Delphi Complete Works of Richard Brinsley Sheridan

by Richard Brinsley Sheridan

  Listen. Another pleasure I display,

  That help’d delightfully the time away.

  From distant vales, where bubbles from its source

  A crystal rill, they dug a winding course:

  See! through the grove a narrow lake extends,

  Crosses each plot, to each plantation bends;

  And while the fount in new meanders glides,

  The forest brightens with refreshing tides.

  T’wards us they taught the new-born Stream to flow,

  T’wards us it crept irresolute and slow:

  Scarce had the infant current trickled by,

  When lo! a wondrous fleet attracts our eye:

  Laden with draughts might greet a monarch’s tongue,

  The mimic navigation swam along.

  Hasten, ye ship-like goblets, down the vale,

  Your freight a flagon, and a leaf your sail.

  O may no envious rush thy course impede,

  Or floating apple stop thy tide-borne speed.

  His mildest breath a gentle zephyr gave;

  The little vessels trimly stemm’d the wave:

  Their precious merchandise to land they bore,

  And one by one resign’d the balmy store.

  Stretch but a hand, we boarded them, and quaft

  With native luxury the temper’d draught.

  For where they loaded the nectareous fleet,

  The goblet glow’d with too intense a heat;

  Cool’d by degrees in these convivial ships,

  With nicest taste, it met our thirsty lips.

  Thus in delight the flowery path we trod

  To Venus sacred, and the rosy god:

  Here might we kiss, here Love secure might reign

  And revel free, with all his am’rous train.

  And we did kiss, my friend, and Love was there,

  And smooth’d the rustic couch that held my fair.

  Like a spring-mead with scented blossoms crown’d,

  Her head with choicest wreaths Limona bound:

  But Love, sweet Love! his sacred torch so bright

  Had fann’d, that, glowing from the rosy light,

  A blush (the print of a connubial kiss,

  The conscious tattler of consummate bliss)

  Still flush’d upon her cheek; and well might show

  The choicest wreaths she’d made, how they should glow;

  Might every flower with kindred bloom o’erspread,

  And tinge the vernal rose with deeper red.

  But come, my friend, and share my happy lot:

  The bounteous Phyllion owns this blissful spot;

  Phyllion, whose gen’rous care to all extends,

  And most is blest while he can bless his friends.

  Then come, and quickly come; but with thee bring

  The nymph, whose praises oft I’ve heard thee sing —

  The blooming Myrtala; she’ll not refuse

  To tread the solitude her swain shall choose.

  Thy sight will all my busy schemes destroy,

  I’ll dedicate another day to joy,

  When social converse shall the scene improve,

  And sympathy bestow new charms on love.

  Then shall th’ accustom’d bank a couch be made;

  Once more the nodding plane shall lend its shade;

  Once more I’ll view Pomona’s jovial throng;

  Once more the birds shall raise the sprightly song;

  Again the little Stream be taught to flow;

  Again the little fleet its balm bestow;

  Again I’ll gaze upon Limona’s charms,

  And sink transported in her quiv’ring arms;

  Again my cheek shall glow upon her breast;

  Again she’ll yield, and I again be blest.

  EPISTLE IX — THE SLIP

  STESICHORUS TO ERATOSTHENES

  A LADY walking in the street

  Her lover lately chanced to meet:

  But dared not speak when he came nigh,

  Nor make a sign, nor wink her eye,

  Lest watchful spouse should see or hear:

  And servants too were in the rear.

  A plea she sought to stop his walk,

  To touch his hand, to hear him talk:

  A plea she sought, nor sought in vain;

  A lucky scheme inspired her brain.

  Just as they met, she feign’d to trip,

  And sprain her ankle in the slip.

  The lover, ready at his cue,

  Suspected what she had in view;

  And as he pass’d at little distance,

  Officious ran to her assistance.

  Contrived her slender waist to seize,

  And catch her snowy hand in his.

  With unexpected raptures fill’d,

  Through all their veins love instant thrill’d:

  Their limbs were palsied with delight,

  Which seem’d the trembling caused by fright.

  Feigning condolence, he drew near,

  And spoke his passion in her ear;

  While she, to act the real strain,

  Affects to writhe and twist with pain:

  A well-concerted plan to kiss

  The hand her lover touched with his:

  Then, looking amorously sly,

  She put it to her jetty eye;

  But rubb’d in vain to force a tear

  Might seem the genuine fruits of fear.

  EPISTLE XII — THE ENRAPTURED LOVER

  EUHEMERUS TO LEUCIPPUS

  HITHER, ye travellers, who’ve known

  The beauties of the Eastern zone,

  Or those who sparkle in the West:

  Hither — oh, tell, and truly tell,

  That few can equal, none excel,

  The fair who captivates my breast.

  Survey her in whatever light —

  New beauties still engage your sight:

  Nor does a single fault appear.

  Momus might search, and search again,

  But all his searches would be vain,

  To find occasion for a sneer.

  Her height, her shape— ’tis all complete;

  And e’en remarkable her feet

  For taper size, genteelly slim.

  And little feet, each lover knows,

  Impart a striking charm to those

  Who boast no other graceful limb.

  But not her beauties only strike —

  Her pleasing manners too I like:

  From these new strength my passion gains.

  For though her charity be gone,

  She deals deceitfully by none;

  And still some modesty remains.

  And still may Pythias make pretence

  To something much like innocence;

  Which forges all my chains to last:

  Whate’er you give, she turns to praise;

  Unlike the harlot’s odious ways,

  Who sneers at presents e’er so vast.

  We, like two thrushes on a spray,

  Together sit, together play; —

  But telling would our pleasures wrong.

  Suffice it, Pythias will oppose

  My wanton passion, till it grows

  By opposition doubly strong.

  Her neck ambrosial sweets exhales;

  Her kisses, like Arabian gales,

  The scent of musky flowers impart.

  And I, reclining on her breast,

  In slumbers, happy slumbers, rest,

  Rock’d by the beating of her heart!

  Oft have I heard the vulgar say,

  That absence makes our love decay,

  And friends are friends but while in view:

  But absence kindles my desire;

  It adds fresh fuel to the fire

  Which keeps my heart for ever true.

  And oh! may faith my thanks receive,

  In that it forced me not to leave

  The fair in whom my soul is placed.

  With truth my case did H
omer write;

  For every time with new delight

  My oft-repeated joys I taste.

  Sure this is joy — true native joy

  Which malice never can destroy,

  Nor holy shackled fools receive.

  Free joys! which from ourselves must flow,

  Such as free souls alone can know,

  And unchain’d Love alone can give.

  But say, ye prudes! ye worthless tribe!

  Who swear no gifts could ever bribe

  Your hearts sweet virtue to forsake —

  What is this treasure which ye boast?

  Ye vaunt because you have not lost

  — What none had charity to take.

  Myrina carries on her back

  An antidote to Love’s attack;

  Yet still at Pythias will she sneer.

  And as my love is passing by,

  Chrysis distorts her single eye,

  With looks of scorn and virtuous fear.

  Philinna scoffs at Pythias too,

  — Yet she is handsome, it is true;

  But then her heart’s a heart of steel:

  Incapable of all desire,

  She ridicules Love’s sacred fire,

  And mocks the joys she cannot feel.

  Yet this is Virtue! woman’s pride!

  From which if once she step aside,

  Her peace, her fame’s for ever gone!

  — Away; ’tis impious satyr says,

  That woman’s good, and woman’s praise,

  Consist in chastity alone.

  Can one short hour of native joy

  Nature’s inherent good destroy?

  And pluck all feeling from within?

  Shall shame ne’er strike the base deceiver,

  But follow still the poor believer,

  And make all confidence a sin?

  Did gentle Pity never move

  The heart once led astray by Love?

  Was Poverty ne’er made its care?

  Did Gratuity ne’er warm the breast

  Where guilty joy was held a guest?

  Was Charity ne’er harbour’d there?

  Does coy Sincerity disclaim

  The neighb’rhood of a lawless flame?

  Does Truth with fame and fortune fall?

  Does ev’ry tim’rous virtue fly

  With that cold thing, call’d Chastity?

  — And has my Pythias loft them all?

  No! no! — In thee, my life, my soul,

  I swear I can comprise the whole

  Of all that’s good as well as fair:

  And though thou’st lost what fools call Fame,

  Though branded with a harlot’s name,

  To me thou shalt be doubly dear.

  Then whence these fetters for desire?

  Who made these laws for Cupid’s fire?

  Why is their rigour so uncommon?

  Why is this honour-giving plan

  So much extoll’d by tyrant man,

  Yet binding only to poor woman?

  Search not in Nature for the cause;

  Nature disclaims such partial laws;

  ’Tis all a creature of th’ imagination:

  By frozen prudes invented first,

  Or hags with ugliness accural —

  A phantom of our own creation!

  Two classes thus, my Pythias, show

  Their insolence to scoff at you:

  First, they who’ve passions giv’n by Nature,

  But as the task of fame is hard,

  They’ve blest Deformity to guard

  Grim Virtue in each rugged feature.

  And second, they who neither know

  What Passion means, nor Love can do:

  Yet Still for abstinence they preach;

  Whilst Envy, rankling in the breast,

  Inflames them, seeing others blest,

  To curse the joys they cannot reach.

  Not but there are — though but a few!

  With charms, with love — and virtue too:

  But Malice never comes from them!

  With charity they judge of all,

  They weep to see a woman fall,

  And pity where they most condemn.

  If, Pythias, then, thou’st done amiss,

  This is thy crime, and only this:

  That Nature gave thee charms to move,

  Gave thee a heart to joy inclin’d,

  Gave thee a sympathetic mind,

  And gave a soul attun’d to love.

  When Malice scoffs, then, Pythias, why

  Glistens abash’d thy tearful eye?

  Why glows thy cheek that should be gay?

  For tho’ from shame thy sorrows gush,

  Tho’ conscious guilt imprints the blush,

  By heav’ns, thou’rt modester than they.

  But let them scoff, and let them sneer —

  I heed them not, my love, I swear:

  Nor shall they triumph in thy fall.

  I’ll kiss away each tear of woe,

  Hid by my breast thy cheek shall glow,

  And Love shall make amends for all.

  EPISTLE XIII — THE SAGACIOUS DOCTOR

  EUTYCHOBULUS TO ACESTODORUS

  FORTUNE, my friend, I’ve often thought,

  Is weak, if Art assist her not:

  So equally all Arts are vain,

  If Fortune help them not again:

  They’ve little lustre of their own,

  If separate, and view’d alone;

  But when together they unite,

  They lend each other mutual light.

  But since all symphony seems long

  To those impatient for the song,

  And left my apothegms should fail,

  I’ll haste to enter on my tale.

  Once on a time, (for time has been,

  When men thought neither shame nor sin,

  To keep, beside their lawful spouses,

  A buxom filly in their houses,)

  Once on a time then, as I said,

  A hopeful youth, well-born, well-bred,

  Seiz’d by a flame he could not hinder,

  Was scorch’d and roasted to a cinder.

  For why the cause of all his pain

  Was that he fear’d all hope was vain:

  — In short, the youth must needs adore

  The nymph his father loved before.

  “His father’s mistress?” — even so,

  And sure ’twas cause enough for woe.

  In mere despair he kept his bed,

  But feign’d some illness in its stead.

  His father, griev’d at his condition,

  Sends post for an expert physician.

  The doctor comes — consults his pulse —

  No feverish quickness — no convulse;

  Observes his looks, his skin, his eye —

  No symptoms there of malady;

  — At least of none within the knowledge

  Of all the Pharmaceutic college.

  Long did our Galen wond’ring stand,

  Reflecting on the case in hand.

  Thus as he paus’d, came by the fair,

  The cause of all his patient’s care.

  Then his pulse beat quick and high;

  Glow’d his cheek, and roll’d his eye.

  Alike his face and arm confest

  The conflict lab’ring in his breach

  Thus chance reveal’d the hidden smart,

  That baffled all the search of art.

  Still paused the doctor to proclaim

  The luckily-discover’d flame:

  But made a second inquisition,

  To satisfy his new suspicion.

  From all the chambers, every woman,

  Wives, maids, and widows, did he summon;

  And one by one he had them led

  In order by the patient’s bed.

  He the meanwhile flood watchful nigh,

  And felt his pulse, and mark’d his eye;

  (For by the pulse physicians
find

  The hidden motions of the mind;)

  While other girls walk’d by attractive,

  The lover’s art’ry lay inactive;

  But when his charmer pass’d along,

  His pulse beat doubly quick and Strong.

  Now all the malady appear’d;

  Now all the doctor’s doubts were clear’d;

  Who feign’d occasion to depart,

  To mix his drugs, consult his art:

  He bid the father hope the best,

  The lover set his heart at rest,

  Then took his fee and went away,

  But promised to return next day.

  Day came — the family environ

  With anxious eagerness our Chiron.

  But he repulsed them rough, and cried,

  “Ne’er can my remedy be tried.”

  The father humbly question’d, why

  They might not use the remedy?

  Th’ enraged physician nought would say,

  But earnest seem’d to haste away.

  Th’ afflicted sire more humble yet is,

  Doubles his offers, pray’rs, entreaties —

  While he, as if at last compell’d

  To speak what better were withheld,

  In anger cried, “Your son must perish —

  My wife alone his life can cherish —

  On her th’ adult’rer dotes — and I

  My rival’s hated sight would fly.”

  The sire was now alike distrest,

  To save his boy, or hurt his guest:

  Long Struggled he ‘twixt love and shame;

  At last parental love o’ercame.

  And now he begs without remorse

  His friend to grant this last resource;

  Entreats him o’er and o’er t’ apply

  This hard, but only remedy.

  “What, prostitute my wife!” exclaims

  The doctor, “pimp for lawless flames?” —

  Yet Still the father teaz’d and prest; —

  “O grant a doting sire’s request!

  The necessary cure permit,

  And make my happiness complete.”

  Thus did the doctor’s art and care

  The anxious parent’s heart prepare:

  And found him trying long and often

  The term adultery to soften.

  — He own’d, “that custom, sure enough,

  Had made it sound a little rough:”

  “But then,” said he, “we ought to trace

  The source and causes of the case.

  All prejudice let’s lay aside,

  And taking Nature for our guide,

  We’ll try with candour to examine

  On what pretence this fashion came in.”

  Then much he talk’d of man’s first state,

  (A copious subject for debate!)

  Of choice and instinct then disputes,

  With many parallels to brutes;

  All tending notably to prove