 | Alexander Pope: Minor poems |  |
256
The CAPON'S TALE:
To a Lady who father'd her Lampoons upon her Acquaintance.
In
Yorkshire dwelt a sober Yeoman,
Whose Wife, a clean, pains-taking Woman,
Fed num'rous Poultry in her Pens,
And saw her Cocks well serve her Hens.
Whose Wife, a clean, pains-taking Woman,
Fed num'rous Poultry in her Pens,
And saw her Cocks well serve her Hens.
A Hen she had, whose tuneful Clocks
Drew after her a Train of Cocks:
With Eyes so piercing, yet so pleasant,
You would have sworn this Hen a Pheasant.
All the plum'd Beau-monde round her gathers;
Lord! what a Brustling up of Feathers!
Morning from Noon there was no knowing,
There was such Flutt'ring, Chuckling, Crowing:
Each forward Bird must thrust his head in,
And not a Cock but would be treading.
Drew after her a Train of Cocks:
With Eyes so piercing, yet so pleasant,
You would have sworn this Hen a Pheasant.
All the plum'd Beau-monde round her gathers;
257
Morning from Noon there was no knowing,
There was such Flutt'ring, Chuckling, Crowing:
Each forward Bird must thrust his head in,
And not a Cock but would be treading.
Yet tender was this Hen so fair,
And hatch'd more Chicks than she could rear.
And hatch'd more Chicks than she could rear.
Our prudent Dame bethought her then
Of some Dry-Nurse to save her Hen;
She made a Capon drunk: In fine
He eat the Sops, she sipp'd the Wine:
His Rump well pluck'd with Nettles stings,
And claps the Brood beneath his Wings.
Of some Dry-Nurse to save her Hen;
She made a Capon drunk: In fine
He eat the Sops, she sipp'd the Wine:
His Rump well pluck'd with Nettles stings,
And claps the Brood beneath his Wings.
The feather'd Dupe awakes content,
O'erjoy'd to see what God had sent.
Thinks he's the Hen, clocks, keeps a Pother,
A foolish Foster-Father-Mother.
O'erjoy'd to see what God had sent.
Thinks he's the Hen, clocks, keeps a Pother,
A foolish Foster-Father-Mother.
Such, Lady Mary, are your Tricks;
But since you hatch, pray own your Chicks:
You should be better skill'd in Nocks,
Nor like your Capons, serve your Cocks.
But since you hatch, pray own your Chicks:
You should be better skill'd in Nocks,
Nor like your Capons, serve your Cocks.
| Alexander Pope: Minor poems | |