MY NIGHT-GOWN AND SLIPPERS.ContentsThree men sit on wooden chairs before a fireplace.Tom,Dick, andWill, were little known to Fame;—No matter;—But to the Ale-house, oftentimes, they came,To chatter.It was the custom of these threeTo sit up late;And, o’er the embers of the Ale-house fire,When steadier customers retire,The choiceTriumviri, d’ye see,Held a debate.Held a debate?—On politicks, no doubt.Not so;—they care’d not who was in,No, not a pin;—Nor who was out.All their discourse on modern Poets ran;For in the Muses was their sole delight;—They talk’d of such, and such, and such a man;Of those who could, and those who could not write.It cost them very little painsTo count the modern Poets, who had brains.’Twas a small difficulty;—’twasn’t any;They were so few:But to cast up the scores of menWho wield a stump they call a pen,Lord! they had much to do,—They were so many!Buoy’d on a sea of fancy, Genius rises,And like the rare Leviathan surprises;But thesmall fryof scribblers!—tiny souls!They wriggle thro’ the mud in shoals.It would have raise’d a smile to see the facesThey made, and the ridiculous grimaces,At many an author, as they overhaul’d him.They gave no quarter to a calf,Blown up with puff, and paragraph;But, if they found him bad, they maul’d him.On modern Dramatists they fell,Pounce,vi et armis—tooth and nail—pell mell.They call’d them Carpenters, and Smugglers;Filching their incidents from ancient hoards,And knocking them together, like deal boards:And Jugglers;Who all the town’s attention fix,By making—Plays?—No, Sir, by makingtricks.The Versifiers—Heaven defend us!They play’d the very devil with their rhymes.They hope’d Apollo a new set would send us;And then, invidiously enough,Place’d modish verse, which they call’d stuff,Against the writing of the elder times.To say the truth, a modern versifierClap’d cheek by jowlWith Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior,Would look most scurvily, upon my soul!For Novels, should their critick hints succeed,The Misses might fare better when they took ’em;But it would fare extremely ill, indeed,With gentleMessieurs LaneandHookham.“A Novel, now,” saysWill, “is nothing moreThan an old castle,—and a creaking door,—A distant hovel;—Clanking of chains—a gallery—a light,—Old armour—and a phantom all in white,—And there’s a Novel!Vignette of a skeletal head in a helmet, surrounded by a veil.“Scourge me such catch-penny inditersOut of the land,” quothWill—rousing in passion—“And fy upon the readers of such writers,Who bring them into fashion!”Willrose in declamation. “’Tis the bane,”Says he, “of youth;—’tis the perdition:It fills a giddy female brainWith vice, romance, lust, terror, pain,—With superstition.“Were I Pastor in a boarding-school,I’d quash such booksin toto;—if I couldn’t,Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule,I’d flog her soundly; damme if I wouldn’t.”William, ’tis plain, was getting in a rage;But, Thomas dryly said,—for he was cool—“I think no gentleman would mend the ageBy flogging Ladies at a Boarding-school.”Dickknock’d the ashes from his pipe,And said, “FriendWill,You give the Novels a fair wipe;But still,While you, my friend, with passion run ’em down,They’re in the hands of all the town.“The reason’s plain,” proceededDick,“And simply thus—Taste, over-glutted, grows deprave’d, and sick,And needs astimulus.“Time was,—(when honest Fielding writ)—Tales full of Nature, Character, and Wit,Were reckon’d most delicious boil’d and roast:But stomachs are so cloy’d with novel-feeding,Folks get a vitiated taste in reading,And want that strong provocative, a Ghost.“Or, to come nearer,And put the case a little clearer:—Mind, just like bodies, suffer enervation,By too much use;And sink into a state of relaxation,With long abuse.“Now, a Romance, with reading Debauchees,Rouses their torpid powers when Nature fails;And all these Legendary TalesAre, to a worn-out mind, Cantharides.“But how to cure the evil?” you will say:“MyRecipeis,—laughing it away.“Lay bare the weak farrago of those menWho fabricate such visionary schemes,As if the night-mare rode upon their pen,And trouble’d all their ink with hideous dreams.“For instance—when a solemn Ghost stalks in,And, thro’ a mystick tale is busy,Strip me the Gentleman into his skin—What is he?“Truly, ridiculous enough:Mere trash;—and very childish stuff.“Draw but a Ghost, or Fiend,of low degree,And all the bubble’s broken!—Let us see.”A winged devil carries a woman in his arms. There is a dog nearby.THE WATER-FIENDS.ContentsOna wild Moor, all brown and bleak,Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,There stood a tenement antique;Lord Hoppergollop’s country house.Here Silence reign’d, with lips of glue,And undisturb’d maintain’d her law;Save when the Owl cry’d “whoo! whoo! whoo!”Or the hoarse Crow croak’d “caw! caw! caw!”Neglected mansion!—for, ’tis said,Whene’er the snow came feathering down,Four barbed steeds,—from the Bull’s head,Carried thy master up to town.Weak Hoppergollop!—Lords may moan,Who stake, in London, their estate,On two, small, rattling, bits of bone;Onlittle figure, or ongreat.Swift whirl the wheels.—He’s gone.—A RoseRemains behind, whose virgin look,Unseen, must blush in wintry snows,Sweet, beauteous blossom!——’twas the Cook!A bolder far than my weak note,Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand:Eels might be proud to lose their coat,If skinn’d by Molly Dumpling’s hand.Long had the fair one sat alone,Had none remain’d save only she;—She by herself had been—if oneHad not been left, for company.’Twas a tall youth, whose cheek’s clear hue,Was tinge’d with health and manly toil;—Cabbage he sow’d; and, when it grew,He always cut it off, to boil.Oft would he cry, “Delve, Delve the hole!And prune the tree, and trim the root!And stick the wig upon the pole,To scare the sparrows from the fruit!”A small, mute favourite, by day,Follow’d his step; where’er he wheelsHis barrow round the garden gay,A bob-tail cur is at his heels.Ah, man! the brute creation see!Thy constancy oft needs the spur!While lessons of fidelityAre found in every bob-tail cur.Hard toil’d the youth, so fresh and strong,While Bobtail in his face would look,And mark’d his master troll the song,—“Sweet Molly Dumpling! Oh, thou Cook!”For thus he sung:—while Cupid smile’d;—Please’d that the Gard’ner own’d his dart,Which prune’d his passions, running wild,And grafted true-love on his heart.Maid of the Moor! his love return!True love ne’er tints the cheek with shame:When Gard’ners’ hearts, like hot-beds, burn,A Cook may surely feed the flame.Ah! not averse from love was she;Tho’ pure as Heaven’s snowy flake;Both love’d: and tho’ a Gard’ner he,He knew not what it was torake.Cold blows the blast:—the night’s obscure:The mansion’s crazy wainscots crack:No star appear’d:—and all the Moor,Like ev’ry other Moor,—was black.Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,The lovely Molly Dumpling sat;Much did she fear, and much admireWhat Thomas Gard’ner could be at.List’ning, her hand supports her chin;But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:He comes not, from the garden, in;Nor he, nor little bobtail cur.They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee;Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!And what’s impossible can’t be;And never, never, comes to pass!She paces thro’ the hall antique,To call her Thomas from his toil;Opes the huge door;—the hinges creak;Because the hinges wanted oil.Thrice, on the threshold of the hall,She “Thomas!” cried, with many a sob;And thrice on Bobtail did she call,Exclaiming, sweetly,—“Bob! Bob! Bob!”Vain maid! a Gard’ner’s corpse, ’tis said,In answers can but ill succeed;And dogs that hear when they are dead,Are very cunning Dogs indeed!Back thro’ the hall she bent her way;All, all was solitude around!The candle shed a feeble ray,——Tho’ a large mould of four to th’ pound.Full closely to the fire she drew;Adown her cheek a salt tear stole;When, lo! a coffin out there flew,And in her apron burnt a hole!Spiders their busy death-watch tick’d;A certain sign that Fate will frown;The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click’d,A certain sign it was not down.More strong and strong her terrors rose;—Her shadow did the maid appal;—She tremble’d at her lovely nose,—It look’d so long against the wall.Up to her chamber, damp and cold,She climb’d Lord Hoppergollop’s stair;—Three stories high—long, dull, and old,—As great Lords’ stories often are.All Nature now appear’d to pause:And “o’er the one half world seem’d dead;”No “curtain’d sleep” had she;——becauseShe had no curtains to her bed.List’ning she lay;—with iron din,The clock struckTwelve; the door flew wide;When Thomas, grimly, glided in,With little Bobtail by his side.Tall, like the poplar, was his size,Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks;Red, red as beet-root, were his eyes;Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks!Soon as the Spectre she espied,The fear-struck damsel faintly said,“What wou’d my Thomas?”—he replied,“Oh! Molly Dumpling! I am dead.“All in the flower of youth I fell,Cut off with health’s full blossom crown’d;I was not ill—but in a wellI tumble’d backwards, and was drown’d.“Four fathom deep thy love doth lie:His faithful dog his fate doth share;We’re Fiends;—this is not he and I;We are nothere,—for we arethere.“Yes;—two foul Water-Fiends are we;Maid of the Moor!—attend us now!Thy hour’s at hand;—we come for thee!”The little Fiend-Cur said “bow wow!”“To wind her in her cold, cold grave,A Holland sheet a maiden likes;A sheet of water thou shalt have;Such sheets there are in Holland Dykes.”The Fiends approach; the Maid did shrink;Swift thro’ the night’s foul air they spin;They took her to the green well’s brink,And, with a souse, they plump’d her in.So true the fair, so true the youth,Maids, to this day, their story tell:And hence the proverb rose, that TruthLies in the bottom of a well.The man-fiend pushes the woman into a stream. The dog-fiend is head-first in the stream.ContentsDickended:—TomandWillapprove’d his strains;And thought his Legend made as good a figureAs naturalizing a dull German’s brains,Which beget issues in the Heliconian stews,Upon a profligateTenthMuse,In all the gloomyimpotence of vigour.1“’Twas now the very witching time of night,WhenProsersyawn.”—Discussion grew diffuse:Argument’scarte and tiercewere lost, outright:And they fought loose.SaysWill, quite carelessly,—“the other day,As I was lying on my back,In bed,I took a fancy in my head;—Some writings aren’t so difficult as people say;—They area knack.”“What writings? whose?” saysTom—raking the cinders.“Many,” criedWill:—“For instance,—Peter Pindar’s.”“What! call you his a knack?”—“Yes;—mind his measure,Inthatlies half thepointthat gives us pleasure.”“Pooh!—’tisn’t that,”Dickcried—“Thathas been tried,Over and over:—Bless your souls!’Tis seen inCrazy Tales, and twenty things beside:His measure is as old as Poles.”“Granted,” criesWill: “I know I’m speaking treason:ForPeter,With many a joke, and queer conceit, doth seasonHis metre:“And this I’ll say ofPeter, to his face,As ’twas, time past, of Vanbrugh writ—Peterhas often wantedgrace,But he has never wantedwit.“Yet I will tell you a plain tale,And see how far quaint measure will prevail:”Two men hold a third man who is obviously ill in bed.THENEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.ContentsA man, in many a country town, we know,Professes openly with death to wrestle;Ent’ring the field against the grimly foe,Arm’d with a mortar and a pestle.Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are;But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair,Who first shake hands before they box,Then give each other plaguy knocks,With all the love and kindness of a brother:So (many a suff’ring Patient saith)Tho’ the Apothecary fights with Death,Still they’re sworn friends to one another.A member of this Æsculapian line,Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne:No man could better gild a pill:Or make a bill;Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;Or draw a tooth out of your head;Or chatter scandal by your bed;Or give a clyster.Of occupations these werequantum suff.:Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough;And therefore Midwifery he chose to pin to’t.This balance’d things:—for if he hurl’dA few score mortals from the world,He made amends by bringing others into’t.His fame full six miles round the country ran;In short, in reputation he wassolus:All the old women call’d him “a fine man!”His name was Bolus.Benjamin Bolus, tho’ intrade,(Which oftentimes will Genius fetter)Read works of fancy, it is said;And cultivated theBelles Lettres.And why should this be thought so odd?Can’t men have taste who cure a phthysic;Of Poetry tho’ Patron-God,Apollo patronises physick.Bolus love’d verse;—and took so much delight in’t,That his prescriptions he resolve’d to write in’t.No opportunity he e’er let passOf writing the directions, on his labels,In dapper couplets,—likeGay’s Fables;Or, rather, like the lines inHudibras.Apothecary’s verse!—and where’s the treason?’Tis simply honest dealing:—not a crime;—When patients swallow physick without reason,It is but fair to give a little rhyme.He had a Patient lying at death’s door,Some three miles from the town,—it might be four;To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,In Pharmacy, that’s call’d cathartical.And, on the label of the stuff,He wrote this verse;Which, one would think, was clear enough,And terse:—“When taken,To be well shaken.”Next morning, early, Bolus rose;And to the Patient’s house he goes;—Upon his pad,Who a vile trick of stumbling had:It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;But that’s of course:For what’s expected from a horseWith an Apothecary on his back?Bolus arrive’d; and gave a doubtful tap;—Between a single and a double rap.—Knocks of this kindAre given by Gentlemen who teach to dance:By Fiddlers, and by Opera-singers:One loud, and then a little one behind;As if the knocker fell, by chance,Out of their fingers.The Servant lets him in, with dismal face,Long as a courtier’s out of place—Portending some disaster;John’s countenance as rueful look’d, and grim,As if th’ Apothecary had physick’d him,—And not his master.“Well, how’s the Patient?” Bolus said:—John shook his head.“Indeed!—hum! ha!—that’s very odd!He took the draught?”—John gave a nod.“Well,—how?—what then?—speak out, you dunce!”“Why then”—says John—“weshookhim once.”“Shook him!—how?”—Bolus stammer’d out:“We jolted him about.”“Zounds! Shake a Patient, man!—a shake won’t do.”“No, Sir,—and so we gave himtwo.”“Two shakes! od’s curse!’Twould make the Patient worse.”“It did so, Sir!—and so a third we tried.”“Well, and what then?”—“then, Sir, my master died.”Vignette of a mortar and pestle sitting atop a draped casket.ContentsEreWillhad done ’twas waxing wond’rous late;And reeling Bucks the streets began to scour;While guardian Watchmen, with a tottering gait,Cried every thing, quite clear, except the hour.“Another pot,” saysTom, “and then,A Song;—and so good night, good Gentlemen!“I’ve Lyricks, such asBons Vivantsindite,In which your bibbers of Champagne delight,—The Poetaster, bawling them in clubs,Obtains a miserably noted name;And every noisy Bacchanalian dubsThe Singing-Writer with a bastard Fame.”A man in an apron speaks with a seated, angry loooking man.LODGINGSFORSINGLE GENTLEMEN.ContentsWhohas e’er been in London, that overgrown place,Has seen “Lodgings to Let” stare him full in the face:Some are good, and let dearly; while some, ’tis well known,Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.WILL WADDLE, whose temper was studious and lonely,Hire’d lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only;ButWillwas so fat he appear’d like a ton;—Or like Two Single Gentlemen roll’d into One.He enter’d his rooms, and to bed he retreated;But, all the night long, he felt fever’d, and heated;And, tho’ heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.Next night ’twas the same!—and the next;—and the next;He perspire’d like an ox; he was nervous, and vex’d;Week past after week; till, by weekly succession,His weakly condition was past all expression.In six months, his acquaintance began much to doubt him:For his skin, “like a lady’s loose gown,” hung about him.He sent for a Doctor; and cried, like a ninny,“I have lost many pounds—make me well—there’s a guinea.”The Doctor look’d wise:—“a slow fever,” he said:Prescribe’d sudorificks,—and going to bed.“Sudorificks in bed,” exclaim’dWill, “are humbugs!I’ve enough of them there, without paying for drugs!”Willkick’d out the Doctor:—but, when ill indeed,E’en dismissing the Doctor don’talwayssucceed;So, calling his host—he said—“Sir, do you know,I’m the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago?“Look’e, landlord, I think,” arguedWill, with a grin,“That with honest intentions you firsttook me in:But from the first night—and to say it I’m bold—I have been so damn’d hot, that I’m sure I caught cold.”Quoth the landlord—“till now, I ne’er had a dispute;I’ve let lodgings ten years;—I’m a Baker, to boot;In airing your sheets, Sir, my wife is no sloven;And your bed is immediately over my Oven.”“The Oven!!!” saysWill;—says the host, “why this passion?In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.Why so crusty, good Sir?”—“Zounds!” criesWill, in a taking,“Who wouldn’t be crusty, with half a year’s baking?”Willpaid for his rooms;—cried the host, with a sneer,“Well, I see you’ve beengoing awayhalf a year:”“Friend, we can’t well agree,—yet no quarrel”—Willsaid;—“But I’d rather notperish, while youmake your bread.”2A melting candle sits on a bread peel in front of a brick oven.
ContentsThree men sit on wooden chairs before a fireplace.Tom,Dick, andWill, were little known to Fame;—No matter;—But to the Ale-house, oftentimes, they came,To chatter.It was the custom of these threeTo sit up late;And, o’er the embers of the Ale-house fire,When steadier customers retire,The choiceTriumviri, d’ye see,Held a debate.Held a debate?—On politicks, no doubt.Not so;—they care’d not who was in,No, not a pin;—Nor who was out.All their discourse on modern Poets ran;For in the Muses was their sole delight;—They talk’d of such, and such, and such a man;Of those who could, and those who could not write.It cost them very little painsTo count the modern Poets, who had brains.’Twas a small difficulty;—’twasn’t any;They were so few:But to cast up the scores of menWho wield a stump they call a pen,Lord! they had much to do,—They were so many!Buoy’d on a sea of fancy, Genius rises,And like the rare Leviathan surprises;But thesmall fryof scribblers!—tiny souls!They wriggle thro’ the mud in shoals.It would have raise’d a smile to see the facesThey made, and the ridiculous grimaces,At many an author, as they overhaul’d him.They gave no quarter to a calf,Blown up with puff, and paragraph;But, if they found him bad, they maul’d him.On modern Dramatists they fell,Pounce,vi et armis—tooth and nail—pell mell.They call’d them Carpenters, and Smugglers;Filching their incidents from ancient hoards,And knocking them together, like deal boards:And Jugglers;Who all the town’s attention fix,By making—Plays?—No, Sir, by makingtricks.The Versifiers—Heaven defend us!They play’d the very devil with their rhymes.They hope’d Apollo a new set would send us;And then, invidiously enough,Place’d modish verse, which they call’d stuff,Against the writing of the elder times.To say the truth, a modern versifierClap’d cheek by jowlWith Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior,Would look most scurvily, upon my soul!For Novels, should their critick hints succeed,The Misses might fare better when they took ’em;But it would fare extremely ill, indeed,With gentleMessieurs LaneandHookham.“A Novel, now,” saysWill, “is nothing moreThan an old castle,—and a creaking door,—A distant hovel;—Clanking of chains—a gallery—a light,—Old armour—and a phantom all in white,—And there’s a Novel!Vignette of a skeletal head in a helmet, surrounded by a veil.“Scourge me such catch-penny inditersOut of the land,” quothWill—rousing in passion—“And fy upon the readers of such writers,Who bring them into fashion!”Willrose in declamation. “’Tis the bane,”Says he, “of youth;—’tis the perdition:It fills a giddy female brainWith vice, romance, lust, terror, pain,—With superstition.“Were I Pastor in a boarding-school,I’d quash such booksin toto;—if I couldn’t,Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule,I’d flog her soundly; damme if I wouldn’t.”William, ’tis plain, was getting in a rage;But, Thomas dryly said,—for he was cool—“I think no gentleman would mend the ageBy flogging Ladies at a Boarding-school.”Dickknock’d the ashes from his pipe,And said, “FriendWill,You give the Novels a fair wipe;But still,While you, my friend, with passion run ’em down,They’re in the hands of all the town.“The reason’s plain,” proceededDick,“And simply thus—Taste, over-glutted, grows deprave’d, and sick,And needs astimulus.“Time was,—(when honest Fielding writ)—Tales full of Nature, Character, and Wit,Were reckon’d most delicious boil’d and roast:But stomachs are so cloy’d with novel-feeding,Folks get a vitiated taste in reading,And want that strong provocative, a Ghost.“Or, to come nearer,And put the case a little clearer:—Mind, just like bodies, suffer enervation,By too much use;And sink into a state of relaxation,With long abuse.“Now, a Romance, with reading Debauchees,Rouses their torpid powers when Nature fails;And all these Legendary TalesAre, to a worn-out mind, Cantharides.“But how to cure the evil?” you will say:“MyRecipeis,—laughing it away.“Lay bare the weak farrago of those menWho fabricate such visionary schemes,As if the night-mare rode upon their pen,And trouble’d all their ink with hideous dreams.“For instance—when a solemn Ghost stalks in,And, thro’ a mystick tale is busy,Strip me the Gentleman into his skin—What is he?“Truly, ridiculous enough:Mere trash;—and very childish stuff.“Draw but a Ghost, or Fiend,of low degree,And all the bubble’s broken!—Let us see.”
Contents
Three men sit on wooden chairs before a fireplace.
Tom,Dick, andWill, were little known to Fame;—No matter;—But to the Ale-house, oftentimes, they came,To chatter.It was the custom of these threeTo sit up late;And, o’er the embers of the Ale-house fire,When steadier customers retire,The choiceTriumviri, d’ye see,Held a debate.Held a debate?—On politicks, no doubt.Not so;—they care’d not who was in,No, not a pin;—Nor who was out.All their discourse on modern Poets ran;For in the Muses was their sole delight;—They talk’d of such, and such, and such a man;Of those who could, and those who could not write.It cost them very little painsTo count the modern Poets, who had brains.’Twas a small difficulty;—’twasn’t any;They were so few:But to cast up the scores of menWho wield a stump they call a pen,Lord! they had much to do,—They were so many!Buoy’d on a sea of fancy, Genius rises,And like the rare Leviathan surprises;But thesmall fryof scribblers!—tiny souls!They wriggle thro’ the mud in shoals.It would have raise’d a smile to see the facesThey made, and the ridiculous grimaces,At many an author, as they overhaul’d him.They gave no quarter to a calf,Blown up with puff, and paragraph;But, if they found him bad, they maul’d him.On modern Dramatists they fell,Pounce,vi et armis—tooth and nail—pell mell.They call’d them Carpenters, and Smugglers;Filching their incidents from ancient hoards,And knocking them together, like deal boards:And Jugglers;Who all the town’s attention fix,By making—Plays?—No, Sir, by makingtricks.The Versifiers—Heaven defend us!They play’d the very devil with their rhymes.They hope’d Apollo a new set would send us;And then, invidiously enough,Place’d modish verse, which they call’d stuff,Against the writing of the elder times.To say the truth, a modern versifierClap’d cheek by jowlWith Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior,Would look most scurvily, upon my soul!For Novels, should their critick hints succeed,The Misses might fare better when they took ’em;But it would fare extremely ill, indeed,With gentleMessieurs LaneandHookham.“A Novel, now,” saysWill, “is nothing moreThan an old castle,—and a creaking door,—A distant hovel;—Clanking of chains—a gallery—a light,—Old armour—and a phantom all in white,—And there’s a Novel!Vignette of a skeletal head in a helmet, surrounded by a veil.“Scourge me such catch-penny inditersOut of the land,” quothWill—rousing in passion—“And fy upon the readers of such writers,Who bring them into fashion!”Willrose in declamation. “’Tis the bane,”Says he, “of youth;—’tis the perdition:It fills a giddy female brainWith vice, romance, lust, terror, pain,—With superstition.“Were I Pastor in a boarding-school,I’d quash such booksin toto;—if I couldn’t,Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule,I’d flog her soundly; damme if I wouldn’t.”William, ’tis plain, was getting in a rage;But, Thomas dryly said,—for he was cool—“I think no gentleman would mend the ageBy flogging Ladies at a Boarding-school.”Dickknock’d the ashes from his pipe,And said, “FriendWill,You give the Novels a fair wipe;But still,While you, my friend, with passion run ’em down,They’re in the hands of all the town.“The reason’s plain,” proceededDick,“And simply thus—Taste, over-glutted, grows deprave’d, and sick,And needs astimulus.“Time was,—(when honest Fielding writ)—Tales full of Nature, Character, and Wit,Were reckon’d most delicious boil’d and roast:But stomachs are so cloy’d with novel-feeding,Folks get a vitiated taste in reading,And want that strong provocative, a Ghost.“Or, to come nearer,And put the case a little clearer:—Mind, just like bodies, suffer enervation,By too much use;And sink into a state of relaxation,With long abuse.“Now, a Romance, with reading Debauchees,Rouses their torpid powers when Nature fails;And all these Legendary TalesAre, to a worn-out mind, Cantharides.“But how to cure the evil?” you will say:“MyRecipeis,—laughing it away.“Lay bare the weak farrago of those menWho fabricate such visionary schemes,As if the night-mare rode upon their pen,And trouble’d all their ink with hideous dreams.“For instance—when a solemn Ghost stalks in,And, thro’ a mystick tale is busy,Strip me the Gentleman into his skin—What is he?“Truly, ridiculous enough:Mere trash;—and very childish stuff.“Draw but a Ghost, or Fiend,of low degree,And all the bubble’s broken!—Let us see.”
Tom,Dick, andWill, were little known to Fame;—No matter;—But to the Ale-house, oftentimes, they came,To chatter.
Tom,Dick, andWill, were little known to Fame;—
No matter;—
But to the Ale-house, oftentimes, they came,
To chatter.
It was the custom of these threeTo sit up late;And, o’er the embers of the Ale-house fire,When steadier customers retire,The choiceTriumviri, d’ye see,Held a debate.
It was the custom of these three
To sit up late;
And, o’er the embers of the Ale-house fire,
When steadier customers retire,
The choiceTriumviri, d’ye see,
Held a debate.
Held a debate?—On politicks, no doubt.Not so;—they care’d not who was in,No, not a pin;—Nor who was out.
Held a debate?—On politicks, no doubt.
Not so;—they care’d not who was in,
No, not a pin;—
Nor who was out.
All their discourse on modern Poets ran;For in the Muses was their sole delight;—They talk’d of such, and such, and such a man;Of those who could, and those who could not write.
All their discourse on modern Poets ran;
For in the Muses was their sole delight;—
They talk’d of such, and such, and such a man;
Of those who could, and those who could not write.
It cost them very little painsTo count the modern Poets, who had brains.’Twas a small difficulty;—’twasn’t any;They were so few:But to cast up the scores of menWho wield a stump they call a pen,Lord! they had much to do,—They were so many!
It cost them very little pains
To count the modern Poets, who had brains.
’Twas a small difficulty;—’twasn’t any;
They were so few:
But to cast up the scores of men
Who wield a stump they call a pen,
Lord! they had much to do,—
They were so many!
Buoy’d on a sea of fancy, Genius rises,And like the rare Leviathan surprises;But thesmall fryof scribblers!—tiny souls!They wriggle thro’ the mud in shoals.
Buoy’d on a sea of fancy, Genius rises,
And like the rare Leviathan surprises;
But thesmall fryof scribblers!—tiny souls!
They wriggle thro’ the mud in shoals.
It would have raise’d a smile to see the facesThey made, and the ridiculous grimaces,At many an author, as they overhaul’d him.They gave no quarter to a calf,Blown up with puff, and paragraph;But, if they found him bad, they maul’d him.
It would have raise’d a smile to see the faces
They made, and the ridiculous grimaces,
At many an author, as they overhaul’d him.
They gave no quarter to a calf,
Blown up with puff, and paragraph;
But, if they found him bad, they maul’d him.
On modern Dramatists they fell,Pounce,vi et armis—tooth and nail—pell mell.They call’d them Carpenters, and Smugglers;Filching their incidents from ancient hoards,And knocking them together, like deal boards:And Jugglers;Who all the town’s attention fix,By making—Plays?—No, Sir, by makingtricks.
On modern Dramatists they fell,
Pounce,vi et armis—tooth and nail—pell mell.
They call’d them Carpenters, and Smugglers;
Filching their incidents from ancient hoards,
And knocking them together, like deal boards:
And Jugglers;
Who all the town’s attention fix,
By making—Plays?—No, Sir, by makingtricks.
The Versifiers—Heaven defend us!They play’d the very devil with their rhymes.They hope’d Apollo a new set would send us;And then, invidiously enough,Place’d modish verse, which they call’d stuff,Against the writing of the elder times.
The Versifiers—Heaven defend us!
They play’d the very devil with their rhymes.
They hope’d Apollo a new set would send us;
And then, invidiously enough,
Place’d modish verse, which they call’d stuff,
Against the writing of the elder times.
To say the truth, a modern versifierClap’d cheek by jowlWith Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior,Would look most scurvily, upon my soul!
To say the truth, a modern versifier
Clap’d cheek by jowl
With Pope, with Dryden, and with Prior,
Would look most scurvily, upon my soul!
For Novels, should their critick hints succeed,The Misses might fare better when they took ’em;But it would fare extremely ill, indeed,With gentleMessieurs LaneandHookham.
For Novels, should their critick hints succeed,
The Misses might fare better when they took ’em;
But it would fare extremely ill, indeed,
With gentleMessieurs LaneandHookham.
“A Novel, now,” saysWill, “is nothing moreThan an old castle,—and a creaking door,—A distant hovel;—Clanking of chains—a gallery—a light,—Old armour—and a phantom all in white,—And there’s a Novel!
“A Novel, now,” saysWill, “is nothing more
Than an old castle,—and a creaking door,—
A distant hovel;—
Clanking of chains—a gallery—a light,—
Old armour—and a phantom all in white,—
And there’s a Novel!
Vignette of a skeletal head in a helmet, surrounded by a veil.
“Scourge me such catch-penny inditersOut of the land,” quothWill—rousing in passion—“And fy upon the readers of such writers,Who bring them into fashion!”
“Scourge me such catch-penny inditers
Out of the land,” quothWill—rousing in passion—
“And fy upon the readers of such writers,
Who bring them into fashion!”
Willrose in declamation. “’Tis the bane,”Says he, “of youth;—’tis the perdition:It fills a giddy female brainWith vice, romance, lust, terror, pain,—With superstition.
Willrose in declamation. “’Tis the bane,”
Says he, “of youth;—’tis the perdition:
It fills a giddy female brain
With vice, romance, lust, terror, pain,—
With superstition.
“Were I Pastor in a boarding-school,I’d quash such booksin toto;—if I couldn’t,Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule,I’d flog her soundly; damme if I wouldn’t.”
“Were I Pastor in a boarding-school,
I’d quash such booksin toto;—if I couldn’t,
Let me but catch one Miss that broke my rule,
I’d flog her soundly; damme if I wouldn’t.”
William, ’tis plain, was getting in a rage;But, Thomas dryly said,—for he was cool—“I think no gentleman would mend the ageBy flogging Ladies at a Boarding-school.”
William, ’tis plain, was getting in a rage;
But, Thomas dryly said,—for he was cool—
“I think no gentleman would mend the age
By flogging Ladies at a Boarding-school.”
Dickknock’d the ashes from his pipe,And said, “FriendWill,You give the Novels a fair wipe;But still,While you, my friend, with passion run ’em down,They’re in the hands of all the town.
Dickknock’d the ashes from his pipe,
And said, “FriendWill,
You give the Novels a fair wipe;
But still,
While you, my friend, with passion run ’em down,
They’re in the hands of all the town.
“The reason’s plain,” proceededDick,“And simply thus—Taste, over-glutted, grows deprave’d, and sick,And needs astimulus.
“The reason’s plain,” proceededDick,
“And simply thus—
Taste, over-glutted, grows deprave’d, and sick,
And needs astimulus.
“Time was,—(when honest Fielding writ)—Tales full of Nature, Character, and Wit,Were reckon’d most delicious boil’d and roast:But stomachs are so cloy’d with novel-feeding,Folks get a vitiated taste in reading,And want that strong provocative, a Ghost.
“Time was,—(when honest Fielding writ)—
Tales full of Nature, Character, and Wit,
Were reckon’d most delicious boil’d and roast:
But stomachs are so cloy’d with novel-feeding,
Folks get a vitiated taste in reading,
And want that strong provocative, a Ghost.
“Or, to come nearer,And put the case a little clearer:—Mind, just like bodies, suffer enervation,By too much use;And sink into a state of relaxation,With long abuse.
“Or, to come nearer,
And put the case a little clearer:—
Mind, just like bodies, suffer enervation,
By too much use;
And sink into a state of relaxation,
With long abuse.
“Now, a Romance, with reading Debauchees,Rouses their torpid powers when Nature fails;And all these Legendary TalesAre, to a worn-out mind, Cantharides.
“Now, a Romance, with reading Debauchees,
Rouses their torpid powers when Nature fails;
And all these Legendary Tales
Are, to a worn-out mind, Cantharides.
“But how to cure the evil?” you will say:“MyRecipeis,—laughing it away.
“But how to cure the evil?” you will say:
“MyRecipeis,—laughing it away.
“Lay bare the weak farrago of those menWho fabricate such visionary schemes,As if the night-mare rode upon their pen,And trouble’d all their ink with hideous dreams.
“Lay bare the weak farrago of those men
Who fabricate such visionary schemes,
As if the night-mare rode upon their pen,
And trouble’d all their ink with hideous dreams.
“For instance—when a solemn Ghost stalks in,And, thro’ a mystick tale is busy,Strip me the Gentleman into his skin—What is he?
“For instance—when a solemn Ghost stalks in,
And, thro’ a mystick tale is busy,
Strip me the Gentleman into his skin—
What is he?
“Truly, ridiculous enough:Mere trash;—and very childish stuff.
“Truly, ridiculous enough:
Mere trash;—and very childish stuff.
“Draw but a Ghost, or Fiend,of low degree,And all the bubble’s broken!—Let us see.”
“Draw but a Ghost, or Fiend,of low degree,
And all the bubble’s broken!—Let us see.”
A winged devil carries a woman in his arms. There is a dog nearby.THE WATER-FIENDS.ContentsOna wild Moor, all brown and bleak,Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,There stood a tenement antique;Lord Hoppergollop’s country house.Here Silence reign’d, with lips of glue,And undisturb’d maintain’d her law;Save when the Owl cry’d “whoo! whoo! whoo!”Or the hoarse Crow croak’d “caw! caw! caw!”Neglected mansion!—for, ’tis said,Whene’er the snow came feathering down,Four barbed steeds,—from the Bull’s head,Carried thy master up to town.Weak Hoppergollop!—Lords may moan,Who stake, in London, their estate,On two, small, rattling, bits of bone;Onlittle figure, or ongreat.Swift whirl the wheels.—He’s gone.—A RoseRemains behind, whose virgin look,Unseen, must blush in wintry snows,Sweet, beauteous blossom!——’twas the Cook!A bolder far than my weak note,Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand:Eels might be proud to lose their coat,If skinn’d by Molly Dumpling’s hand.Long had the fair one sat alone,Had none remain’d save only she;—She by herself had been—if oneHad not been left, for company.’Twas a tall youth, whose cheek’s clear hue,Was tinge’d with health and manly toil;—Cabbage he sow’d; and, when it grew,He always cut it off, to boil.Oft would he cry, “Delve, Delve the hole!And prune the tree, and trim the root!And stick the wig upon the pole,To scare the sparrows from the fruit!”A small, mute favourite, by day,Follow’d his step; where’er he wheelsHis barrow round the garden gay,A bob-tail cur is at his heels.Ah, man! the brute creation see!Thy constancy oft needs the spur!While lessons of fidelityAre found in every bob-tail cur.Hard toil’d the youth, so fresh and strong,While Bobtail in his face would look,And mark’d his master troll the song,—“Sweet Molly Dumpling! Oh, thou Cook!”For thus he sung:—while Cupid smile’d;—Please’d that the Gard’ner own’d his dart,Which prune’d his passions, running wild,And grafted true-love on his heart.Maid of the Moor! his love return!True love ne’er tints the cheek with shame:When Gard’ners’ hearts, like hot-beds, burn,A Cook may surely feed the flame.Ah! not averse from love was she;Tho’ pure as Heaven’s snowy flake;Both love’d: and tho’ a Gard’ner he,He knew not what it was torake.Cold blows the blast:—the night’s obscure:The mansion’s crazy wainscots crack:No star appear’d:—and all the Moor,Like ev’ry other Moor,—was black.Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,The lovely Molly Dumpling sat;Much did she fear, and much admireWhat Thomas Gard’ner could be at.List’ning, her hand supports her chin;But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:He comes not, from the garden, in;Nor he, nor little bobtail cur.They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee;Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!And what’s impossible can’t be;And never, never, comes to pass!She paces thro’ the hall antique,To call her Thomas from his toil;Opes the huge door;—the hinges creak;Because the hinges wanted oil.Thrice, on the threshold of the hall,She “Thomas!” cried, with many a sob;And thrice on Bobtail did she call,Exclaiming, sweetly,—“Bob! Bob! Bob!”Vain maid! a Gard’ner’s corpse, ’tis said,In answers can but ill succeed;And dogs that hear when they are dead,Are very cunning Dogs indeed!Back thro’ the hall she bent her way;All, all was solitude around!The candle shed a feeble ray,——Tho’ a large mould of four to th’ pound.Full closely to the fire she drew;Adown her cheek a salt tear stole;When, lo! a coffin out there flew,And in her apron burnt a hole!Spiders their busy death-watch tick’d;A certain sign that Fate will frown;The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click’d,A certain sign it was not down.More strong and strong her terrors rose;—Her shadow did the maid appal;—She tremble’d at her lovely nose,—It look’d so long against the wall.Up to her chamber, damp and cold,She climb’d Lord Hoppergollop’s stair;—Three stories high—long, dull, and old,—As great Lords’ stories often are.All Nature now appear’d to pause:And “o’er the one half world seem’d dead;”No “curtain’d sleep” had she;——becauseShe had no curtains to her bed.List’ning she lay;—with iron din,The clock struckTwelve; the door flew wide;When Thomas, grimly, glided in,With little Bobtail by his side.Tall, like the poplar, was his size,Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks;Red, red as beet-root, were his eyes;Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks!Soon as the Spectre she espied,The fear-struck damsel faintly said,“What wou’d my Thomas?”—he replied,“Oh! Molly Dumpling! I am dead.“All in the flower of youth I fell,Cut off with health’s full blossom crown’d;I was not ill—but in a wellI tumble’d backwards, and was drown’d.“Four fathom deep thy love doth lie:His faithful dog his fate doth share;We’re Fiends;—this is not he and I;We are nothere,—for we arethere.“Yes;—two foul Water-Fiends are we;Maid of the Moor!—attend us now!Thy hour’s at hand;—we come for thee!”The little Fiend-Cur said “bow wow!”“To wind her in her cold, cold grave,A Holland sheet a maiden likes;A sheet of water thou shalt have;Such sheets there are in Holland Dykes.”The Fiends approach; the Maid did shrink;Swift thro’ the night’s foul air they spin;They took her to the green well’s brink,And, with a souse, they plump’d her in.So true the fair, so true the youth,Maids, to this day, their story tell:And hence the proverb rose, that TruthLies in the bottom of a well.The man-fiend pushes the woman into a stream. The dog-fiend is head-first in the stream.
A winged devil carries a woman in his arms. There is a dog nearby.
Contents
Ona wild Moor, all brown and bleak,Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,There stood a tenement antique;Lord Hoppergollop’s country house.Here Silence reign’d, with lips of glue,And undisturb’d maintain’d her law;Save when the Owl cry’d “whoo! whoo! whoo!”Or the hoarse Crow croak’d “caw! caw! caw!”Neglected mansion!—for, ’tis said,Whene’er the snow came feathering down,Four barbed steeds,—from the Bull’s head,Carried thy master up to town.Weak Hoppergollop!—Lords may moan,Who stake, in London, their estate,On two, small, rattling, bits of bone;Onlittle figure, or ongreat.Swift whirl the wheels.—He’s gone.—A RoseRemains behind, whose virgin look,Unseen, must blush in wintry snows,Sweet, beauteous blossom!——’twas the Cook!A bolder far than my weak note,Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand:Eels might be proud to lose their coat,If skinn’d by Molly Dumpling’s hand.Long had the fair one sat alone,Had none remain’d save only she;—She by herself had been—if oneHad not been left, for company.’Twas a tall youth, whose cheek’s clear hue,Was tinge’d with health and manly toil;—Cabbage he sow’d; and, when it grew,He always cut it off, to boil.Oft would he cry, “Delve, Delve the hole!And prune the tree, and trim the root!And stick the wig upon the pole,To scare the sparrows from the fruit!”A small, mute favourite, by day,Follow’d his step; where’er he wheelsHis barrow round the garden gay,A bob-tail cur is at his heels.Ah, man! the brute creation see!Thy constancy oft needs the spur!While lessons of fidelityAre found in every bob-tail cur.Hard toil’d the youth, so fresh and strong,While Bobtail in his face would look,And mark’d his master troll the song,—“Sweet Molly Dumpling! Oh, thou Cook!”For thus he sung:—while Cupid smile’d;—Please’d that the Gard’ner own’d his dart,Which prune’d his passions, running wild,And grafted true-love on his heart.Maid of the Moor! his love return!True love ne’er tints the cheek with shame:When Gard’ners’ hearts, like hot-beds, burn,A Cook may surely feed the flame.Ah! not averse from love was she;Tho’ pure as Heaven’s snowy flake;Both love’d: and tho’ a Gard’ner he,He knew not what it was torake.Cold blows the blast:—the night’s obscure:The mansion’s crazy wainscots crack:No star appear’d:—and all the Moor,Like ev’ry other Moor,—was black.Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,The lovely Molly Dumpling sat;Much did she fear, and much admireWhat Thomas Gard’ner could be at.List’ning, her hand supports her chin;But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:He comes not, from the garden, in;Nor he, nor little bobtail cur.They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee;Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!And what’s impossible can’t be;And never, never, comes to pass!She paces thro’ the hall antique,To call her Thomas from his toil;Opes the huge door;—the hinges creak;Because the hinges wanted oil.Thrice, on the threshold of the hall,She “Thomas!” cried, with many a sob;And thrice on Bobtail did she call,Exclaiming, sweetly,—“Bob! Bob! Bob!”Vain maid! a Gard’ner’s corpse, ’tis said,In answers can but ill succeed;And dogs that hear when they are dead,Are very cunning Dogs indeed!Back thro’ the hall she bent her way;All, all was solitude around!The candle shed a feeble ray,——Tho’ a large mould of four to th’ pound.Full closely to the fire she drew;Adown her cheek a salt tear stole;When, lo! a coffin out there flew,And in her apron burnt a hole!Spiders their busy death-watch tick’d;A certain sign that Fate will frown;The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click’d,A certain sign it was not down.More strong and strong her terrors rose;—Her shadow did the maid appal;—She tremble’d at her lovely nose,—It look’d so long against the wall.Up to her chamber, damp and cold,She climb’d Lord Hoppergollop’s stair;—Three stories high—long, dull, and old,—As great Lords’ stories often are.All Nature now appear’d to pause:And “o’er the one half world seem’d dead;”No “curtain’d sleep” had she;——becauseShe had no curtains to her bed.List’ning she lay;—with iron din,The clock struckTwelve; the door flew wide;When Thomas, grimly, glided in,With little Bobtail by his side.Tall, like the poplar, was his size,Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks;Red, red as beet-root, were his eyes;Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks!Soon as the Spectre she espied,The fear-struck damsel faintly said,“What wou’d my Thomas?”—he replied,“Oh! Molly Dumpling! I am dead.“All in the flower of youth I fell,Cut off with health’s full blossom crown’d;I was not ill—but in a wellI tumble’d backwards, and was drown’d.“Four fathom deep thy love doth lie:His faithful dog his fate doth share;We’re Fiends;—this is not he and I;We are nothere,—for we arethere.“Yes;—two foul Water-Fiends are we;Maid of the Moor!—attend us now!Thy hour’s at hand;—we come for thee!”The little Fiend-Cur said “bow wow!”“To wind her in her cold, cold grave,A Holland sheet a maiden likes;A sheet of water thou shalt have;Such sheets there are in Holland Dykes.”The Fiends approach; the Maid did shrink;Swift thro’ the night’s foul air they spin;They took her to the green well’s brink,And, with a souse, they plump’d her in.So true the fair, so true the youth,Maids, to this day, their story tell:And hence the proverb rose, that TruthLies in the bottom of a well.
Ona wild Moor, all brown and bleak,Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,There stood a tenement antique;Lord Hoppergollop’s country house.
Ona wild Moor, all brown and bleak,
Where broods the heath-frequenting grouse,
There stood a tenement antique;
Lord Hoppergollop’s country house.
Here Silence reign’d, with lips of glue,And undisturb’d maintain’d her law;Save when the Owl cry’d “whoo! whoo! whoo!”Or the hoarse Crow croak’d “caw! caw! caw!”
Here Silence reign’d, with lips of glue,
And undisturb’d maintain’d her law;
Save when the Owl cry’d “whoo! whoo! whoo!”
Or the hoarse Crow croak’d “caw! caw! caw!”
Neglected mansion!—for, ’tis said,Whene’er the snow came feathering down,Four barbed steeds,—from the Bull’s head,Carried thy master up to town.
Neglected mansion!—for, ’tis said,
Whene’er the snow came feathering down,
Four barbed steeds,—from the Bull’s head,
Carried thy master up to town.
Weak Hoppergollop!—Lords may moan,Who stake, in London, their estate,On two, small, rattling, bits of bone;Onlittle figure, or ongreat.
Weak Hoppergollop!—Lords may moan,
Who stake, in London, their estate,
On two, small, rattling, bits of bone;
Onlittle figure, or ongreat.
Swift whirl the wheels.—He’s gone.—A RoseRemains behind, whose virgin look,Unseen, must blush in wintry snows,Sweet, beauteous blossom!——’twas the Cook!
Swift whirl the wheels.—He’s gone.—A Rose
Remains behind, whose virgin look,
Unseen, must blush in wintry snows,
Sweet, beauteous blossom!——’twas the Cook!
A bolder far than my weak note,Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand:Eels might be proud to lose their coat,If skinn’d by Molly Dumpling’s hand.
A bolder far than my weak note,
Maid of the Moor! thy charms demand:
Eels might be proud to lose their coat,
If skinn’d by Molly Dumpling’s hand.
Long had the fair one sat alone,Had none remain’d save only she;—She by herself had been—if oneHad not been left, for company.
Long had the fair one sat alone,
Had none remain’d save only she;—
She by herself had been—if one
Had not been left, for company.
’Twas a tall youth, whose cheek’s clear hue,Was tinge’d with health and manly toil;—Cabbage he sow’d; and, when it grew,He always cut it off, to boil.
’Twas a tall youth, whose cheek’s clear hue,
Was tinge’d with health and manly toil;—
Cabbage he sow’d; and, when it grew,
He always cut it off, to boil.
Oft would he cry, “Delve, Delve the hole!And prune the tree, and trim the root!And stick the wig upon the pole,To scare the sparrows from the fruit!”
Oft would he cry, “Delve, Delve the hole!
And prune the tree, and trim the root!
And stick the wig upon the pole,
To scare the sparrows from the fruit!”
A small, mute favourite, by day,Follow’d his step; where’er he wheelsHis barrow round the garden gay,A bob-tail cur is at his heels.
A small, mute favourite, by day,
Follow’d his step; where’er he wheels
His barrow round the garden gay,
A bob-tail cur is at his heels.
Ah, man! the brute creation see!Thy constancy oft needs the spur!While lessons of fidelityAre found in every bob-tail cur.
Ah, man! the brute creation see!
Thy constancy oft needs the spur!
While lessons of fidelity
Are found in every bob-tail cur.
Hard toil’d the youth, so fresh and strong,While Bobtail in his face would look,And mark’d his master troll the song,—“Sweet Molly Dumpling! Oh, thou Cook!”
Hard toil’d the youth, so fresh and strong,
While Bobtail in his face would look,
And mark’d his master troll the song,—
“Sweet Molly Dumpling! Oh, thou Cook!”
For thus he sung:—while Cupid smile’d;—Please’d that the Gard’ner own’d his dart,Which prune’d his passions, running wild,And grafted true-love on his heart.
For thus he sung:—while Cupid smile’d;—
Please’d that the Gard’ner own’d his dart,
Which prune’d his passions, running wild,
And grafted true-love on his heart.
Maid of the Moor! his love return!True love ne’er tints the cheek with shame:When Gard’ners’ hearts, like hot-beds, burn,A Cook may surely feed the flame.
Maid of the Moor! his love return!
True love ne’er tints the cheek with shame:
When Gard’ners’ hearts, like hot-beds, burn,
A Cook may surely feed the flame.
Ah! not averse from love was she;Tho’ pure as Heaven’s snowy flake;Both love’d: and tho’ a Gard’ner he,He knew not what it was torake.
Ah! not averse from love was she;
Tho’ pure as Heaven’s snowy flake;
Both love’d: and tho’ a Gard’ner he,
He knew not what it was torake.
Cold blows the blast:—the night’s obscure:The mansion’s crazy wainscots crack:No star appear’d:—and all the Moor,Like ev’ry other Moor,—was black.
Cold blows the blast:—the night’s obscure:
The mansion’s crazy wainscots crack:
No star appear’d:—and all the Moor,
Like ev’ry other Moor,—was black.
Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,The lovely Molly Dumpling sat;Much did she fear, and much admireWhat Thomas Gard’ner could be at.
Alone, pale, trembling, near the fire,
The lovely Molly Dumpling sat;
Much did she fear, and much admire
What Thomas Gard’ner could be at.
List’ning, her hand supports her chin;But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:He comes not, from the garden, in;Nor he, nor little bobtail cur.
List’ning, her hand supports her chin;
But, ah! no foot is heard to stir:
He comes not, from the garden, in;
Nor he, nor little bobtail cur.
They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee;Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!And what’s impossible can’t be;And never, never, comes to pass!
They cannot come, sweet maid! to thee;
Flesh, both of cur and man, is grass!
And what’s impossible can’t be;
And never, never, comes to pass!
She paces thro’ the hall antique,To call her Thomas from his toil;Opes the huge door;—the hinges creak;Because the hinges wanted oil.
She paces thro’ the hall antique,
To call her Thomas from his toil;
Opes the huge door;—the hinges creak;
Because the hinges wanted oil.
Thrice, on the threshold of the hall,She “Thomas!” cried, with many a sob;And thrice on Bobtail did she call,Exclaiming, sweetly,—“Bob! Bob! Bob!”
Thrice, on the threshold of the hall,
She “Thomas!” cried, with many a sob;
And thrice on Bobtail did she call,
Exclaiming, sweetly,—“Bob! Bob! Bob!”
Vain maid! a Gard’ner’s corpse, ’tis said,In answers can but ill succeed;And dogs that hear when they are dead,Are very cunning Dogs indeed!
Vain maid! a Gard’ner’s corpse, ’tis said,
In answers can but ill succeed;
And dogs that hear when they are dead,
Are very cunning Dogs indeed!
Back thro’ the hall she bent her way;All, all was solitude around!The candle shed a feeble ray,——Tho’ a large mould of four to th’ pound.
Back thro’ the hall she bent her way;
All, all was solitude around!
The candle shed a feeble ray,——
Tho’ a large mould of four to th’ pound.
Full closely to the fire she drew;Adown her cheek a salt tear stole;When, lo! a coffin out there flew,And in her apron burnt a hole!
Full closely to the fire she drew;
Adown her cheek a salt tear stole;
When, lo! a coffin out there flew,
And in her apron burnt a hole!
Spiders their busy death-watch tick’d;A certain sign that Fate will frown;The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click’d,A certain sign it was not down.
Spiders their busy death-watch tick’d;
A certain sign that Fate will frown;
The clumsy kitchen clock, too, click’d,
A certain sign it was not down.
More strong and strong her terrors rose;—Her shadow did the maid appal;—She tremble’d at her lovely nose,—It look’d so long against the wall.
More strong and strong her terrors rose;—
Her shadow did the maid appal;—
She tremble’d at her lovely nose,—
It look’d so long against the wall.
Up to her chamber, damp and cold,She climb’d Lord Hoppergollop’s stair;—Three stories high—long, dull, and old,—As great Lords’ stories often are.
Up to her chamber, damp and cold,
She climb’d Lord Hoppergollop’s stair;—
Three stories high—long, dull, and old,—
As great Lords’ stories often are.
All Nature now appear’d to pause:And “o’er the one half world seem’d dead;”No “curtain’d sleep” had she;——becauseShe had no curtains to her bed.
All Nature now appear’d to pause:
And “o’er the one half world seem’d dead;”
No “curtain’d sleep” had she;——because
She had no curtains to her bed.
List’ning she lay;—with iron din,The clock struckTwelve; the door flew wide;When Thomas, grimly, glided in,With little Bobtail by his side.
List’ning she lay;—with iron din,
The clock struckTwelve; the door flew wide;
When Thomas, grimly, glided in,
With little Bobtail by his side.
Tall, like the poplar, was his size,Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks;Red, red as beet-root, were his eyes;Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks!
Tall, like the poplar, was his size,
Green, green his waistcoat was, as leeks;
Red, red as beet-root, were his eyes;
Pale, pale as turnips, were his cheeks!
Soon as the Spectre she espied,The fear-struck damsel faintly said,“What wou’d my Thomas?”—he replied,“Oh! Molly Dumpling! I am dead.
Soon as the Spectre she espied,
The fear-struck damsel faintly said,
“What wou’d my Thomas?”—he replied,
“Oh! Molly Dumpling! I am dead.
“All in the flower of youth I fell,Cut off with health’s full blossom crown’d;I was not ill—but in a wellI tumble’d backwards, and was drown’d.
“All in the flower of youth I fell,
Cut off with health’s full blossom crown’d;
I was not ill—but in a well
I tumble’d backwards, and was drown’d.
“Four fathom deep thy love doth lie:His faithful dog his fate doth share;We’re Fiends;—this is not he and I;We are nothere,—for we arethere.
“Four fathom deep thy love doth lie:
His faithful dog his fate doth share;
We’re Fiends;—this is not he and I;
We are nothere,—for we arethere.
“Yes;—two foul Water-Fiends are we;Maid of the Moor!—attend us now!Thy hour’s at hand;—we come for thee!”The little Fiend-Cur said “bow wow!”
“Yes;—two foul Water-Fiends are we;
Maid of the Moor!—attend us now!
Thy hour’s at hand;—we come for thee!”
The little Fiend-Cur said “bow wow!”
“To wind her in her cold, cold grave,A Holland sheet a maiden likes;A sheet of water thou shalt have;Such sheets there are in Holland Dykes.”
“To wind her in her cold, cold grave,
A Holland sheet a maiden likes;
A sheet of water thou shalt have;
Such sheets there are in Holland Dykes.”
The Fiends approach; the Maid did shrink;Swift thro’ the night’s foul air they spin;They took her to the green well’s brink,And, with a souse, they plump’d her in.
The Fiends approach; the Maid did shrink;
Swift thro’ the night’s foul air they spin;
They took her to the green well’s brink,
And, with a souse, they plump’d her in.
So true the fair, so true the youth,Maids, to this day, their story tell:And hence the proverb rose, that TruthLies in the bottom of a well.
So true the fair, so true the youth,
Maids, to this day, their story tell:
And hence the proverb rose, that Truth
Lies in the bottom of a well.
The man-fiend pushes the woman into a stream. The dog-fiend is head-first in the stream.
ContentsDickended:—TomandWillapprove’d his strains;And thought his Legend made as good a figureAs naturalizing a dull German’s brains,Which beget issues in the Heliconian stews,Upon a profligateTenthMuse,In all the gloomyimpotence of vigour.1“’Twas now the very witching time of night,WhenProsersyawn.”—Discussion grew diffuse:Argument’scarte and tiercewere lost, outright:And they fought loose.SaysWill, quite carelessly,—“the other day,As I was lying on my back,In bed,I took a fancy in my head;—Some writings aren’t so difficult as people say;—They area knack.”“What writings? whose?” saysTom—raking the cinders.“Many,” criedWill:—“For instance,—Peter Pindar’s.”“What! call you his a knack?”—“Yes;—mind his measure,Inthatlies half thepointthat gives us pleasure.”“Pooh!—’tisn’t that,”Dickcried—“Thathas been tried,Over and over:—Bless your souls!’Tis seen inCrazy Tales, and twenty things beside:His measure is as old as Poles.”“Granted,” criesWill: “I know I’m speaking treason:ForPeter,With many a joke, and queer conceit, doth seasonHis metre:“And this I’ll say ofPeter, to his face,As ’twas, time past, of Vanbrugh writ—Peterhas often wantedgrace,But he has never wantedwit.“Yet I will tell you a plain tale,And see how far quaint measure will prevail:”
Contents
Dickended:—TomandWillapprove’d his strains;And thought his Legend made as good a figureAs naturalizing a dull German’s brains,Which beget issues in the Heliconian stews,Upon a profligateTenthMuse,In all the gloomyimpotence of vigour.1“’Twas now the very witching time of night,WhenProsersyawn.”—Discussion grew diffuse:Argument’scarte and tiercewere lost, outright:And they fought loose.SaysWill, quite carelessly,—“the other day,As I was lying on my back,In bed,I took a fancy in my head;—Some writings aren’t so difficult as people say;—They area knack.”“What writings? whose?” saysTom—raking the cinders.“Many,” criedWill:—“For instance,—Peter Pindar’s.”“What! call you his a knack?”—“Yes;—mind his measure,Inthatlies half thepointthat gives us pleasure.”“Pooh!—’tisn’t that,”Dickcried—“Thathas been tried,Over and over:—Bless your souls!’Tis seen inCrazy Tales, and twenty things beside:His measure is as old as Poles.”“Granted,” criesWill: “I know I’m speaking treason:ForPeter,With many a joke, and queer conceit, doth seasonHis metre:“And this I’ll say ofPeter, to his face,As ’twas, time past, of Vanbrugh writ—Peterhas often wantedgrace,But he has never wantedwit.“Yet I will tell you a plain tale,And see how far quaint measure will prevail:”
Dickended:—TomandWillapprove’d his strains;And thought his Legend made as good a figureAs naturalizing a dull German’s brains,Which beget issues in the Heliconian stews,Upon a profligateTenthMuse,In all the gloomyimpotence of vigour.1
Dickended:—TomandWillapprove’d his strains;
And thought his Legend made as good a figure
As naturalizing a dull German’s brains,
Which beget issues in the Heliconian stews,
Upon a profligateTenthMuse,
In all the gloomyimpotence of vigour.1
“’Twas now the very witching time of night,WhenProsersyawn.”—Discussion grew diffuse:Argument’scarte and tiercewere lost, outright:And they fought loose.
“’Twas now the very witching time of night,
WhenProsersyawn.”—Discussion grew diffuse:
Argument’scarte and tiercewere lost, outright:
And they fought loose.
SaysWill, quite carelessly,—“the other day,As I was lying on my back,In bed,I took a fancy in my head;—Some writings aren’t so difficult as people say;—They area knack.”
SaysWill, quite carelessly,—“the other day,
As I was lying on my back,
In bed,
I took a fancy in my head;—
Some writings aren’t so difficult as people say;—
They area knack.”
“What writings? whose?” saysTom—raking the cinders.“Many,” criedWill:—“For instance,—Peter Pindar’s.”“What! call you his a knack?”—“Yes;—mind his measure,Inthatlies half thepointthat gives us pleasure.”“Pooh!—’tisn’t that,”Dickcried—“Thathas been tried,Over and over:—Bless your souls!’Tis seen inCrazy Tales, and twenty things beside:His measure is as old as Poles.”
“What writings? whose?” saysTom—raking the cinders.
“Many,” criedWill:—“For instance,—Peter Pindar’s.”
“What! call you his a knack?”—“Yes;—mind his measure,
Inthatlies half thepointthat gives us pleasure.”
“Pooh!—’tisn’t that,”Dickcried—
“Thathas been tried,
Over and over:—Bless your souls!
’Tis seen inCrazy Tales, and twenty things beside:
His measure is as old as Poles.”
“Granted,” criesWill: “I know I’m speaking treason:ForPeter,With many a joke, and queer conceit, doth seasonHis metre:
“Granted,” criesWill: “I know I’m speaking treason:
ForPeter,
With many a joke, and queer conceit, doth season
His metre:
“And this I’ll say ofPeter, to his face,As ’twas, time past, of Vanbrugh writ—Peterhas often wantedgrace,But he has never wantedwit.
“And this I’ll say ofPeter, to his face,
As ’twas, time past, of Vanbrugh writ—
Peterhas often wantedgrace,
But he has never wantedwit.
“Yet I will tell you a plain tale,And see how far quaint measure will prevail:”
“Yet I will tell you a plain tale,
And see how far quaint measure will prevail:”
Two men hold a third man who is obviously ill in bed.THENEWCASTLE APOTHECARY.ContentsA man, in many a country town, we know,Professes openly with death to wrestle;Ent’ring the field against the grimly foe,Arm’d with a mortar and a pestle.Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are;But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair,Who first shake hands before they box,Then give each other plaguy knocks,With all the love and kindness of a brother:So (many a suff’ring Patient saith)Tho’ the Apothecary fights with Death,Still they’re sworn friends to one another.A member of this Æsculapian line,Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne:No man could better gild a pill:Or make a bill;Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;Or draw a tooth out of your head;Or chatter scandal by your bed;Or give a clyster.Of occupations these werequantum suff.:Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough;And therefore Midwifery he chose to pin to’t.This balance’d things:—for if he hurl’dA few score mortals from the world,He made amends by bringing others into’t.His fame full six miles round the country ran;In short, in reputation he wassolus:All the old women call’d him “a fine man!”His name was Bolus.Benjamin Bolus, tho’ intrade,(Which oftentimes will Genius fetter)Read works of fancy, it is said;And cultivated theBelles Lettres.And why should this be thought so odd?Can’t men have taste who cure a phthysic;Of Poetry tho’ Patron-God,Apollo patronises physick.Bolus love’d verse;—and took so much delight in’t,That his prescriptions he resolve’d to write in’t.No opportunity he e’er let passOf writing the directions, on his labels,In dapper couplets,—likeGay’s Fables;Or, rather, like the lines inHudibras.Apothecary’s verse!—and where’s the treason?’Tis simply honest dealing:—not a crime;—When patients swallow physick without reason,It is but fair to give a little rhyme.He had a Patient lying at death’s door,Some three miles from the town,—it might be four;To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,In Pharmacy, that’s call’d cathartical.And, on the label of the stuff,He wrote this verse;Which, one would think, was clear enough,And terse:—“When taken,To be well shaken.”Next morning, early, Bolus rose;And to the Patient’s house he goes;—Upon his pad,Who a vile trick of stumbling had:It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;But that’s of course:For what’s expected from a horseWith an Apothecary on his back?Bolus arrive’d; and gave a doubtful tap;—Between a single and a double rap.—Knocks of this kindAre given by Gentlemen who teach to dance:By Fiddlers, and by Opera-singers:One loud, and then a little one behind;As if the knocker fell, by chance,Out of their fingers.The Servant lets him in, with dismal face,Long as a courtier’s out of place—Portending some disaster;John’s countenance as rueful look’d, and grim,As if th’ Apothecary had physick’d him,—And not his master.“Well, how’s the Patient?” Bolus said:—John shook his head.“Indeed!—hum! ha!—that’s very odd!He took the draught?”—John gave a nod.“Well,—how?—what then?—speak out, you dunce!”“Why then”—says John—“weshookhim once.”“Shook him!—how?”—Bolus stammer’d out:“We jolted him about.”“Zounds! Shake a Patient, man!—a shake won’t do.”“No, Sir,—and so we gave himtwo.”“Two shakes! od’s curse!’Twould make the Patient worse.”“It did so, Sir!—and so a third we tried.”“Well, and what then?”—“then, Sir, my master died.”Vignette of a mortar and pestle sitting atop a draped casket.
Two men hold a third man who is obviously ill in bed.
Contents
A man, in many a country town, we know,Professes openly with death to wrestle;Ent’ring the field against the grimly foe,Arm’d with a mortar and a pestle.Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are;But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair,Who first shake hands before they box,Then give each other plaguy knocks,With all the love and kindness of a brother:So (many a suff’ring Patient saith)Tho’ the Apothecary fights with Death,Still they’re sworn friends to one another.A member of this Æsculapian line,Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne:No man could better gild a pill:Or make a bill;Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;Or draw a tooth out of your head;Or chatter scandal by your bed;Or give a clyster.Of occupations these werequantum suff.:Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough;And therefore Midwifery he chose to pin to’t.This balance’d things:—for if he hurl’dA few score mortals from the world,He made amends by bringing others into’t.His fame full six miles round the country ran;In short, in reputation he wassolus:All the old women call’d him “a fine man!”His name was Bolus.Benjamin Bolus, tho’ intrade,(Which oftentimes will Genius fetter)Read works of fancy, it is said;And cultivated theBelles Lettres.And why should this be thought so odd?Can’t men have taste who cure a phthysic;Of Poetry tho’ Patron-God,Apollo patronises physick.Bolus love’d verse;—and took so much delight in’t,That his prescriptions he resolve’d to write in’t.No opportunity he e’er let passOf writing the directions, on his labels,In dapper couplets,—likeGay’s Fables;Or, rather, like the lines inHudibras.Apothecary’s verse!—and where’s the treason?’Tis simply honest dealing:—not a crime;—When patients swallow physick without reason,It is but fair to give a little rhyme.He had a Patient lying at death’s door,Some three miles from the town,—it might be four;To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,In Pharmacy, that’s call’d cathartical.And, on the label of the stuff,He wrote this verse;Which, one would think, was clear enough,And terse:—“When taken,To be well shaken.”Next morning, early, Bolus rose;And to the Patient’s house he goes;—Upon his pad,Who a vile trick of stumbling had:It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;But that’s of course:For what’s expected from a horseWith an Apothecary on his back?Bolus arrive’d; and gave a doubtful tap;—Between a single and a double rap.—Knocks of this kindAre given by Gentlemen who teach to dance:By Fiddlers, and by Opera-singers:One loud, and then a little one behind;As if the knocker fell, by chance,Out of their fingers.The Servant lets him in, with dismal face,Long as a courtier’s out of place—Portending some disaster;John’s countenance as rueful look’d, and grim,As if th’ Apothecary had physick’d him,—And not his master.“Well, how’s the Patient?” Bolus said:—John shook his head.“Indeed!—hum! ha!—that’s very odd!He took the draught?”—John gave a nod.“Well,—how?—what then?—speak out, you dunce!”“Why then”—says John—“weshookhim once.”“Shook him!—how?”—Bolus stammer’d out:“We jolted him about.”“Zounds! Shake a Patient, man!—a shake won’t do.”“No, Sir,—and so we gave himtwo.”“Two shakes! od’s curse!’Twould make the Patient worse.”“It did so, Sir!—and so a third we tried.”“Well, and what then?”—“then, Sir, my master died.”
A man, in many a country town, we know,Professes openly with death to wrestle;Ent’ring the field against the grimly foe,Arm’d with a mortar and a pestle.
A man, in many a country town, we know,
Professes openly with death to wrestle;
Ent’ring the field against the grimly foe,
Arm’d with a mortar and a pestle.
Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are;But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair,Who first shake hands before they box,Then give each other plaguy knocks,With all the love and kindness of a brother:So (many a suff’ring Patient saith)Tho’ the Apothecary fights with Death,Still they’re sworn friends to one another.
Yet, some affirm, no enemies they are;
But meet just like prize-fighters, in a Fair,
Who first shake hands before they box,
Then give each other plaguy knocks,
With all the love and kindness of a brother:
So (many a suff’ring Patient saith)
Tho’ the Apothecary fights with Death,
Still they’re sworn friends to one another.
A member of this Æsculapian line,Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne:No man could better gild a pill:Or make a bill;Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;Or draw a tooth out of your head;Or chatter scandal by your bed;Or give a clyster.
A member of this Æsculapian line,
Lived at Newcastle upon Tyne:
No man could better gild a pill:
Or make a bill;
Or mix a draught, or bleed, or blister;
Or draw a tooth out of your head;
Or chatter scandal by your bed;
Or give a clyster.
Of occupations these werequantum suff.:Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough;And therefore Midwifery he chose to pin to’t.This balance’d things:—for if he hurl’dA few score mortals from the world,He made amends by bringing others into’t.
Of occupations these werequantum suff.:
Yet, still, he thought the list not long enough;
And therefore Midwifery he chose to pin to’t.
This balance’d things:—for if he hurl’d
A few score mortals from the world,
He made amends by bringing others into’t.
His fame full six miles round the country ran;In short, in reputation he wassolus:All the old women call’d him “a fine man!”His name was Bolus.
His fame full six miles round the country ran;
In short, in reputation he wassolus:
All the old women call’d him “a fine man!”
His name was Bolus.
Benjamin Bolus, tho’ intrade,(Which oftentimes will Genius fetter)Read works of fancy, it is said;And cultivated theBelles Lettres.
Benjamin Bolus, tho’ intrade,
(Which oftentimes will Genius fetter)
Read works of fancy, it is said;
And cultivated theBelles Lettres.
And why should this be thought so odd?Can’t men have taste who cure a phthysic;Of Poetry tho’ Patron-God,Apollo patronises physick.
And why should this be thought so odd?
Can’t men have taste who cure a phthysic;
Of Poetry tho’ Patron-God,
Apollo patronises physick.
Bolus love’d verse;—and took so much delight in’t,That his prescriptions he resolve’d to write in’t.
Bolus love’d verse;—and took so much delight in’t,
That his prescriptions he resolve’d to write in’t.
No opportunity he e’er let passOf writing the directions, on his labels,In dapper couplets,—likeGay’s Fables;Or, rather, like the lines inHudibras.
No opportunity he e’er let pass
Of writing the directions, on his labels,
In dapper couplets,—likeGay’s Fables;
Or, rather, like the lines inHudibras.
Apothecary’s verse!—and where’s the treason?’Tis simply honest dealing:—not a crime;—When patients swallow physick without reason,It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
Apothecary’s verse!—and where’s the treason?
’Tis simply honest dealing:—not a crime;—
When patients swallow physick without reason,
It is but fair to give a little rhyme.
He had a Patient lying at death’s door,Some three miles from the town,—it might be four;To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,In Pharmacy, that’s call’d cathartical.
He had a Patient lying at death’s door,
Some three miles from the town,—it might be four;
To whom, one evening, Bolus sent an article,
In Pharmacy, that’s call’d cathartical.
And, on the label of the stuff,He wrote this verse;Which, one would think, was clear enough,And terse:—
And, on the label of the stuff,
He wrote this verse;
Which, one would think, was clear enough,
And terse:—
“When taken,To be well shaken.”
“When taken,
To be well shaken.”
Next morning, early, Bolus rose;And to the Patient’s house he goes;—Upon his pad,Who a vile trick of stumbling had:It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;But that’s of course:For what’s expected from a horseWith an Apothecary on his back?
Next morning, early, Bolus rose;
And to the Patient’s house he goes;—
Upon his pad,
Who a vile trick of stumbling had:
It was, indeed, a very sorry hack;
But that’s of course:
For what’s expected from a horse
With an Apothecary on his back?
Bolus arrive’d; and gave a doubtful tap;—Between a single and a double rap.—
Bolus arrive’d; and gave a doubtful tap;—
Between a single and a double rap.—
Knocks of this kindAre given by Gentlemen who teach to dance:By Fiddlers, and by Opera-singers:One loud, and then a little one behind;As if the knocker fell, by chance,Out of their fingers.
Knocks of this kind
Are given by Gentlemen who teach to dance:
By Fiddlers, and by Opera-singers:
One loud, and then a little one behind;
As if the knocker fell, by chance,
Out of their fingers.
The Servant lets him in, with dismal face,Long as a courtier’s out of place—Portending some disaster;John’s countenance as rueful look’d, and grim,As if th’ Apothecary had physick’d him,—And not his master.
The Servant lets him in, with dismal face,
Long as a courtier’s out of place—
Portending some disaster;
John’s countenance as rueful look’d, and grim,
As if th’ Apothecary had physick’d him,—
And not his master.
“Well, how’s the Patient?” Bolus said:—John shook his head.“Indeed!—hum! ha!—that’s very odd!He took the draught?”—John gave a nod.“Well,—how?—what then?—speak out, you dunce!”“Why then”—says John—“weshookhim once.”“Shook him!—how?”—Bolus stammer’d out:“We jolted him about.”“Zounds! Shake a Patient, man!—a shake won’t do.”“No, Sir,—and so we gave himtwo.”“Two shakes! od’s curse!’Twould make the Patient worse.”“It did so, Sir!—and so a third we tried.”“Well, and what then?”—“then, Sir, my master died.”
“Well, how’s the Patient?” Bolus said:—
John shook his head.
“Indeed!—hum! ha!—that’s very odd!
He took the draught?”—John gave a nod.
“Well,—how?—what then?—speak out, you dunce!”
“Why then”—says John—“weshookhim once.”
“Shook him!—how?”—Bolus stammer’d out:
“We jolted him about.”
“Zounds! Shake a Patient, man!—a shake won’t do.”
“No, Sir,—and so we gave himtwo.”
“Two shakes! od’s curse!
’Twould make the Patient worse.”
“It did so, Sir!—and so a third we tried.”
“Well, and what then?”—“then, Sir, my master died.”
Vignette of a mortar and pestle sitting atop a draped casket.
ContentsEreWillhad done ’twas waxing wond’rous late;And reeling Bucks the streets began to scour;While guardian Watchmen, with a tottering gait,Cried every thing, quite clear, except the hour.“Another pot,” saysTom, “and then,A Song;—and so good night, good Gentlemen!“I’ve Lyricks, such asBons Vivantsindite,In which your bibbers of Champagne delight,—The Poetaster, bawling them in clubs,Obtains a miserably noted name;And every noisy Bacchanalian dubsThe Singing-Writer with a bastard Fame.”
Contents
EreWillhad done ’twas waxing wond’rous late;And reeling Bucks the streets began to scour;While guardian Watchmen, with a tottering gait,Cried every thing, quite clear, except the hour.“Another pot,” saysTom, “and then,A Song;—and so good night, good Gentlemen!“I’ve Lyricks, such asBons Vivantsindite,In which your bibbers of Champagne delight,—The Poetaster, bawling them in clubs,Obtains a miserably noted name;And every noisy Bacchanalian dubsThe Singing-Writer with a bastard Fame.”
EreWillhad done ’twas waxing wond’rous late;And reeling Bucks the streets began to scour;While guardian Watchmen, with a tottering gait,Cried every thing, quite clear, except the hour.
EreWillhad done ’twas waxing wond’rous late;
And reeling Bucks the streets began to scour;
While guardian Watchmen, with a tottering gait,
Cried every thing, quite clear, except the hour.
“Another pot,” saysTom, “and then,A Song;—and so good night, good Gentlemen!
“Another pot,” saysTom, “and then,
A Song;—and so good night, good Gentlemen!
“I’ve Lyricks, such asBons Vivantsindite,In which your bibbers of Champagne delight,—The Poetaster, bawling them in clubs,Obtains a miserably noted name;And every noisy Bacchanalian dubsThe Singing-Writer with a bastard Fame.”
“I’ve Lyricks, such asBons Vivantsindite,
In which your bibbers of Champagne delight,—
The Poetaster, bawling them in clubs,
Obtains a miserably noted name;
And every noisy Bacchanalian dubs
The Singing-Writer with a bastard Fame.”
A man in an apron speaks with a seated, angry loooking man.LODGINGSFORSINGLE GENTLEMEN.ContentsWhohas e’er been in London, that overgrown place,Has seen “Lodgings to Let” stare him full in the face:Some are good, and let dearly; while some, ’tis well known,Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.WILL WADDLE, whose temper was studious and lonely,Hire’d lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only;ButWillwas so fat he appear’d like a ton;—Or like Two Single Gentlemen roll’d into One.He enter’d his rooms, and to bed he retreated;But, all the night long, he felt fever’d, and heated;And, tho’ heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.Next night ’twas the same!—and the next;—and the next;He perspire’d like an ox; he was nervous, and vex’d;Week past after week; till, by weekly succession,His weakly condition was past all expression.In six months, his acquaintance began much to doubt him:For his skin, “like a lady’s loose gown,” hung about him.He sent for a Doctor; and cried, like a ninny,“I have lost many pounds—make me well—there’s a guinea.”The Doctor look’d wise:—“a slow fever,” he said:Prescribe’d sudorificks,—and going to bed.“Sudorificks in bed,” exclaim’dWill, “are humbugs!I’ve enough of them there, without paying for drugs!”Willkick’d out the Doctor:—but, when ill indeed,E’en dismissing the Doctor don’talwayssucceed;So, calling his host—he said—“Sir, do you know,I’m the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago?“Look’e, landlord, I think,” arguedWill, with a grin,“That with honest intentions you firsttook me in:But from the first night—and to say it I’m bold—I have been so damn’d hot, that I’m sure I caught cold.”Quoth the landlord—“till now, I ne’er had a dispute;I’ve let lodgings ten years;—I’m a Baker, to boot;In airing your sheets, Sir, my wife is no sloven;And your bed is immediately over my Oven.”“The Oven!!!” saysWill;—says the host, “why this passion?In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.Why so crusty, good Sir?”—“Zounds!” criesWill, in a taking,“Who wouldn’t be crusty, with half a year’s baking?”Willpaid for his rooms;—cried the host, with a sneer,“Well, I see you’ve beengoing awayhalf a year:”“Friend, we can’t well agree,—yet no quarrel”—Willsaid;—“But I’d rather notperish, while youmake your bread.”2A melting candle sits on a bread peel in front of a brick oven.
A man in an apron speaks with a seated, angry loooking man.
Contents
Whohas e’er been in London, that overgrown place,Has seen “Lodgings to Let” stare him full in the face:Some are good, and let dearly; while some, ’tis well known,Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.WILL WADDLE, whose temper was studious and lonely,Hire’d lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only;ButWillwas so fat he appear’d like a ton;—Or like Two Single Gentlemen roll’d into One.He enter’d his rooms, and to bed he retreated;But, all the night long, he felt fever’d, and heated;And, tho’ heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.Next night ’twas the same!—and the next;—and the next;He perspire’d like an ox; he was nervous, and vex’d;Week past after week; till, by weekly succession,His weakly condition was past all expression.In six months, his acquaintance began much to doubt him:For his skin, “like a lady’s loose gown,” hung about him.He sent for a Doctor; and cried, like a ninny,“I have lost many pounds—make me well—there’s a guinea.”The Doctor look’d wise:—“a slow fever,” he said:Prescribe’d sudorificks,—and going to bed.“Sudorificks in bed,” exclaim’dWill, “are humbugs!I’ve enough of them there, without paying for drugs!”Willkick’d out the Doctor:—but, when ill indeed,E’en dismissing the Doctor don’talwayssucceed;So, calling his host—he said—“Sir, do you know,I’m the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago?“Look’e, landlord, I think,” arguedWill, with a grin,“That with honest intentions you firsttook me in:But from the first night—and to say it I’m bold—I have been so damn’d hot, that I’m sure I caught cold.”Quoth the landlord—“till now, I ne’er had a dispute;I’ve let lodgings ten years;—I’m a Baker, to boot;In airing your sheets, Sir, my wife is no sloven;And your bed is immediately over my Oven.”“The Oven!!!” saysWill;—says the host, “why this passion?In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.Why so crusty, good Sir?”—“Zounds!” criesWill, in a taking,“Who wouldn’t be crusty, with half a year’s baking?”Willpaid for his rooms;—cried the host, with a sneer,“Well, I see you’ve beengoing awayhalf a year:”“Friend, we can’t well agree,—yet no quarrel”—Willsaid;—“But I’d rather notperish, while youmake your bread.”2
Whohas e’er been in London, that overgrown place,Has seen “Lodgings to Let” stare him full in the face:Some are good, and let dearly; while some, ’tis well known,Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.
Whohas e’er been in London, that overgrown place,
Has seen “Lodgings to Let” stare him full in the face:
Some are good, and let dearly; while some, ’tis well known,
Are so dear, and so bad, they are best let alone.
WILL WADDLE, whose temper was studious and lonely,Hire’d lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only;ButWillwas so fat he appear’d like a ton;—Or like Two Single Gentlemen roll’d into One.
WILL WADDLE, whose temper was studious and lonely,
Hire’d lodgings that took Single Gentlemen only;
ButWillwas so fat he appear’d like a ton;—
Or like Two Single Gentlemen roll’d into One.
He enter’d his rooms, and to bed he retreated;But, all the night long, he felt fever’d, and heated;And, tho’ heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.
He enter’d his rooms, and to bed he retreated;
But, all the night long, he felt fever’d, and heated;
And, tho’ heavy to weigh, as a score of fat sheep,
He was not, by any means, heavy to sleep.
Next night ’twas the same!—and the next;—and the next;He perspire’d like an ox; he was nervous, and vex’d;Week past after week; till, by weekly succession,His weakly condition was past all expression.
Next night ’twas the same!—and the next;—and the next;
He perspire’d like an ox; he was nervous, and vex’d;
Week past after week; till, by weekly succession,
His weakly condition was past all expression.
In six months, his acquaintance began much to doubt him:For his skin, “like a lady’s loose gown,” hung about him.He sent for a Doctor; and cried, like a ninny,“I have lost many pounds—make me well—there’s a guinea.”
In six months, his acquaintance began much to doubt him:
For his skin, “like a lady’s loose gown,” hung about him.
He sent for a Doctor; and cried, like a ninny,
“I have lost many pounds—make me well—there’s a guinea.”
The Doctor look’d wise:—“a slow fever,” he said:Prescribe’d sudorificks,—and going to bed.“Sudorificks in bed,” exclaim’dWill, “are humbugs!I’ve enough of them there, without paying for drugs!”
The Doctor look’d wise:—“a slow fever,” he said:
Prescribe’d sudorificks,—and going to bed.
“Sudorificks in bed,” exclaim’dWill, “are humbugs!
I’ve enough of them there, without paying for drugs!”
Willkick’d out the Doctor:—but, when ill indeed,E’en dismissing the Doctor don’talwayssucceed;So, calling his host—he said—“Sir, do you know,I’m the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago?
Willkick’d out the Doctor:—but, when ill indeed,
E’en dismissing the Doctor don’talwayssucceed;
So, calling his host—he said—“Sir, do you know,
I’m the fat Single Gentleman, six months ago?
“Look’e, landlord, I think,” arguedWill, with a grin,“That with honest intentions you firsttook me in:But from the first night—and to say it I’m bold—I have been so damn’d hot, that I’m sure I caught cold.”
“Look’e, landlord, I think,” arguedWill, with a grin,
“That with honest intentions you firsttook me in:
But from the first night—and to say it I’m bold—
I have been so damn’d hot, that I’m sure I caught cold.”
Quoth the landlord—“till now, I ne’er had a dispute;I’ve let lodgings ten years;—I’m a Baker, to boot;In airing your sheets, Sir, my wife is no sloven;And your bed is immediately over my Oven.”
Quoth the landlord—“till now, I ne’er had a dispute;
I’ve let lodgings ten years;—I’m a Baker, to boot;
In airing your sheets, Sir, my wife is no sloven;
And your bed is immediately over my Oven.”
“The Oven!!!” saysWill;—says the host, “why this passion?In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.Why so crusty, good Sir?”—“Zounds!” criesWill, in a taking,“Who wouldn’t be crusty, with half a year’s baking?”
“The Oven!!!” saysWill;—says the host, “why this passion?
In that excellent bed died three people of fashion.
Why so crusty, good Sir?”—“Zounds!” criesWill, in a taking,
“Who wouldn’t be crusty, with half a year’s baking?”
Willpaid for his rooms;—cried the host, with a sneer,“Well, I see you’ve beengoing awayhalf a year:”“Friend, we can’t well agree,—yet no quarrel”—Willsaid;—“But I’d rather notperish, while youmake your bread.”2
Willpaid for his rooms;—cried the host, with a sneer,
“Well, I see you’ve beengoing awayhalf a year:”
“Friend, we can’t well agree,—yet no quarrel”—Willsaid;—
“But I’d rather notperish, while youmake your bread.”2
A melting candle sits on a bread peel in front of a brick oven.