Madrigal And Trulletta :: :: University of Virginia Library

Madrigal.
To-morrow—oh! my better stars, to morrow!—
(My gracious stars! I mean to-morrow night)
Exert your influence! shine strongly for me!—
But, wherefore should I doubt?—now will I steal
To my dear Love, and with assuasive sounds
Allay her sorrow's ferment—
(knocks at the door.
Gone to sleep!—
She cannot yet!—again—once more—

(knocks.

Sculliona.
(at the window)
Who's there,
That comes so rudely to disturb the house?

Mad.
'Tis I—the bard.

Scul.
You have no business here;
My mistress ne'er will see you more—good night.

Mad.
Blast to my soul's best hope! —ne'er see me more!—
Chaos is come again —and I am—nothing—
Henceforth I'll live a sad recluse from man,
And in some shady grove, or lonely cell,
Or garret of stupendous height, inclos'd,
(Retirements blest!) where Clio, heavenly muse,
To whom the rapt'rous charms of song pertain,
Holds frequent visitation, will I write
Ten thousand ditties in Trulletta's praise—
Trulletta! most irradiate nymph, in whom
Perfection centers: in whose form the gods
Infus'd an angel's soul: whose fulgent eyes,
With brilliant sparkle, strike adorers thro'
The heart, the lights, the liver, and the—guts:
With her my ditties shall begin; with her
My endless ditties end. Her I'll pursue
Thro' all the vast infinity of thought.
Till death to worms, insatiate cannibals,
Consigns this frame, and sends my widow'd soul
To regions unexplor'd; to realms opake,
Where boiling Tartarus roars—Oh! how unlike
The bubbling musick of a purling stream,
Or gently-murmuring rill! to quaff, instead
Of Helicon, whole gulps of brimstone down—
Unfragrant bev'rige! unpoetic juice!

I cannot help taking notice that our hero's address to the stars is much more rational, than that of Lothario, who says,

To-morrow—oh, my better stars, to-morrow
Exert your influence, shine strongly for me!
Fair Penitent.

The combat propos'd by the Genoese duelists was to be at ten in the morning; wherefore a petition for the stars to shine strongly for him in the forenoon, must certainly border a little on the absurd. Our author was within an ace of falling into Mr. Rowe's mistake; but perceiving the blunder, he sensibly checks himself, and adds,

My gracious stars, I mean to-morrow night.
Dr. Humbug.

Flo.
Whose there,
That comes so rudely to disturb our rest?

Cas.
Tis I.

Orphan.

Blast to my soul's best hope.

Merope. A very poetical note of interjection. Dr. Humbug.

Chaos is come again.

Othello.

I now am—nothing.

Orphan.