Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

  A dimple in Fordyce’s cheek!

  And could you really then discover,

  In gazing those sweet beauties over,

  No other charm, no winning grace,

  Adorning either mind or face,

  But one poor dimple, to express

  The quintessence, of Loveliness?

  — Mark’d you her cheek of rosy hue?

  Mark’d you her eye of sparkling blue?

  That eye, in liquid circles moving;

  That cheek, abash’d at man’s approving;

  The one — Love’s arrows darting round

  The other — blushing for the wound:

  Did she not speak — did she not move —

  Now Pallas — now the Queen of Love

  O that the Muse — I mean that you,

  With such a model in your view,

  Should prove so weak, so very simple.

  To mock us with an idle dimple!

  Nor ought you, Pindar, to accuse

  The absence of your favourite Muse;

  Her flight is here no palliation:

  The Theme itself was inspiration.

  But surely here I ought to name

  The Siller of this heav’nly dame —

  Thee, gentle Anne, I’ll not pass o’er,

  Tho’ Pindar’s praise has gone before:

  I’ll paint — yet wherefore should I dwell

  On what all feel and know too well? —

  Come forth, ye beauteous Idols then,

  Who love the panegyric’s pen;

  Her conscious heart, to whom I’d raise

  My notes, disdains the pomp of praise.

  But now, my trusty pen and paper!

  (For I’ve no Muse to shew her shape here)

  Return we to our humble strain,

  And touch this Picture once again;

  Or yawning wits will swear ’tis time

  To let them sleep, and close our rhyme.

  For modern beaus, who scarcely spare

  More time to reading than to pray’r,

  If chance, when under hands of Frizeur,

  On some quaint piece they make a seizure,

  Or stroll from LEAKE’S with verses homewards,

  (Allowing time for spelling some words)

  If minutes ten don’t get them through it,

  They tear the sheet, and d — n the Poet.

  But me such drones shall never hinder —

  Have at you then, my noble Pindar.

  Well now — (I hope he fits the cap here)

  He introduces gentle Napier.

  And here I mark Minerva’s frown,

  To miss her fav’rite Ogleton.

  Anon facetiously he cracks

  His jokes upon good Mrs. Drax:

  For where’s the dame of common spirit

  Will hear of matrimonial merit?

  Or thank a poet who shall make her

  A poor domestic Bible-raker?

  It brings such notions in one’s head

  Of Sturdy females country-bred!

  — We see the dame in rustic pride,

  A bunch of keys to grace her side,

  Stalking across the well-swept entry,

  To hold her council in the pantry;

  Or, with prophetic soul, foretelling

  The peas will boil well by the shelling;

  Or bustling in her private closet,

  Prepare her lord his morning posset;

  And while the hallow’d mixture thickens,

  Signing death-warrants for the chickens:

  Else, greatly pensive, poring o’er

  Accounts her cook had thumb’d before;

  One eye cast upon that great Book,

  Yclep’d the Family Receipt-Book;

  By which she’s ruled in all her courses,

  From stewing figs, to drenching horses.

  — Then pans and pickling skillets rise

  In dreadful lustre to our eyes,

  With store of sweetmeats rang’d in order,

  And potted nothings on the border;

  While salves and caudle-cups between,

  With squalling children, close the scene.

  Here sure you fairly had a title,

  My Pindar, to digress a little:

  Nor would the lowly subject stain,

  Sweet Bard, thy fine descriptive vein.

  When next then you would shew a pattern

  To each untidy married slattern,

  Be sure you make a country life

  The scene of action for your wife;

  Chuse out a fine old mould’ring hall,

  With moral tap’stry on the wall;

  A farm-house too, — be sure you thatch it,

  With barns on t’other side to match it;

  A pig-stye, and a poultry-yard,

  And Shock, you know, the faithful guard:

  Describe the nurses, girls, and boys,

  With all “the dear domestic joys”;

  And then, with hogs, babes, chicks, and all,

  Bring Goody Drax to grace the ball.

  But now behold, in stately march,

  Miss Cheshire, with her looks so arch!

  — (Tho’ that is better, by the bye,

  Then if he’d said her looks so sly.) —

  But why not introduce her sister,

  I see no reason why you’ve miss’d her:

  For sure, my dear poetic brother,

  The one looks full as arch as t’other.

  Sudden our Bard begins to vapour,

  And calls on Clio for a caper;

  And she, poor girl! must now turn squaller,

  To join in concert with his Waller!

  There’s music in the name, ’tis true;

  But when that name is sung by you,

  The verse and theme so disagree,

  I cannot think of harmony.

  O! should your genius ever rise,

  And make you Laureate in the Skies,

  I’d hold my life, in twenty years,

  You’d spoil the music of the spheres.

  — Nay, should the rapture-breathing Nine,

  In one celestial concert join,

  Their Sov’reign’s power to rehearse,

  — Were thou to furnish them with verse,

  By Jove, I’d fly the heav’nly throng,

  Tho’ Phoebus play’d, and Linley sung.

  Waller, could I say more of thee —

  But soft — here’s all your family —

  A compliment — that none may grumble;

  They’re all, it seems, extremely humble.

  Here Matthews comes too, and a few more

  Remarkable for their good-humour.

  Pindar, ’tis thought (though not by me)

  That here you aim’d at Irony.

  For my part, I could wish you had;

  For though th’ attempt were wretched bad,

  Yet one, whose merit mocks thy lays,

  Might boast she had escap’d your praise.

  — Conversable! — can this be true?

  And, Pindar, can this come from you?

  What! shall the Sharps, for learning fam’d,

  As mere Chitchatterers be nam’d?

  Shall they, who’ve roam’d thro’ Rome and Greecey

  Sleep in a conversation-piece?

  Shall they — yet hold, they must despise you,

  Else, know, they could themselves chastise you.

  — Ah! sure here was a subject fit.

  For fancy to display its wit!

  What, sisters three, with such sweet faces,

  And no allusion to the Graces!

  Or Goddesses on lofty Ide;

  And you the Trojan by their side!

  — There’s Anne, whose wit and lively sallies

  Would make a very decent Pallas:

  And Fan, tho’ short, as scholar you know,

  Would be no bad Bo-opis Juno:

  And then, (hang empty face or mein)

  The third, of course, is
beauty’s queen.

  — If any prude find fault with these

  My new-created deities,

  Out with the hag from Bath, and let her

  At Hyde-Park Corner look for better.

  Alas! unfortunate Miss Nourse,

  That e’er your name should rhyme to verse!

  (Tho’ faith there’s few could do it worse)

  Else, sure our Bard, with fancy vicious,

  Had never told us how delicious,

  With powder’d night-cap on your head,

  Your beauties would appear in bed!

  Here follow lines of good dimension;

  But as they’re past my comprehension,

  I will not grope thro’ the confusion

  In search of sense: — so come conclusion.

  If in my strictures I’ve been free,

  — You know the Muse’s liberty.

  Howe’er, I’ll make all matters equal

  By wholesome council, in the sequel:

  And first — leave Panegyrick, pray;

  Your genius does not lead that way:

  You write with ease, to shew your breeding;

  But easy writing’s vile bard reading,

  — Henceforward Satire guide your pen;

  But spare the women — lash the men.

  Tho’ possibly your Muse may flare,

  To find such little diff’rence there;

  So oft her verse would strike, in common,

  The flirting Man, and rakish Woman.

  Would not mild Puffo grace thy song,

  And Raucus, with his fluent tongue?

  — So rough, and yet so glib a tool;

  ’Twould silence a whole boarding-school.

  With skipping Wagtail, pretty puppet,

  (Inhuman aunt, so soon to drop it!)

  And Lizard, with his supple bones,

  The lively Prince of Cotillions?

  Then grinning Witwould — tho’ no Teague —

  Who more successful at intrigue?

  So bold and curling in his trade, he’s

  Like Wantley’s dragon to the ladies.

  Nor spare the flirting Cassock’d Rogue,

  Nor ancient Cullin’s polished brogue;

  Nor gay Lothario’s nobler name,

  That Nimrod to all female fame: —

  Nor sullen Philo’s stiff grimace,

  Great SELF all gathering in his face:

  And then, to scare the jovial crew,

  Raise wretched Chillchit to their view;

  With body meagre, wan, and thin,

  And heart as narrow as his chin.

  — Let me, my PINDAR, be your tutor,

  Be such your subjects for the future.

  Hence with your Muse, your Clio hence,

  And court instead — Dame COMMON-SENSE.

  If any think that unprovok’d

  I here have satiriz’d and jok’d,

  I answer them, whoe’er they be,

  Begin and deal the same by me.

  We petty Sciolists in verse,

  For ever make each other worse;

  By turns this licence take and give,

  — The Muses’ known prerogative.

  This once allow’d— ‘tween you and me,

  Great Pindar, there’s no enmity.

  But if my satire seems uncouth,

  As back’d by that foul monster, TRUTH,

  And you (true Bard!) are therefore vex’d;

  — Be quit — and praise me in your next.

  THE RIDOTTO OF BATH

  AT many grand Routs in my time I have been,

  And many fine Rooms to be sure I have seen;

  Al Fresco’s, rich Galas, Ridotto’s, and Balls,

  From Carlisle’s sweet palace to black City halls;

  From Almack’s Long-Room to the Inn at Devizes,

  From birth-night eclat to the dance at Assizes:

  All these have I serv’d at these twelve years or more,

  Yet faith I’ve seen here — what I ne’er saw before.

  You’d like a description, I’m sure, my dear brother,

  For fifty to one we mayn’t have such another.

  I told in my last of the new alterations,

  Of all our confusion and grand preparations;

  I think too I mention’d a secret affair,

  How all had been nearly knock’d up by the May’r:

  It seems tho’ that all their parading and bouncing

  Was caus’d by a little mistake in pronouncing;

  The Aldermen heard that strange whims we had got here,

  And meant to exhibit a flaming Red Otter;

  This well they conceiv’d was a shameful abuse,

  And hinted their fears should it ever break loose;

  Or chain’d e’er so fast, we had little to brag on,

  In building a palace to hold a great dragon:

  However, at last they were eas’d of their fright,

  And Monday was fix’d for the wonderful night.

  At seven we open’d, and not very long

  Before all the passages smoak’d with the throng;

  All dress’d in their best — for great Marshall WADE,

  For Fear the Coup de’Oïel should be darken’d by shade,

  Had issued his orders to dizen the back,

  With singular caution ‘gainst wearing of black;

  In gaudes all must shine, he had given them warning,

  Tho’ the ghosts of their kindred should bellow for mourning;

  Nay more, this grand festival night to denote,

  No creature must come with a cape to his coat;

  Full trimm’d they should be, tho’ a French frock would do,

  But Officers must be in livery queue:

  And yet for all this, there were some so uncivil,

  They came in their dolefuls as black as the devil;

  Nay Cornets clapp’d bags to their soldiery locks,

  And many performed in common fly frocks.

  Two rooms were first open’d — the long and the round one —

  (These Hogstyegon names only serve to confound one)

  Both splendidly lit with the new chandeliers,

  With drops hanging down like the bobs at Peg’s ears,

  While jewels of paste reflected the rays,

  And Brittol-stone di’monds gave strength to the blaze:

  So that it was doubtful, to view the bright clusters,

  Which sent the most light out, the ear-rings or lustres.

  But here I must mention the best thing of all,

  And what I’m inform’d ever marks a Bath ball;

  The VARIETY ’tis which so reign’d in the crew,

  That turn where one would the classes were new;

  For here no dull level of rank and degrees,

  No uniform mode, that shews all are at ease;

  But like a chess table, part black and part white,

  ’Twas a delicate checquer of low and polite;

  The motley assemblage so blended together,

  ’Twas Mob, or Ridotto— ’twas both, or ’twas neither.

  Here Taylors, in bags, might contemplate at leisure

  Fine dress coats, for which they’d last week taken measure;

  Or if a stich broke in a gentleman’s pump,

  Some Crispin be sure had an awl at his rump;

  Or should Lady’s coïef be derang’d in the fright,

  Three to one her next neighbour could set it to right;

  To blame such a mixture were surely abuseful,

  When one out of three might be really useful.

  Nor less among you was the medley, ye fair!

  I believe there were some beside Quality there:

  Miss Spiggot, Miss Brussels, Miss Tape, and Miss Socket,

  Miss Trinket, and aunt, with her leathern pocket;

  With good Mrs Soaker, who made her old chin go,

  For hours, hob-nobbing with Mrs. Syringo;

  Had Tib staid at home, I b’lieve none
would have miss’d her,

  Or pretty Peg Runt, with her tight little sister:

  But blame not Pinkinny herself for adorning; —

  Her gown — was the gown which she made in the morning;

  Miss Chain-stich had ruffles she tore without sorrow,

  ’Twas mending-lace day behind counter to-morrow.

  From Bristol too come many dames of high breeding; —

  Seven Shillings was money — but then there was feeding:

  Nay more — there were some this grand ball to adorn,

  Whose husbands were puffing above at the horn:

  O, spare not your Cornu’s! secure you may blow —

  Your spouses are planning you fresh ones below:

  But sure I was charm’d to behold little Rona

  Jig it down all in time to her husband’s cremona;

  While he, happy mortal, at sight of his love,

  In sympathy beat the balcony above.

  But — silence, ye hautboys! ye fiddles, be dumb!

  Ye dancers, stop infant — THE HOUR is come;

  The great — the all-wonderful hour — of EATING!

  That hour — for which ye all know you’ve been waiting,

  Well, the doors were unbolted, and in they all rush’d;

  They crouded, they jostled, they jockey’d, and push’d:

  Thus at a Mayor’s feast, a disorderly mob

  Breaks in after dinner to plunder and rob.

  I mean not by this to reflect on the gentry,

  I’d only illustrate the mode of their entry;

  For certain I am they meant no such foul play,

  But only were wishing to help us away:

  I believe too their hurry in clearing the platters

  Was all in compassion to us the poor waiters;

  In London I’m sure I’ve been kept many hours

  In dangling attendance with sweetmeats and flow’rs;

  But here, as if studious to ease us of trouble,

  Each guest play’d his part, as if he’d paid double;

  In files they march’d up to the sideboards, while each

  Laid hands upon all the good things in his reach;

  There Stuck to his part, cramm’d while he was able,

  And then carried off all he could from the table:

  Our outworks they Slorm’d with prowess most manful,

  And jellies and cakes carried off by the handful;

  While some our lines enter’d, with courage undaunted,

  Nor quitted the trench till they’d got what they wanted.

  There was Mrs. M’Ribband, and Mrs. Vancasket,

  I believe from my soul they went halves in a basket;

  While lank Madam Crib’em so work’d her old jaw,

  Tom Handleflask swore she’d a pouch in her maw:

  But let not the smirking Dame Patch be forgot here,

  Who ate like her lap-dog, and drank like an Otter;

  Nor pious Miss Churchface, whatever ’twas brought her,