The Poems of Charles Sackville Sixth Earl of Dorset: Edited by Brice Harris |
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| II. |
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Another Letter by the Lord Buckhurst to Mr. Etherege
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| VII. |
 | The Poems of Charles Sackville |  |
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.
| The Poems of Charles Sackville | |