The Penguin Book of English Verse

by Paul Keegan

  Whereby you now confess your self to be a Goose or an Ass:

  But that’s as much as to say, that my Master should die before ye,

  Well, well, that’s as God pleases, and I don’t believe that’s a true Story,

  And so say I told you so, and you may go tell my Master; what care I?

  And I don’t care who knows it, ’tis all one to Mary.

  Every body knows, that I love to tell Truth and shame the Devil,

  I am but a poor Servant, but I think Gentle folks should be civil.

  Besides, you found fault with our Vittles one Day that you was here,

  I remember it was upon a Tuesday, of all Days in the Year.

  And Saunders the Man says, you are always jesting and mocking,

  Mary said he, (one Day, as I was mending my Master’s Stocking,)

  My Master is so fond of that Minister that keeps the School;

  I thought my Master a wise Man, but that Man makes him a Fool.

  Saunders said I, I would rather than a Quart of Ale,

  He would come into our Kitchin, and I would pin a Dishclout to his Tail.

  And now I must go, and get Saunders to direct this Letter,

  For I write but a sad Scrawl, but my Sister Marget she writes better.

  Well, but I must run and make the Bed before my Master comes from Pray’rs,

  And see now, it strikes ten, and I hear him coming up Stairs:

  Whereof I cou’d say more to your Verses, if I could write written hand,

  And so I remain in a civil way, your Servant to command,

  Mary.

  1733

  LADY MARY WORTLEY MONTAGU [A Summary of Lord Lyttleton’s ‘Advice to a lady’]

  Be plain in Dress and sober in your Diet;

  In short my Dearee, kiss me, and be quiet.

  ALEXANDER POPE from An Epistle to Bathurst

  [Sir Balaam]

  Where London’s column, pointing at the skies,

  Like a tall bully, lifts the head, and lyes;

  There dwelt a Citizen of sober fame,

  A plain good man, and Balaam was his name;

  Religious, punctual, frugal, and so forth;

  His word would pass for more than he was worth.

  One solid dish his week-day meal affords,

  An added pudding solemniz’d the Lord’s:

  Constant at Church, and Change; his gains were sure,

  His givings rare, save farthings to the poor.

  The Dev’l was piqu’d such saintship to behold,

  And long’d to tempt him like good Job of old:

  But Satan now is wiser than of yore,

  And tempts by making rich, not making poor.

  Rouz’d by the Prince of Air, the whirlwinds sweep

  The surge, and plunge his Father in the deep;

  Then full against his Cornish lands they roar,

  And two rich ship-wrecks bless the lucky shore.

  Sir Balaam now, he lives like other folks,

  He takes his chirping pint, and cracks his jokes:

  ‘Live like yourself,’ was soon my Lady’s word;

  And lo! two puddings smoak’d upon the board.

  Asleep and naked as an Indian lay,

  An honest factor stole a Gem away:

  He pledg’d it to the knight; the knight had wit,

  So kept the Diamond, but the rogue was bit.

  Some scruple rose, but thus he eas’d his thought,

  ‘I’ll now give six-pence where I gave a groat,

  ‘Where once I went to church, I’ll now go twice –

  ‘And am so clear too of all other vice.’

  The Tempter saw his time; the work he ply’d;

  Stocks and Subscriptions pour on ev’ry side,

  ‘Till all the Daemon makes his full descent,

  In one abundant show’r of Cent. per Cent.,

  Sinks deep within him, and possesses whole,

  Then dubs Director, and secures his soul.

  Behold Sir Balaam, now a man of spirit,

  Ascribes his gettings to his parts and merit,

  What late he call’d a Blessing, now was Wit,

  And God’s good Providence, a lucky Hit.

  Things change their titles, as our manners turn:

  His Compting-house employ’d the Sunday-morn:

  Seldom at Church (’twas such a busy life)

  But duly sent his family and wife.

  There (so the Dev’l ordain’d) one Christmas-tide

  My good old Lady catch’d a cold, and dy’d.

  A Nymph of Quality admires our Knight;

  He marries, bows at Court, and grows polite:

  Leaves the dull Cits, and joins (to please the fair)

  The well-bred cuckolds in St. James’s air:

  First, for his Son a gay Commission buys,

  Who drinks, whores, fights, and in a duel dies:

  His daughter flaunts a Viscount’s tawdry wife;

  She bears a Coronet and P-x for life.

  In Britain’s Senate he a seat obtains,

  And one more Pensioner St. Stephen gains.

  My Lady falls to play; so bad her chance,

  He must repair it; takes a bribe from France;

  The House impeach him; Coningsby harangues;

  The Court forsake him, and Sir Balaam hangs:

  Wife, son, and daughter, Satan, are thy own,

  His wealth, yet dearer, forfeit to the Crown:

  The Devil and the King divide the prize,

  And sad Sir Balaam curses God and dies.

  GEORGE FAREWELL Quaerè

  Whether at Doomsday (tell, ye reverend wise)

  My friend Priapus with myself shall rise?

  1734

  JONATHAN SWIFT A Beautiful Young Nymph Going to Bed

  Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane,

  For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain;

  Never did Covent Garden boast

  So bright a batter’d, strolling Toast;

  No drunken Rake to pick her up,

  No Cellar where on Tick to sup;

  Returning at the Midnight Hour;

  Four Stories climbing to her Bow’r;

  Then, seated on a three-legg’d Chair,

  Takes off her artificial Hair:

  Now, picking out a Crystal Eye,

  She wipes it clean, and lays it by.

  Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse’s Hyde,

  Stuck on with Art on either Side,

  Pulls off with Care, and first displays ’em,

  Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays ’em.

  Now dextrously her Plumpers draws,

  That serve to fill her hollow Jaws.

  Untwists a Wire; and from her Gums

  A Set of Teeth completely comes.

  Pulls out the Rags contriv’d to prop

  Her flabby Dugs and down they drop.

  Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess

  Unlaces next her Steel-Rib’d Bodice;

  Which by the Operator’s Skill,

  Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill,

  Up goes her Hand, and off she slips

  The Bolsters that supply her Hips.

  With gentlest Touch, she next explores

  Her Shankers, Issues, running Sores,

  Effects of many a sad Disaster;

  And then to each applies a Plaister.

  But must, before she goes to Bed,

  Rub off the Dawbs of White and Red;

  And smooth the Furrows in her Front,

  With greasy Paper stuck upon’t.

  She takes a Bolus e’er she sleeps;

  And then between two Blankets creeps.

  With Pains of Love tormented lies;

  Or if she chance to close her Eyes,

  Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,

  And feels the Lash, and faintly screams;

  Or, by a faithless Bully drawn,

  At some Hedge-Tavern lies in Pawn;

  Or to Jamaica seems transported,

&nbs
p; Alone, and by no Planter courted;

  Or, near Fleet-Ditch’s oozy Brinks,

  Surrounded with a Hundred Stinks,

  Belated, seems on watch to lye,

  And snap some Cully passing by;

  Or, struck with Fear, her Fancy runs

  On Watchmen, Constables and Duns,

  From whom she meets with frequent Rubs;

  But, never from Religious Clubs;

  Whose Favour she is sure to find,

  Because she pays them all in Kind.

  CORINNA wakes. A dreadful Sight!

  Behold the Ruins of the Night!

  A wicked Rat her Plaister stole,

  Half eat, and dragg’d it to his Hole.

  The Crystal Eye, alas, was miss’t;

  And Puss had on her Plumpers pisst.

  A Pigeon pick’d her Issue-Peas;

  And Shock her Tresses fill’d with Fleas.

  The Nymph, tho’ in this mangled Plight,

  Must ev’ry Morn her Limbs unite.

  But how shall I describe her Arts

  To recollect the scatter’d Parts?

  Or shew the Anguish, Toil, and Pain,

  Of gath’ring up herself again?

  The bashful Muse will never bear

  In such a Scene to interfere.

  Corinna in the Morning dizen’d,

  Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison’d.

  1735

  ALEXANDER POPE from Of the Characters of Women: An Epistle to a Lady

  Nothing so true as what you once let fall,

  ‘Most Women have no Characters at all’.

  Matter too soft a lasting mark to bear,

  And best distinguish’d by black, brown, or fair.

  How many pictures of one Nymph we view,

  All how unlike each other, all how true!

  (… )

  Papillia, wedded to her doating spark,

  Sighs for the shades – ‘How charming is a Park!’

  A Park is purchas’d, but the Fair he sees

  All bath’d in tears – ‘Oh odious, odious Trees!’

  Ladies, like variegated Tulips, show,

  ’Tis to their Changes that their charms they owe;

  Their happy Spots the nice admirer take,

  Fine by defect, and delicately weak.

  ‘Twas thus Calypso once each heart alarm’d,

  Aw’d without Virtue, without Beauty charm’d;

  Her Tongue bewitch’d as odly as her Eyes,

  Less Wit than Mimic, more a Wit than wise:

  Strange graces still, and stranger flights she had,

  Was just not ugly, and was just not mad;

  Yet ne’er so sure our passion to create,

  As when she touch’d the brink of all we hate.

  (… )

  ‘Yet Cloe sure was form’d without a spot –’

  Nature in her then err’d not, but forgot.

  ‘With ev’ry pleasing, ev’ry prudent part,

  Say, what can Cloe want?’ – she wants a Heart.

  She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought;

  But never, never, reach’d one gen’rous Thought.

  Virtue she finds too painful an endeavour,

  Content to dwell in Decencies for ever.

  So very reasonable, so unmov’d,

  As never yet to love, or to be lov’d.

  She, while her Lover pants upon her breast,

  Can mark the figures on an Indian chest;

  And when she sees her Friend in deep despair,

  Observes how much a Chintz exceeds Mohair.

  Forbid it Heav’n, a Favour or a Debt

  She e’er should cancel – but she may forget.

  Safe is your Secret still in Cloe’s ear;

  But none of Cloe’s shall you ever hear.

  Of all her Dears she never slander’d one,

  But cares not if a thousand are undone.

  Would Cloe know if you’re alive or dead?

  She bids her Footman put it in her head.

  Cloe is prudent – would you too be wise?

  Then never break your heart when Cloe dies.

  (… )

  Men, some to Bus’ness, some to Pleasure take;

  But ev’ry Woman is at heart a Rake:

  Men, some to Quiet, some to public Strife;

  But ev’ry Lady would be Queen for life.

  Yet mark the fate of a whole Sex of Queens!

  Pow’r all their end, but Beauty all the means.

  In Youth they conquer, with so wild a rage,

  As leaves them scarce a Subject in their Age:

  For foreign glory, foreign joy, they roam;

  No thought of Peace of Happiness at home.

  But Wisdom’s Triumph is well-tim’d Retreat,

  As hard a science to the Fair as Great!

  Beauties, like Tyrants, old and friendless grown,

  Yet hate to rest, and dread to be alone,

  Worn out in public, weary ev’ry eye,

  Nor leave one sigh behind them when they die.

  Pleasures the sex, as children Birds, pursue,

  Still out of reach, yet never out of view,

  Sure, if they catch, to spoil the Toy at most,

  To covet flying, and regret when lost:

  At last, to follies Youth could scarce defend,

  ’Tis half their Age’s prudence to pretend;

  Asham’d to own they gave delight before,

  Reduc’d to feign it, when they give no more:

  As Hags hold Sabbaths, less for joy than spight,

  So these their merry, miserable Night;

  Still round and round the Ghosts of Beauty glide,

  And haunt the places where their Honour dy’d.

  See how the World its Veterans rewards!

  A Youth of frolicks, an old Age of Cards,

  Fair to no purpose, artful to no end,

  Young without Lovers, old without a Friend,

  A Fop their Passion, but their Prize a Sot,

  Alive, ridiculous, and dead, forgot!

  ALEXANDER POPE from An Epistle from Mr. Pope, to Dr. Arbuthnot

  You think this cruel? take it for a rule,

  No creature smarts so little as a Fool.

  Let Peals of Laughter, Codrus! round thee break,

  Thou unconcern’d canst hear the mighty Crack.

  Pit, Box and Gall’ry in convulsions hurl’d,

  Thou stand’st unshook amidst a bursting World.

  Who shames a Scribler? break one cobweb thro’,

  He spins the slight, self-pleasing thread anew;

  Destroy his Fib, or Sophistry; in vain,

  The Creature’s at his dirty work again;

  Thron’d in the Centre of his thin designs;