
So resty jades that scorn to stir,
Tho' oft provok'd by whip and spur,
By milder usage may be got
To fall into their wonted trot.
But what success I further had,
And what discoveries good and bad
I made by roving up and down,
I'll tell you when you come to town.
And what discoveries good and bad
I made by roving up and down,
I'll tell you when you come to town.
Further, I have obey'd your motion,
Tho' much provok'd by pill and potion,
And sent you down some paltry rhymes,
The greatest grievance of our times,
When such as Nature never made
For poets daily do invade
Wit's empire, both the stage and press—
And what is worse, with good success.
Tho' much provok'd by pill and potion,
And sent you down some paltry rhymes,
The greatest grievance of our times,
When such as Nature never made
For poets daily do invade
Wit's empire, both the stage and press—
And what is worse, with good success.
—ETHEREGE.
112
Another Letter by the Lord Buckhurst to Mr. Etherege
If I can guess the Devil choke me
What horrid fury could provoke thee
To use thy railing, scurrilous wit
'Gainst p--- and c--- the source of it
For what but p--- and c--- do's raise
Our thoughts to songs and roundelays,
Enables us to anagrams
And other amorous flim flams?
Then we write plays and so proceed
To bays, the poets' sacred weed.
Hast thou no respect for God Priapus?
That ancient story should not 'scape us.
Priapus was a Roman God,
But in plain English, p--- and cod.
Who pleas'd their sisters, wives, and daughters,
Guarded their pippins and pomwaters;
For at the orchard's utmost entry
This mighty deity stood sentry,
Invested in a tatter'd blanket,
To scare the magpies from their banquet.
But this may serve to show we trample
On rule and method by example
Of modern writers, who to snap at all,
Will talk of Caesar in the Capitol,
Of Cynthia's beams and Sol's bright ray,
Known foe to buttermilk and whey,
Which softens wax and hardens clay.
All this without the least connection,
Which to say truth's enough to vex one;
But farewell all poetic dizziness,
And now to come unto the business.
What horrid fury could provoke thee
To use thy railing, scurrilous wit
'Gainst p--- and c--- the source of it
For what but p--- and c--- do's raise
Our thoughts to songs and roundelays,
Enables us to anagrams
And other amorous flim flams?
Then we write plays and so proceed
To bays, the poets' sacred weed.
Hast thou no respect for God Priapus?
That ancient story should not 'scape us.
Priapus was a Roman God,
But in plain English, p--- and cod.
Who pleas'd their sisters, wives, and daughters,
Guarded their pippins and pomwaters;
For at the orchard's utmost entry
This mighty deity stood sentry,
Invested in a tatter'd blanket,
To scare the magpies from their banquet.
But this may serve to show we trample
On rule and method by example
Of modern writers, who to snap at all,
Will talk of Caesar in the Capitol,
Of Cynthia's beams and Sol's bright ray,
Known foe to buttermilk and whey,
Which softens wax and hardens clay.
All this without the least connection,
Which to say truth's enough to vex one;
113
And now to come unto the business.
Tell the bright nymph how sad and pensively,
Ever since we us'd her so offensively
In dismal shades, with arms across
I sit lamenting of my loss.
To Echo I her name commend,
Who has it now at her tongue's end,
And parrot-like repeats the same;
For should you talk of Tamberlaine,
Cuffley! she cries at the same time
(Though the last accent does not rhyme)—
Far more than Echo e'er did yet
For Phyllis or bright Amoret.
Ever since we us'd her so offensively
In dismal shades, with arms across
I sit lamenting of my loss.
To Echo I her name commend,
Who has it now at her tongue's end,
And parrot-like repeats the same;
For should you talk of Tamberlaine,
Cuffley! she cries at the same time
(Though the last accent does not rhyme)—
Far more than Echo e'er did yet
For Phyllis or bright Amoret.
With penknife keen of moderate size,
As bright and piercing as her eyes,
(A glitt'ring weapon, which would scorn
To pare a nail or cut a corn)
Upon the trees of smoothest bark
I carve her name or else her mark,
Which commonly's a bleeding heart,
A weeping eye, or flaming dart.
As bright and piercing as her eyes,
(A glitt'ring weapon, which would scorn
To pare a nail or cut a corn)
Upon the trees of smoothest bark
I carve her name or else her mark,
Which commonly's a bleeding heart,
A weeping eye, or flaming dart.
Here on a beech, like am'rous sot,
I sometimes carve a true-love's knot.
There a tall oak her name do's wear,
In a large spreading character.
I chose the fairest and the best
Of all the grove: among the rest
I carv'd it on a lofty pine,
Who wept a pint of turpentine;
Such was the terror of her name,
By the report of evil fame,
Who, tired with immoderate flight,
Had lodg'd upon its boughs all night.
The wary tree, who fear'd a clap,
And knew the virtue of its sap,
Dropped balsam into ev'ry wound
And in an hour's time was sound.
I sometimes carve a true-love's knot.
There a tall oak her name do's wear,
In a large spreading character.
I chose the fairest and the best
Of all the grove: among the rest
I carv'd it on a lofty pine,
Who wept a pint of turpentine;
Such was the terror of her name,
By the report of evil fame,
Who, tired with immoderate flight,
Had lodg'd upon its boughs all night.
The wary tree, who fear'd a clap,
And knew the virtue of its sap,
114
And in an hour's time was sound.
But you are unacquainted yet
With half the power of Amoret;
For she can drink as well as swive,
Her growing empire still must thrive.
Our hearts weak forts we must resign
When beauty does its forces join
With man's strong enemy, good wine.
This I was told by my Lord O'Brien,
A man whose words I much rely on:
He kept touch and came down hither
When you were scar'd by the foul weather.
But if thou wouldst forgiven be,
Say that a c--- detained thee;
C---! whose strong charms the world bewitches,
The joy of kings! the beggar's riches!
The courtier's business! statesman's leisure!
The tired tinker's ease and pleasure!
Of which, alas, I've leave to prate,
But oh, the rigor of my fate!
For want of bouncing bona-roba,
Lasciva est nobis pagina vita proba.
For that rhyme I was fain to fumble;
When Pegasus begins to stumble,
'Tis time to rest, your very humble.
With half the power of Amoret;
For she can drink as well as swive,
Her growing empire still must thrive.
Our hearts weak forts we must resign
When beauty does its forces join
With man's strong enemy, good wine.
This I was told by my Lord O'Brien,
A man whose words I much rely on:
He kept touch and came down hither
When you were scar'd by the foul weather.
But if thou wouldst forgiven be,
Say that a c--- detained thee;
C---! whose strong charms the world bewitches,
The joy of kings! the beggar's riches!
The courtier's business! statesman's leisure!
The tired tinker's ease and pleasure!
Of which, alas, I've leave to prate,
But oh, the rigor of my fate!
For want of bouncing bona-roba,
Lasciva est nobis pagina vita proba.
For that rhyme I was fain to fumble;
When Pegasus begins to stumble,
'Tis time to rest, your very humble.
—BUCKHURST.
115
Mr. Etherege's Answer
So soft and am'rously you write
Of c--- and p---, the c---'s delight,
That were I still in lantern sweating,
Swallowing of bolus or a-spitting,
I should forgive each injury
The pocky whores have offer'd me,
And only of my fate complain
Because I must from c--- abstain—
The powerful c---, whose very name
Kindles in me an amorous flame!
Begins to make my pintle rise
And long again to fight love's prize,
Forgetful of those many scars
Which he has gotten in those wars.
This shows love's chiefest magic lies
In women's c---, not in their eyes:
There Cupid does his revels keep,
There lovers all their sorrows steep;
For having once but tasted that,
Their miseries are quite forgot.
This may suffice to let you know
That I to c--- am not a foe,
Though you are pleas'd to think me so;
'Tis strange his zeal should be in suspicion
Who dies a martyr for's religion.
Of c--- and p---, the c---'s delight,
That were I still in lantern sweating,
Swallowing of bolus or a-spitting,
I should forgive each injury
The pocky whores have offer'd me,
And only of my fate complain
Because I must from c--- abstain—
The powerful c---, whose very name
Kindles in me an amorous flame!
Begins to make my pintle rise
And long again to fight love's prize,
Forgetful of those many scars
Which he has gotten in those wars.
This shows love's chiefest magic lies
In women's c---, not in their eyes:
There Cupid does his revels keep,
There lovers all their sorrows steep;
For having once but tasted that,
Their miseries are quite forgot.
This may suffice to let you know
That I to c--- am not a foe,
Though you are pleas'd to think me so;
'Tis strange his zeal should be in suspicion
Who dies a martyr for's religion.
But now to give you an account
Of Cuffley, that Whore paramount!
Cuffley, whose beauty warms the age,
And fills our youth with love and rage;
Who like fierce wolves pursue the game,
While secretly the lecherous dame
With some choice gallant takes her flight,
And in a corner f--- all night.
Then the next morning we all hunt
To find whose fingers smell of c---,
With jealousy and envy mov'd
Against the man that was belov'd.
Whilst you to Echo teach her name,
Thus it becomes the voice of fame
In every corner of the town.
We here proclaim her high renown
Whilst you within some neighb'ring grove
Indite the story of your love,
And with your penknife keen and bright
On stately trees your passion write,
So that each nymph that passes through
Must envy her and pity you.
We at the Fleece or at the Bear,
With good case knife, well whet on stair,
(A gentle weapon, made to feed
Mankind and not to let him bleed)
A thousand am'rous fancies scrape.
There's not a pewter dish can 'scape
Without her name or arms, which are
The same that love himself does bear.
Here one, to show you love's no glutton,
I'th' midst of supper leaves his mutton,
And on his greasy plate, with care,
Carves the bright image of the fair.
Of Cuffley, that Whore paramount!
Cuffley, whose beauty warms the age,
And fills our youth with love and rage;
Who like fierce wolves pursue the game,
116
With some choice gallant takes her flight,
And in a corner f--- all night.
Then the next morning we all hunt
To find whose fingers smell of c---,
With jealousy and envy mov'd
Against the man that was belov'd.
Whilst you to Echo teach her name,
Thus it becomes the voice of fame
In every corner of the town.
We here proclaim her high renown
Whilst you within some neighb'ring grove
Indite the story of your love,
And with your penknife keen and bright
On stately trees your passion write,
So that each nymph that passes through
Must envy her and pity you.
We at the Fleece or at the Bear,
With good case knife, well whet on stair,
(A gentle weapon, made to feed
Mankind and not to let him bleed)
A thousand am'rous fancies scrape.
There's not a pewter dish can 'scape
Without her name or arms, which are
The same that love himself does bear.
Here one, to show you love's no glutton,
I'th' midst of supper leaves his mutton,
And on his greasy plate, with care,
Carves the bright image of the fair.
Another, though a drunken sot,
Neglects his wine and on the pot
A band of naked Cupids draws,
With p--- no bigger than wheat straws.
Then on a nasty candlestick
One figures love's hieroglyphic,
A couchant c--- and rampant p---.
And that the sight may more inflame,
The lookers-on subscribe her name:
Cuffley! her sex's pride and shame.
There's not a man but does discover
By some such action he's her lover.
Neglects his wine and on the pot
A band of naked Cupids draws,
With p--- no bigger than wheat straws.
Then on a nasty candlestick
One figures love's hieroglyphic,
A couchant c--- and rampant p---.
And that the sight may more inflame,
117
Cuffley! her sex's pride and shame.
There's not a man but does discover
By some such action he's her lover.
But now 'tis time to give her over,
And let your Lordship know you are
The mistress that employs our care.
Your absence makes us melancholy,
Nor drink nor c--- can make us jolly,
Unless we've you within our arms,
In whom there dwells diviner charms.
Then quit with speed your pensive grove
And here in town pursue your love;
Where at your coming you shall find
Your servants glad, your mistress kind,
All things devoted to your mind;
And let your Lordship know you are
The mistress that employs our care.
Your absence makes us melancholy,
Nor drink nor c--- can make us jolly,
Unless we've you within our arms,
In whom there dwells diviner charms.
Then quit with speed your pensive grove
And here in town pursue your love;
Where at your coming you shall find
Your servants glad, your mistress kind,
All things devoted to your mind;
With your very Humble Servant.—ETHEREGE.
| The Poems of Charles Sackville | |