And, void of modesty and thought,
She follows Bibo’s endless draught,
Through the soft sex again she ranges,
As youth, caprice, or fashion, changes:
Fair Alma, careless and serene,
In Fanny’s sprightly eyes is seen.
While they diffuse their infant beams,
Themselves not conscious of their flames.
Again, fair Alma sits confess’d
On Florimel’s experter breast,
When she the rising sigh constrains,
And by concealing speaks her pains.
In Cynthia’s neck fair Alma glows,
When the vain thing her jewels shows;
When Jenny’s stays are newly laced
Fair Alma plays about her waist;
And when the swelling hoop sustains
The rich brocade, fair Alma deigns
Into that lower space to enter,
Of the large round herself the center.
Again; that single limb or feature
(Such is the cogent force of Nature)
Which most did Alma’s passion move,
In the first object of her love,
For ever will be found confess’d,
And printed on the amorous breast.
O Abelard! ill-fated youth,
Thy tale will justify this truth;
But well I weet thy cruel wrong
Adorns a nobler poet’s song,
Dan Pope, for thy misfortune grieve!,
With kind concern and skill has weaved
A silken web, and ne’er shall fade
Its colours gently: as he laid
The mantle o’er thy sad distress,
And Venus shall the texture bless.
He o’er the weeping nun has drawn
Such artful folds of sacred lawn,
That Love, with equal grief and pride,
Shall see the crime he strives to hide,
And softly drawing back the veil,
The god shall to his votaries tell
Each conscious tear, each blushing grace,
That deck’d dear Eloisa’s face.
Happy the poet, bless’d the lays,
Which Buckingham has deign’d to praise.
Next, Dick, as youth and habit sways,
A hundred gambols Alma plays.
If, whilst a boy, Jack run from school,
Fond of his hunting-horn and pole,
Though gout and age his speed detain,
Old John halloos his hounds again:
By his fireside he starts the hare,
And turns her in his wicker chair.
His feet, however lame, you find,
Have got the better of his mind.
If, while the Mind was in her leg,
The dance affected nimble Peg,
Old Madge bewitch’d, at sixty-one
Calls for Green Sleeves and Jumping Joan.
In public mask or private ball,
From Lincoln’s-inn to Goldsmith’s-Hall,
All Christmas long away she trudges,
Trips it was ‘prentices and judges;
In vain her children urge her stay,
And age or palsy bar the way:
But if those images prevail,
Which whilom did affect the tail,
She still reviews the ancient scene,
Forgets the forty years between;
Awkwardly gay, and oddly merry,
Her scarf pale pink, her headknot cherry,
O’erheated with ideal rage,
She cheats her son to wed her page.
If Alma, whilst the man was young,
Slipp’d up too soon into his tongue,
Pleased with his own fantastic skill,
He lets that weapon ne’er lie still;
On any point if you dispute,
Depend upon it he’ll confute:
Change sides, and you increase your pain,
For he’ll confute you back again:
For one may speak with Tully’s tongue,
Yet all the while be in the wrong;
And ’tis remarkable that they
talk most who have the least to say.
Your dainty speakers have the curse
To plead bad causes down to worse;
As dames who native beauty want,
Still uglier look the more they paint.
Again: if in the female sex
Alma should on this member fix,
(A cruel and a desperate case,
From which Heaven shield my lovely lass!)
For ever more all care is vain
That would bring Alma down again.
As in habitual gout or stone,
The only thing that can be done
Is to correct your drink and diet,
And keep the inward foe in quiet;
So if, for any sins of ours,
Or our forefathers, higher powers,
Severe, though just, afflict our life,
With that prime ill, a talking wife,
Till death shall bring the kind relief,
We must be patient or be deaf.
You know a certain lady, Dick,
Who saw me when I last was sick;
She kindly talk’d, at least three hours,
Of plastic forms and mental powers;
Described our pre-existing station,
Before this vile terrene creation;
And, lest I should be wearied, Madam,
To cut things short, came down to Adam;
From whence, as fast as she was able,
She drowns the world, and builds up Babel:
Through Syria, Persia, Greece, she goes,
And takes the Romans in the close.
But we’ll descant on general Nature;
This is a system, not a satire.
Turn we this globe, and let us see
How different nations disagree,
In what we wear, or eat, and drink;
Nay, Dick, perhaps in what we think.
In water as you smell and taste
The soils through which it rose and past,
In Alma’s manners you may read
The place where she was born and bred.
One people from their swaddling-bands
Released their infants’ feet and hands:
Here Alma to these limbs was brought
And Sparta’s offspring kick’d and fought.
Another taught their babes to talk
Ere they could yet in go-carts walk:
There Alma settled in the tongue,
And orators from Athens sprung.
Observe but in these neighbouring lands
The different use of mouth and hands:
As men reposed their various hopes,
In battles these, and those in tropes.
In Britain’s isles, as Heylin notes,
The ladies trip in petticoats,
Which, for the honour of their nation,
They quit but on some great occasion,
Men there in breeches clad you view;
They claim that garment as their due.
In Turkey the reverse appears;
Long coats the haughty husband wears,
And greets his wife with angry speeches,
If she be seen without her breeches.
In our fantastic climes the fair
With cleanly powder dry their hair,
And round their lovely breast and head
Fresh flowers their mingled odours shed:
Your nicer Hottentots think meet
With guts and tripe to deck their feet;
With downcast looks on Totta’s legs
The ogling youth most humbly begs
She would not from his hopes remove
At once his breakfast and his love;
And if the skittish nymph should fly,
He in a double sense must die.
We simple toasters take delight
To see our women’s tee
th look white,
And every saucy ill-bred fellow
Sneers at a mouth profoundly yellow
In China none hold women sweet,
Except their snags are black as jet:
King Chihu put nine queens to death,
Convict on statute, ivory teeth.
At Tonquin, if a prince should die,
(As Jesuits write, who never lie)
The wife, and counsellor, and priest,
Who served him most, and loved him best,
Prepare and light his funeral fire,
And cheerful on the pile expire.
In Europe ’twould be hard to find
In each degree on half so kind.
Now turn we to the farthest East,
And there observe the gentry drest.
Prince Giolo and his royal sisters,
Scarr’d with ten thousand comely blisters,
The marks remaining on the skin,
To tell the quality within:
Distinguish’d flashes deck the great,
As each excels in birth or state;
His oylet-holes are more and ampler:
The king’s own body was a sampler.
Happy the climate where the beau
Wears the same suit for use and show;
And at a small expense your wife,
If once well pink’d, is cloath’d for life.
Westward again, the Indian fair
Is nicely smear’d with fat of bear:
Before you see you smell your toast,
And sweetest she who stinks the most.
The finest sparks and cleanest beaux
Drip from the shoulders to the toes.
How sleek their skins, their joints how easy!
There slovens only are not greasy.
I mention’d different ways of breeding;
Begin we in our children’s reading,
To master John the English maid
A hornbrook gives of gingerbread,
And that the child may learn the better,
As he can name he eats the letter;
Proceeding thus with vast delight,
He spells and gnaws from left to right.
But show a Hebrew’s hopeful son
Where we suppose the book begun,
The child would thank you for your kindness,
And read quite backward from our
finis
;
Devour he learning ne’er so fast,
Great A would be reserved the last.
An equal instance of this matter
Is in the manners of a daughter.
In Europe if a harmless maid,
By Nature and by Love betray’d,
Should ere a wife become a nurse,
Her friends would look on her the worse.
In China, Dampier’s Travels tell ye,
(Look in his index for Pagelli)
Soon as the British ships unmoor,
And jolly long-boats row to shore,
Down come the nobles of the land,
Each brings his daughter in his hand,
Beseeching the mysterious tar
To make her but one hour his care:
The tender mother stands affrighted,
Les her dear daughter should be slighted,
And poor Miss Yaya dreads the shame
Of going back the maid she came.
Observe how custom, Dick, compels
The lady that in Europe dwells:
After her tea she slips away,
And what to do one need not say.
Now see how great Pomonque’s queen
Behaved herself amongst the men;
Pleased with her punch, the gallant soul
First drank, then water’d in the bowl,
And sprinkled in the captain’s face
The marks of her peculiar grace. -
To close this point we need not roam
For instances so far from home.
What parts gay France from sober Spain?
A little rising rocky chain.
Of men born south or north o’ the hill,
Those seldom move, these ne’er stand still.
Dick, you love maps, and may perceive
Rome not far distant from Geneve.
If the good Pope remains at home,
He’s the first prince in Christendom.
Choose then, good Pope, at home to stay,
Nor westward, curious, take thy way:
Thy way, unhappy, shouldst thou take
From Tiber’s bank to Leman lake,
Thou art an aged priest no more,
But a young flaring painted bunny:
Thy sex is lost, thy town is gone;
No longer Rome, but Babylon.
That some few leagues should make this change,
To men unlearn’d seems mighty strange.
But need we, friend, insist on this?
Since, in the very Cantons Swiss,
All your philosophers agree,
And prove it plain, that one may be
A heretic or true believer,
On this or t’other side the rive.
Here, with an artful smile, quoth Dick -
Your proofs come mighty full and thick -
The bard, on this extensive chapter,
Wound up into poetic rapture,
Continued: Richard, cast your eye
By night upon a winter sky;
Cast it by day-light on the strand,
Which compasses fair Albion’s land;
If you can count the stars that glow
Above, or sands that lie below,
Into these common places look,
Which from great authors I have took,
And count the proofs I have collected,
To have my writings well protected:
These I lay by for time of need,
And thou may’st at thy leisure read:
For standing every critic’s rage,
I safely will, to future age
My system as a gift bequeath,
Victorious over spite and death.
CANTO III.
Richard, who now was half asleep,
Roused, nor would longer silence keep;
And sense like this, in vocal breath,
Broke from his twofold hedge of teeth.
Now if this phrase too harsh be thought,
Pope, tell the world ’tis not my fault.
Old Homer taught us thus to speak;
If ’tis not sense, at least ’tis Greek.
As folks, quoth Richard, prone to leasing,
Say things at first, because they’re pleasing,
Then prove what they have once asserted,
Nor care to have their lie deserted,
Till their own dreams at length deceive ’em,
And oft repeating they believe ’em:
Or as again those amorous blades
Who trifle with their mother’s maids,
Though at the first their wild desire
Was but to quench a present fire,
Yet if the object of their love
Chance by Lucina’s aid to prove,
They seldom let the bantling roar
In basket at a neighbour’s door,
But by the flattering glass of Nature,
Viewing themselves in Cakebread’s feature,
With serious thought and care support
What only was begun in sport.
Just so with you, my friend, it fares,
Who deal in philosophic wares.
Atoms you cut, and forms you measure,
To gratify your private pleasure,
Till airy seeds of casual wit
Do some fantastic birth beget;
And, pleased to find your system mended
Beyond what you at first intended,
The happy whimsey you pursue,
Till you at length believe it true:
Caught by your own delusive art,
You fancy f
irst, and then assert.
Quoth Matthew; Friend, as far as I
Through art or nature cast my eye,
This axiom clearly I discern,
That one must teach, and t’other learn.
No fool Pythagoras was thought;
Whilst he his weighty doctrines taught,
He made his listening scholars stand,
Their mouth still cove’d with their hand;
Else may be some odd-thinking youth,
Less friend to doctrine than to truth,
Might have refused to let his ears
Attend the music of the spheres,
Denied all transmigrating scenes,
And introduced the use of beans.
From great Lucretius take his void,
And all the world is quite destroy’d.
Deny Descart his subtle matter,
You leave him neither fire nor water.
How oddly would Sir Isaac look,
If you, in answer to his book,
Say, in the front of your discourse,
That things have no elastic force?
How could our chymic friends go on,
To find the philosophic stone,
If you more powerful reasons bring
To prove that there is no such thing?
Your chiefs in sciences and arts
Have great contempt of Alma’s parts:
They find she giddy is or dull,
She doubts if things are void or full;
And who should be presumed to tell
What she herself should see or feel?
She doubts if two and two make four,
Though she has told them twelve times o’er,
It can’t, it may be, and it must:
To which of these must Alma trust?
Nay, further yet they make her go,
In doubting if she doubts or no.
Can syllogism set things right?
No; majors soon with minors fight;
Or, both in friendly consort join’d,
The consequence limps false behind.
So to some cunning man she goes,
And asks of him how much she knows;
With patience grave he hears her speak,
And from his short notes gives her back
What from her tale he comprehended;
Thus the dispute is wisely ended.
From the account the loser brings,
The conjurer knows who stole the things.
‘Squire, (interrupted Dick) since when
Of eloquence spoil my discourse!
I tell thee this is Alma’s case.
Still asking what some wise man says,
Complete Works of Matthew Prior Page 27
