He thought of what he did not name;
And would reform, but durst not blame.
At first he therefore preach’d his wife
The comforts of a pious life:
Told her how transient beauty was;
That all must die, and flesh was grass: 50
He bought her sermons, psalms, and graces;
And doubled down the useful places.
But still the weight of worldly care
Allow’d her little time for prayer:
And Cleopatra was read o’er,
While Scot, and Wake, and twenty more,
That teach one to deny oneself,
Stood unmolested on the shelf.
An untouch’d Bible grac’d her toilet:
No fear that thumb of hers should spoil it.
In short, the trade was still the same: 61
The dame went out, the Colonel seme.
What’s to be done? poor Carvel cried:
Another battery must be tried:
What if to spells I had recourse?
’Tis but to hinder something worse.
The end must justify the means:
He only sins who ill intends:
Since therefore ’tis to combat evil,
’Tis lawful to employ the devil. 70
Forthwith the devil did appear
(For name him, and he’s always near),
Not in the shape in which he plies
At miss’s elbow when she lies;
Or stands before the nursery doors,
To take the naughty boy that roars:
But, without saucer-eye or claw,
Like a grave barrister-at-law.
Hans Carvel, lay aside your grief,
The devil says; I bring relief. 80
Relief, says Hans: pray let me crave
Your name, Sir. — Satan. — Sir, your slave;
I did not look upon your feet:
You’ll pardon me: — Ay, now I see’t:
And pray, Sir, when came you from hell?
Our friends there, did you leave them well?
All well; but pr’ythee, honest Hans,
(Says Satan) leave your complaisance:
The truth is this: I cannot stay
Flaring in sunshine all the day: 90
For, entre nous, we hellish sprites
Love more the fresco of the nights;
And oftener our receipts convey
In dreams, than any other way.
I tell you therefore as a friend,
Ere morning dawns, your fears shall end:
Go then this evening, master Carvel,
Lay down your fowls, and broach your barrel;
Let friends and wine dissolve your care;
Whilst I the great receipt prepare: — 100
To-night I’ll bring it, by my faith;
Believe for once what Satan saith.
Away went Hans: glad? not a little;
Obey’d the devil to a tittle;
Invited friends some half a dozen,
The Colonel, and my lady’s cousin.
The meat was serv’d; the bowls were crown’d;
Catches were sung; and healths went round;
Barbadoes waters for the close;
Till Hans had fairly got his dose: 110
The Colonel toasted to the best:
The Dame mov’d off, to be undrest:
The chimes went twelve: the guests withdrew:
But when, or how, Hans hardly knew.
Some modern anecdotes aver,
He nodded in his elbow chair;
From thence was carried off to bed:
John held his heels, and Nan his head.
My lady was disturb’d: new sorrow!
Which Hans must answer for to-morrow. 120
In bed then view this happy pair;
And think how Hymen triumph’d there.
Hans fast asleep as soon as laid,
The duty of the night unpaid:
The waking dame, with thoughts opprest,
That made her hate both him and rest:
By such a husband, such a wife!
’Twas Acme’s and Septimius’ life
The lady sigh’d: the lover snor’d:
The punctual devil kept his word: 130
Appear’d to honest Hans again;
But not at all by madam seen:
And giving him a magic ring,
Fit for the finger of a king;
Dear Hans, said he, this jewel take.
And wear it long for Satan’s sake:
‘Twill do your business to a hair:
For, long as you this ring shall wear,
As sure as I look over Lincoln,
That ne’er shall happen which you think on. 140
Hans took the ring with joy extreme;
(All this was only in a dream)
And, thrusting it beyond his joint,
’Tis done, he cried: I’ve gain’d my point. —
What point, said she, you ugly beast?
You neither give me joy nor rest:
’Tis done. — What’s done, you drunken bear?
You’ve thrust your finger G-d knows where.
A DUTCH PROVERB.
FIRE, water, woman, are man’s ruin:
Says wise professor Vander Bruin.
By flames a house I hir’d was lost
Last year, and I must pay the cost.
This spring the rains o’erflow’d my ground:
And my best Flanders mare was drown’d.
A slave I am to Clara’s eyes:
The gipsy knows her power, and flies.
Fire, water, woman, are my ruin:
And groat thy wisdom, Vander Bruin.
PAULO PURGANTI AND HIS WIFE.
AN HONEST, BUT A SIMPLE PAIR.
EST enim quiddam, idque intelligitur in omni virtute, quod
deceat: quod cogitatione magis à virtute potest quàm re separari.
CIC. de Off. L. 2.
BEYOND the fix’d and settled rules
Of vice and virtue in the schools,
Beyond the letter of the law,
Which keeps our men and maids in awe,
The better sort should set before ’em
A grace, a manner, a decorum;
Something, that gives their acts a light;
Makes ’em not only just, but bright;
And sets them in that open fame,
Which witty malice cannot blame. 10
For ’tis in life, as ’tis in painting:
Much may be right, yet much be wanting;
From lines drawn true, our eye may trace
A foot, a knee, a hand, a face:
May justly own the picture wrought
Exact to rule, exempt from fault:
Yet, if the colouring be not there,
The Titian stroke, the Guido air;
To nicest judgment show the piece;
At best ‘twill only not displease: 20
It would not gain on Jersey’s eye:
Bradford would frown, and set it by.
Thus in the picture of our mind
The action may be well design’d;
Guided by law, and bound by duty;
Yet want this Je ne sçay quay of beauty:
And though its error may be such,
As Knags and Burgess cannot hit;
It yet may feel the nicer touch
Of Wycherley’s or Congreve’s wit. 30
What is this talk? replies a friend,
And where will this dry moral end?
The truth of what you here lay down
By some example should be shown. —
With all my heart, — for once; read on.
An honest, but a simple pair
(And twenty other I forbear)
May serve to make this thesis clear.
A doctor of great skill and fame,
Paulo Purganti was his name, 40
Had a good, comely, virtuous wife;
No w
oman led a better life:
She to intrigues was e’en hard-hearted:
She chuckled when a bawd was carted;
And thought the nation ne’er would thrive,
Till all the whores were burnt alive.
On married men, that dare be bad,
She thought no mercy should be had;
They should be bang’d, or starv’d, or flead,
Or serv’d like Romish priests in Swede. 50
In short, all lewdness she defied:
And stiff was her parochial pride.
Yet, in an honest way, the dame
Was a great lover of that same;
And could from Scripture take her cue,
That husbands should give wives their due.
Her prudence did so justly steer
Between the gay and the severe,
That if in some regards she chose
To curb poor Paulo in too close; 60
In others she relax’d again,
And govern’d with a looser rein.
Thus though she strictly did confine
The doctor from excess of wine;
With oysters, eggs, and vermicelli,
She let him almost burst his belly:
Thus drying coffee was denied;
But chocolate that loss supplied:
And for tobacco (who could bear it),
Filthy concomitant of claret! 70
(Blest revolution!) one might see
Eringo roots, and bohea tea.
She often set the doctor’s band,
And strok’d his beard, and squeez’d his hand:
Kindly complain’d, that after noon
He went to pore on books too soon:
She held it wholesomer by much,
To rest a little on the couch: —
About his waist in bed a-nights
She clung so dose — for fear of sprites. 80
The Doctor understood the call;
But had not always wherewithal.
The lion’s skin too short, you know
(As Plutarch’s Morals finely show),
Was lengthen’d by the fox’s tail;
And art supplies, where strength may fail.
Unwilling then in arms to meet
The enemy he could not beat;
He strove to lengthen the campaign,
And save his forces by chicane. 90
Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus
By fair retreat grew Maximus,
Shows us, that all the warrior can do
With force inferior, is CUNCTANDO.
One day then, as the foe drew near,
With love, and joy, and life, and dear;
Our don, who knew this tittletattle
Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle:
Thought it extremely àpropos,
To ward against the coming blow: 100
To ward: but how? Ay, there’s the question;
Fierce the assault, unarm’d the bastion.
The doctor feign’d a strange surprise:
He felt her pulse; he view’d her eyes;
That beat too last; these roll’d too quick;
She was, he said, or would be sick;
He judg’d it absolutely good,
That she should purge and cleanse her blood.
Spa waters for that end were got:
If they pass’d easily or not, 110
What matters it? the lady’s fever
Continued violent as ever.
For a distemper of this kind,
(Blackmore and Hans are of my mind,)
If once it youthful blood infects,
And chiefly of the female sex,
Is scarce remov’d by pill or potion;
Whate’er might be our doctor’s notion.
One luckless night then, as in bed
The doctor and the dame were laid; 120
Again this cruel fever came,
High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame.
What measures shall poor Paulo keep
With madam in this piteous taking?
She, like Macbeth, has murder’d sleep,
And won’t allow him rest through waking.
Sad state of matters! when we dare
Nor ask for peace, nor offer war;
Nor Livy nor Comines have shown,
What in this juncture may be done. 130
Grotius might own, that Paulo’s case is
Harder than any which he places
Amongst his Belli and his Pacis.
He strove, alas! but strove in vain,
By dint of logic to maintain,
That all the sex was born to grieve,
Down to her ladyship from Eve.
He rang’d his tropes, and preach’d up patience;
Back’d his opinion with quotations,
Divines and moralists; and run ye on 140
Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan.
As much in vain he bid her try
To fold her arms, to close her eye;
Telling her, rest would do her good,
If any thing in nature could:
So held the Greeks quite down from Galen,
Masters and princes of their calling:
So all our modern friends maintain
(Though no great Greeks) in Warwick-lane.
Reduce, my Muse, the wandering song. 150
A tale should never be too long.
The more he talk’d, the more she burn’d,
And sigh’d, and teas’d, and grant’d, and tam’d:
At last, I wish, said she, my dear —
(And whisper’d something in his ear.)
You wish! wish on, the doctor cries:
Lord! when will womankind be wine?
What, in your waters? are you and?
Why poison is not half so had.
I’ll do it — but I give you warning: 160
You’ll die before to-morrow morning. —
’Tis kind, my dear, what you advise;
The lady with a sigh replies;
But life, you know, at best is pain;
And death is what we should disdain.
So do it, therefore, and adieu:
For I will die for love of you: —
Let wanton wives by death be sear’d:
But, to my comfort, I’m prepar’d.
THE LADLE.
THE sceptics think, ’twas long ago,
Since gods came down incognito:
To see who were their friends or foes,
And how our actions fell or rose:
That since they gave things their beginning,
And set this whirligig a spinning;
Supine they in their Heaven remain.
Exempt from passion, and from pain.
And frankly leave us human elves,
To cut and shuffle for ourselves: — to
To stand or walk, to rise or tumble,
As matter, and as motion jumble.
The poets now, and painters hold
This thesis both absurd and bold:
And your good-natur’d gods, they say,
Descend some twice or thrice a-day:
Else all these things we toil so hard in,
Would not avail one single farthing;
For, when the hero we rehearse,
To grace his actions and our verse; 20
’Tis not by dint of human thought,
That to his Latium he is brought;
Iris descends by Fate’s commands,
To guide his steps through foreign lauds:
And Amphitrite clears his way
From rooks and quicksands in the sea.
And if you see him in a sketch
(Though drawn by Paulo or Carache),
He shews not half his force and strength,
Strutting in armour, and at length: 30
That he may make his proper figure,
The piece must yet be four yards bigger:
The nymphs conduct him to the field;
One holds his sword, and one his shield:
Mars standing by asserts his quarrel;
And Fame flies after with a laurel.
These points, I say, of speculation
(As ‘twere to save or sink the nation)
Men idly learned will dispute,
Assert, object, confirm, refute; 40
Each mighty angry, mighty right,
With equal arms sustains the fight
Till now no umpire can agree ’em:
So both draw off and sing Te Deum.
Is it in equilibrio,
If deities descend or no?
Then let the affirmative prevail,
As requisite to form my tale:
For by all parlies ’tis contest,
That those opinions are the best, 50
Which in their nature most conduce
To present ends, and private use.
Two gods came therefore from above,
One Mercury, the t’other Jove:
The humour was (it seems) to know,
If all the favours they bestow,
Could from our own perverseness ease us;
And if our wish enjoy’d would please us.
Discoursing largely on this theme,
O’er hills and dales their godships came; 60
Till, well-nigh tir’d and almost night,
They thought it proper to alight.
Note here, that it os true as odd is,
That in disguise a god or goddess
Exerts no supernatural powers;
But acts on maxims much like ours.
They spied at last a country farm,
Where all was snug, and clean, and warm;
For woods before and hills behind
Secur’d it both from rain and wind: 70
Large oxen in the fields were lowing:
Good grain was sow’d; good fruit was growing:
Of last year’s corn in barns great store;
Fat turkeys gobbling at the door:
And wealth (in short) with peace consented,
That people here should live contented:
But did they in effect do so?
Have patience, friend, and thou shalt know.
The honest farmer and his wife,
To years declin’d from prime of life, 80
Had struggled with the marriage noose,
As almost every couple does:
Sometimes, my plague! sometimes, my darling!
Kissing to-day, to-morrow snarling;
Jointly submitting to endure
That evil, which admits no cure.
Our gods the outward gate unbarr’d:
Our farmer met ’em in the yard;
Thought they were folks that lost their way
And ask’d them civilly to stay: 90
‘ Told ’em for supper, or for bed
They might go on, and be worse sped.
So said, so done: the gods consent:
All three into the parlour went:
Complete Works of Matthew Prior Page 9
