The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Mount up, and take a Salamander’s Name.

  Soft yielding Minds to Water glide away,

  And sip with Nymphs, their Elemental Tea.

  The graver Prude sinks downward to a Gnome,

  In search of Mischief still on Earth to roam.

  The light Coquettes in Sylphs aloft repair,

  And sport and flutter in the Fields of Air.

  Know farther yet; Whoever fair and chaste

  Rejects Mankind, is by some Sylph embrac’d:

  For Spirits, freed from mortal Laws, with ease

  Assume what Sexes and what Shapes they please.

  What guards the Purity of melting Maids,

  In Courtly Balls, and Midnight Masquerades,

  Safe from the treach’rous Friend, the daring Spark,

  The Glance by Day, the Whisper in the Dark;

  When kind Occasion prompts their warm Desires,

  When Musick softens, and when Dancing fires?

  ’Tis but their Sylph, the wise Celestials know,

  Tho’ Honour is the Word with Men below.

  (… )

  Of these am I, who thy Protection claim,

  A watchful Sprite, and Ariel is my Name.

  Late, as I rang’d the Crystal Wilds of Air,

  In the clear Mirror of thy ruling Star

  I saw, alas! some dread Event impend,

  Ere to the Main this Morning Sun descend.

  But Heav’n reveals not what, or how, or where:

  Warn’d by thy Sylph, oh Pious Maid beware!

  This to disclose is all thy Guardian can.

  Beware of all, but most beware of Man!

  He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long,

  Leapt up, and wak’d his Mistress with his Tongue.

  ’Twas then Belinda! if Report say true,

  Thy Eyes first open’d on a Billet-doux;

  Wounds, Charms, and Ardors, were no sooner read,

  But all the Vision vanish’d from thy Head.

  And now, unveil’d, the Toilet stands display’d,

  Each Silver Vase in mystic Order laid.

  First, rob’d in White, the Nymph intent adores

  With Head uncover’d, the Cosmetic Pow’rs.

  A heav’nly Image in the Glass appears,

  To that she bends, to that her Eyes she rears;

  Th’inferior Priestess, at her Altar’s side,

  Trembling, begins the sacred Rites of Pride.

  Unnumber’d Treasures ope at once, and here

  The various Off’rings of the World appear;

  From each she nicely culls with curious Toil,

  And decks the Goddess with the glitt’ring Spoil.

  This Casket India’s glowing Gems unlocks,

  And all Arabia breathes from yonder Box.

  The Tortoise here and Elephant unite,

  Transform’d to Combs, the speckled and the white.

  Here Files of Pins extend their shining Rows,

  Puffs, Powders, Patches, Bibles, Billet-doux.

  Now awful Beauty puts on all its Arms;

  The Fair each moment rises in her Charms,

  Repairs her Smiles, awakens ev’ry Grace,

  And calls forth all the Wonders of her Face;

  Sees by Degrees a purer Blush arise,

  And keener Lightnings quicken in her Eyes.

  The busy Sylphs surround their darling Care;

  These set the Head, and those divide the Hair,

  Some fold the Sleeve, while others plait the Gown;

  And Betty’s prais’d for Labours not her own.

  from Canto V

  Then grave Clarissa graceful wav’d her Fan;

  Silence ensu’d, and thus the Nymph began.

  Say, why are Beauties prais’d and honour’d most,

  The wise Man’s Passion, and the vain Man’s Toast?

  Why deck’d with all that Land and Sea afford,

  Why Angels call’d, and Angel-like ador’d?

  Why round our Coaches crowd the white-glov’d Beaus,

  Why bows the Side-box from its inmost Rows?

  How vain are all these Glories, all our Pains,

  Unless good Sense preserve what Beauty gains:

  That Men may say, when we the Front-box grace,

  Behold the first in Virtue, as in Face!

  Oh! if to dance all Night, and dress all Day,

  Charm’d the Small-pox, or chas’d old Age away;

  Who would not scorn what Huswife’s Cares produce,

  Or who would learn one earthly Thing of Use?

  To patch, nay ogle, might become a Saint,

  Nor could it sure be such a Sin to paint.

  But since, alas! frail Beauty must decay,

  Curl’d or uncurl’d, since Locks will turn to grey,

  Since painted, or not painted, all shall fade,

  And she who scorns a Man, must die a Maid;

  What then remains, but well our Pow’r to use,

  And keep good Humour still whate’er we lose?

  And trust me, Dear! good Humour can prevail,

  When Airs, and Flights, and Screams, and Scolding fail.

  Beauties in vain their pretty Eyes may roll;

  Charms strike the Sight, but Merit wins the Soul.

  So spoke the Dame, but no Applause ensu’d;

  Belinda frown’d, Thalestris call’d her Prude.

  1716

  JOHN GAY from Trivia: Or The Art of Walking the Streets of London

  [Of the Weather]

  O roving Muse, recal that wond’rous Year, An Episode of the Great Frost

  When Winter reign’d in bleak Britannia’s Air;

  When hoary Thames, with frosted Oziers crown’d,

  Was three long Moons in icy Fetters bound.

  The Waterman, forlorn along the Shore,

  Pensive reclines upon his useless Oar,

  Sees harness’d Steeds desert the stony Town;

  And wander Roads unstable, not their own:

  Wheels o’er the harden’d Waters smoothly glide,

  And rase with whiten’d Tracks the slipp’ry Tide.

  Here the fat Cook piles high the blazing Fire,

  And scarce the Spit can turn the Steer entire.

  Booths sudden hide the Thames, long Streets appear,

  And num’rous Games proclaim the crouded Fair.

  So when a Gen’ral bids the martial Train

  Spread their Encampment o’er the spatious Plain;

  Thick-rising Tents a Canvas City build,

  And the loud Dice resound thro’ all the Field.

  ’Twas here the Matron found a doleful Fate:

  Let Elegiac Lay the Woe relate,

  Soft, as the Breath of distant Flutes, at Hours,

  When silent Ev’ning closes up the Flow’rs;

  Lulling, as falling Water’s hollow noise;

  Indulging Grief, like Philomela’s Voice.

  Doll ev’ry Day had walk’d these treach’rous Roads;

  Her Neck grew warpt beneath autumnal Loads

  Of various Fruit; she now a Basket bore,

  That Head, alas! shall Basket bear no more.

  Each Booth she frequent past, in quest of Gain,

  And Boys with pleasure heard her shrilling Strain.

  Ah Doll! all Mortals must resign their Breath,

  And Industry it self submit to Death!

  The cracking Crystal yields, she sinks, she dyes,

  Her Head, chopt off, from her lost Shoulders flies:

  Pippins she cry’d, but Death her Voice confounds,

  And Pip-Pip-Pip along the Ice resounds.

  So when the Thracian Furies Orpheus tore,

  And left his bleeding Trunk deform’d with Gore,

  His sever’d Head floats down the silver Tide,

  His yet warm Tongue for his lost Consort cry’d;

  Eurydice, with quiv’ring Voice, he mourn’d,

  And Heber’s Banks Eurydice return’d.

  But
now the western Gale the Flood unbinds,A Thaw

  And black’ning Clouds move on with warmer Winds,

  The wooden Town its frail Foundation leaves,

  And Thames’ full Urn rolls down his plenteous Waves:

  From ev’ry Penthouse streams the fleeting Snow,

  And with dissolving Frost the Pavements flow.

  Experienc’d Men, inur’d to City Ways,How to Know the Days of the Week

  Need not the Calendar to count their Days.

  When through the Town, with slow and solemn Air,

  Led by the Nostril, walks the muzled Bear;

  Behind him moves majestically dull,

  The Pride of Hockley-hole, the surly Bull;

  Learn hence the Periods of the Week to name,

  Mondays and Thursdays are the Days of Game.

  When fishy Stalls with double Store are laid;

  The golden-belly’d Carp, the broad-finn’d Maid,

  Red-speckled Trouts, the Salmon’s silver Joul,

  The jointed Lobster, and unscaly Soale,

  And luscious ’Scallops, to allure the Tastes

  Of rigid Zealots to delicious Fasts;

  Wednesdays and Fridays you’ll observe from hence,

  Days, when our Sires were doom’d to Abstinence.

  When dirty Waters from Balconies drop,

  And dextrous Damsels twirle the sprinkling Mop,

  And cleanse the spatter’d Sash, and scrub the Stairs;

  Know Saturday’s conclusive Morn appears.

  1717

  ALEXANDER POPE Epistle to Miss Blount, on Her Leaving the Town, after the Coronation

  As some fond virgin, whom her mother’s care

  Drags from the town to wholsom country air,

  Just when she learns to roll a melting eye,

  And hear a spark, yet think no danger nigh;

  From the dear man unwilling she must sever,

  Yet takes one kiss before she parts for ever:

  Thus from the world fair Zephalinda flew,

  Saw others happy, and with sighs withdrew;

  Not that their pleasures caus’d her discontent,

  She sigh’d not that They stay’d, but that She went.

  She went, to plain-work, and to purling brooks,

  Old-fashion’d halls, dull aunts, and croaking rooks,

  She went from Op’ra, park, assembly, play,

  To morning walks, and pray’rs three hours a day;

  To pass her time ’twixt reading and Bohea,

  To muse, and spill her solitary Tea,

  Or o’er cold coffee trifle with the spoon,

  Count the slow clock, and dine exact at noon;

  Divert her eyes with pictures in the fire,

  Hum half a tune, tell stories to the squire;

  Up to her godly garret after sev’n,

  There starve and pray, for that’s the way to heav’n.

  Some Squire, perhaps, you take delight to rack;

  Whose game is Whisk, whose treat a toast in sack,

  Who visits with a gun, presents you birds,

  Then gives a smacking buss, and cries – No words!

  Or with his hound comes hollowing from the stable,

  Makes love with nods, and knees beneath a table;

  Whose laughs are hearty, tho’ his jests are coarse,

  And loves you best of all things – but his horse.

  In some fair evening, on your elbow laid,

  You dream of triumphs in the rural shade;

  In pensive thought recall the fancy’d scene,

  See Coronations rise on ev’ry green;

  Before you pass th’ imaginary sights

  Of Lords, and Earls, and Dukes, and garter’d Knights;

  While the spread Fan o’ershades your closing eyes;

  Then give one flirt, and all the vision flies.

  Thus vanish sceptres, coronets, and balls,

  And leave you in lone woods, or empty walls.

  So when your slave, at some dear, idle time,

  (Not plagu’d with headachs, or the want of rhime)

  Stands in the streets, abstracted from the crew,

  And while he seems to study, thinks of you:

  Just when his fancy points your sprightly eyes,

  Or sees the blush of soft Parthenia rise,

  Gay pats my shoulder, and you vanish quite;

  Streets, chairs, and coxcombs rush upon my sight;

  Vext to be still in town, I knit my brow,

  Look sow’r, and hum a tune – as you may now.

  MATTHEW PRIOR A Better Answer to Cloe Jealous

  Dear Cloe, how blubber’d is that pretty Face?

  Thy Cheek all on Fire, and Thy Hair all uncurl’d:

  Pr’ythee quit this Caprice; and (as Old FALSTAF says)

  Let Us e’en talk a little like Folks of This World.

  How can’st Thou presume, Thou hast leave to destroy

  The Beauties, which VENUS but lent to Thy keeping?

  Those Looks were design’d to inspire Love and Joy:

  More ord’nary Eyes may serve People for weeping.

  To be vext at a Trifle or two that I writ,

  Your Judgment at once, and my Passion You wrong:

  You take that for Fact, which will scarce be found Wit:

  Od’s Life! must One swear to the Truth of a Song?

  What I speak, my fair CLOE, and what I write, shews

  The Diff ’rence there is betwixt Nature and Art:

  I court others in Verse; but I love Thee in Prose:

  And They have my Whimsies; but Thou hast my Heart.

  The God of us Verse-men (You know Child) the SUN,

  How after his Journeys He sets up his Rest:

  If at Morning o’er Earth ’tis his Fancy to run;

  At Night he reclines on his THETIS’S Breast.

  So when I am weary’d with wand’ring all Day;

  To Thee my Delight in the Evening I come:

  No Matter what Beauties I saw in my Way:

  They were but my Visits; but Thou art my Home.

  Then finish, Dear CLOE, this Pastoral War;

  And let us like HORACE and LYDIA agree:

  For Thou art a Girl as much brighter than Her,

  As He was a Poet sublimer than Me.

  MATTHEW PRIOR The Lady Who Offers Her Looking-Glass to Venus

  Venus, take my Votive Glass:

  Since I am not what I was;

  What from this Day I shall be,

  VENUS, let Me never see.

  MATTHEW PRIOR A True Maid

  No, no; for my Virginity,

  When I lose that, says ROSE, I’ll dye:

  Behind the Elmes, last Night, cry’d DICK,

  ROSE, were You not extreamly Sick?

  1719