THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.

THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.A man is surprised by a (dead?) man in a gardenTHEKNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.PART FIRST.ContentsInour Fifth Harry’s reign, when ’twas the fashionTo thump the French, poor creatures! to excess;—Tho’ Britons, now a days, shew more compassion,And thump them, certainly, a great deal less;—In Harry’s reign, when flush’d Lancastrian rosesOf York’s pale blossoms had usurp’d the right;3As wine drives Nature out of drunkards’ noses,Till red, triumphantly, eclipses white;—In Harry’s reign—but let me to my song,Or good king Harry’s reign may seem too long.Sir Thomas Erpingham, a gallant knight,When this king Harry went to war, in France,Girded a sword about his middle;Resolving, very lustily, to fight,And teach the Frenchmen how to dance,Without a fiddle.And wond’rous bold Sir Thomas prove’d in battle,Performing prodigies, with spear and shield;His valour, like a murrain among cattle,Was reckon’d very fatal in the field.Yet, tho’ Sir Thomas had an iron fist,He was, at heart, a mild Philanthropist.Much did he grieve, when making Frenchmen die,To any inconvenience to put ’em:“It quite distress’d his feelings,” he would cry,“That he must cut their throats,”—and, then he cut ’em.Thus, during many a Campaign,He cut, and grieve’d, and cut, and came again;—Pitying, and killing;—Lamenting sorely for men’s souls,While pretty little eyelet holes,Clean thro’ their bodies he kept drilling:Till palling on his Laurels, grown so thick,(As boys pull blackberries, till they are sick,)Homeward he bent his course, to wreath ’em;And in his Castle, near fair Norwich town,Glutted with glory, he sat down,In perfect solitude, beneath ’em.Now, sitting under Laurels, Heroes say,Gives grace, and dignity—and so it may—When men have done campaigning;But, certainly, these gentlemen must ownThat sitting under Laurels, quite alone,Is much more dignified than entertaining.Pious Æneas, who, in his narrationOf his own prowess, felt so great a charm;—(For, tho’ he feign’d great grief in the relation,He made the story longer than your arm;4)Pious Æneas no more pleasure knewThan did our Knight—who could he pious too—In telling his exploits, and martial brawls:But piousThomashad no Dido near him—No Queen—King, Lord, nor Commoner to hear him—So he was force’d to tell them to the walls:And to his Castle walls, in solemn guise,The knight, full often, did soliloquize:—For “Walls have ears,” Sir Thomas had been told;Yet thought the tedious hours would seem much shorter,If, now and then, a tale he could unfoldTo ears of flesh and blood, not stone and mortar.At length, his oldCastellumgrew so dull,That legions of Blue Devils seize’d the Knight;Megrim invested his belaurell’d skull;Spleen laid embargoes on his appetite;Till, thro’ the day-time, he was haunted, wholly,By all the imps of “loathed Melancholy!”—Heaven keep her, and her imps, for ever, from us!—An Incubus,5whene’er he went to bed,Sat on his stomach, like a lump of lead,Making unseemly faces at Sir Thomas.Plagues such as these might make a Parson swear;Sir Thomas being but a Layman,Swore, very roundly,à la militaire,Or, rather, (from vexation) like a Drayman:Damning his Walls, out of all line and level;Sinking his drawbridges and moats;Wishing that he were cutting throats—And they were at the devil.“What’s to be done,” Sir Thomas said one day,“To driveEnnuiaway?How is the evil to be parried?What can remind me of my former life?—Those happy days I spent in noise and strife!”The last word struck him;—“Zounds!” says he,“a Wife!”—And so he married.Muse! regulate your pace;—Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling!Here is a stately Lady in the case:We mustn’t, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.O God of Love! Urchin of spite, and play!Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen’s quarters;His torch bedimming, as thou runn’st away,Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!Sly, wandering God! whose frolick arrows passThro’ hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys;Who mark’st with Milkmaids’ forms, the tell-tale grass,And make’st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing,Young God of dimples! in thy roguish flight;And let thy Poet catch it, now, to singThe beauty of the Dame who won the Knight!Her beauty!—but Sir Thomas’s own SonnetBeats all that I can say upon it.A man reads to a demure woman.SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM’s6SONNETON HIS LADY.Contents1Suchstar-likelustre lights herEyes,They must have darted from aSphere,Our dullerSystemto surprise,Outshining all thePlanetshere;And, having wander’d from their wonted place,Fix in the wond’rousHeavenof herFace.2The modestRose, whose blushes speakThe ardent kisses of the Sun,Off’ring a tribute to herCheek,Droops, to perceive itsTintoutdone;Then withering with envy and despair,Dies on herLips, and leaves itsFragrancethere.3Ringlets, that to herBreastdescend,Increasethe beauties theyinvade;Thus branches in luxuriance bend,To grace thelovely Hillsthey shade;And thus the glowingClimatedid enticeTendrils to curl, unprune’d, o’erParadise.Sir Thomas having close’d his love-sick strain,Come, buxom Muse! and let us frisk again!Close to a Chapel, near the Castle-gates,Dwelt certain stickers in the Devil’s skirts;Who, with prodigious fervour, shave their pates,And shew a most religious scorn for shirts.Their House’s sole Endowment was our Knight’s:—Thither an Abbot, and twelve Friars, retreating,Conquer’d (sage, pious men!) their appetitesWith that infallible specifick—eating.’Twould seem, since tenanted by holy Friars,That Peace and Harmony reign’d here eternally;—Whoever told you so were cursed liars;—The holy Friars quarrell’d most infernally.Not a day pastWithout some schism among these heavenly lodgers;But none of their dissensions seem’d to lastSo long as Friar John’s and Friar Roger’s.I have been very accurate in my researches,And find this Convent (truce withwhysandhows)Kept in a constant ferment with therowsOf these two quarrelsome fat sons of Churches.But when Sir Thomas went to his devotions,Proceeding thro’ their Cloister with his Bride,You never could have dream’d of their commotions,The stiff-rump’d rascals look’d so sanctified:And it became the custom of the KnightTo go to matins every day;He jogg’d his Bride, as soon as it was light,Crying, “my dear, ’tis time for us to pray.”—This custom he establish’d, very soon,After his honey-moon.Wives of this age might think his zeal surprising;But much his pious lady did it please,To see her Husband, every morning, rising,And going, instantly, upon his knees.Never, I ween,In any person’s recollection,Was such a couple seen,For genuflection!Making as great a drudgery of prayerAs humble Curates are oblige’d to do,—Whose labour, wo the while! scarce buys them cassocks;And, every morning, whether foul or fair,Sir Thomas and the Dame were in their pew,Craw-thumping, upon hassocks.It could not otherwise befall(Sir Thomas, and his Wife, this course pursuing,)But that the Lady, affable to all,Should greet the Friars, on her wayTo matins, as she met them, every day,Good morninging, andhow d’ye doing:Now nodding to this Friar, now to that,As thro’ the Cloister she was wont to trip;Stopping, sometimes, to have a little chat,On casual topicks, with the holy brothers;—So condescending was her Ladyship,To Roger, John, and all the others.All this was natural enoughTo any female of urbanity;—But holy men are made of as frail stuffAs all the lighter sons of Vanity!—And these her Ladyship’s chaste condescensions,In Friar John bred damnable desire;Heterodox, unclean intentions;—Abominable in a Friar!Whene’er she greeted him, his gills grew red,While she was quite unconscious of the matter;—But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her,Out of his bullock-head.That coxcombswereandare, I need not give,Nor take the trouble, now, to prove;Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live,Have thought a Lady’s condescension, love.This happen’d with fat Friar John!—Monastick Coxcomb! amorous, and gummy;Fill’d with conceit up to his very brim!—He thought his guts and garbage doated on,By a fair Dame, whose Husband was tohimHyperion to a mummy.Burning with flames the Lady never knew,Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese,He sent her a much warmerbillet-douxThan Abelard e’er writ to Eloïse.But whether Friar John’s fat shape and face,Tho’ pleading both together,Were sorry advocates, in such a case;—Or, whetherHe marr’d his hopes, by suffering his penWith too much fervour to display ’em;—As very tender Nurses, now and then,Cuddle their Children, till they overlay ’em;—’Twas plain, his pray’r to decorate the browsOf good Sir Thomas was so far from granted,That the Dame went, directly, to her spouse,And told him what the filthy Friar wanted.Think, Reader, think! if thou hast ta’en, for life,A partner to thy bed, for worse or better,Think what Sir Thomas felt, when his chaste wifeBrandish’d, before his eyes, the Friar’s letter!A woman shows a letter to a man, who appears taken aback.He felt, Sir,—Zounds!—Yes, Zounds! I say, Sir,—for it makes me swear—More torture than he suffer’d from the woundsHe got among the French, in France;—Not that I take upon me to advanceThe knight was ever wounded there.Think gravely, Sir, I pray:—fancy the Knight—(’Tis quite a Picture)—with his heart’s delight!Fancy you see his virtuous Lady stand,Holding the Friar’s foulness in her hand!—How should Sir Thomas, Sir, behave?Why bounce, and sputter, surely, like a squib:—You would have done the same, Sir, if a knave,A frouzy Friar, meddle’d with your Rib.His bosom almost burst with ireAgainst the Friar;Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue;His cheeks turn’d purple, and his nose turn’d blue;He swore with this mock Saint he’d soon be even;—He’d have him flay’d, like Saint Bartholomew;—And, now again, he’d have him stone’d, like Stephen.But, “Ira furor brevis est,”As Horace, quaintly, has express’d;—Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and frothWork thro’ the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer,Pull’d out the vent-peg of his wrath,To let the stream of his revenge run clear:Debating, with himself, what mode might suit him,To trounce the rogue who wanted to cornute him.First, an attack against his Foe he plann’d,Learn’d in the Field, where late he fought so felly;That is—to march up, bravely, sword in hand,And run the Friar thro’ his holy belly.At last, his better judgment did declare—Seeing his honour would as little shineBy sticking Friars, as by killing swine—To circumvent him, by aruse de guerre:And, as the project ripen’d in his head,Thus to his virtuous Wife he said:“Now sit thee down, my Lady bright!And list thy Lord’s desire;An assignation thou shalt write,Beshrew me! to the Friar.“Aread him, at the midnight hour,In silent sort to go,And bide thy coming, in the Bower—For there do Crabsticks grow.“He shall not tarry long;—for why?WhenTwelvehave striking done,Then, by the God of Gardens!7IWill cudgel him tillOne.”The Lady wrote just what Sir Thomas told her;For, it is no less strange than true,That Wives did, once, what Husbands bid them do;—Lord! how this World improves, as we grow older!She name’d the midnight hour;—Telling the Friar to repairTo the sweet, secret Bower;—But not a word of any crabsticks there.Thus have I seen a liquorish, black rat,Lure’d by the Cook, to sniff, and smell her bacon;And, when he’s eager for a bit of fat,Down goes a trap upon him, and he’s taken.A tiny Page,—for, formerly, a boyWas a mere dunce who did not understandThe doctrines of Sir Pandarus, of Troy,—Slipp’d the Dame’s note into the Friar’s hand,As he was walking in the cloister;And, then, slipp’d off,—as silent as an oyster.The Friar read;—the Friar chuckle’d:—For, now the Farce’s unities were right:Videlicet—The Argument, a Cuckold;The Scene, a Bow’r; Time, Twelve o’clock, at night.Blithe was fat John!—and, dreading no mishap,Stole, at the hour appointed, to thetrap;But, so perfume’d, so musk’d, for the occasion,—Histributeto the nose so likeinvasion,—You would have sworn, to smell him, ’twas no rat,But a dead, putrified, old civet-cat.He reach’d the spot, anticipating blisses,Soft murmurs, melting sighs, and burning kisses,Trances of joy, and mingling of the souls;When, whack! Sir Thomas hit him on the joles.Now, on his head it came, now on his face,His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back;In short, on almost every placeWe read of in the Almanack.Blows rattle’d on him thick as hail;Making him rue the day that he was born;—Sir Thomas plied his cudgel like a flail,And thrash’d as if he had been thrashing corn.At length, a thump,—(painful the facts, alas!Truth urges us Historians to relate!)—Took Friar John so smart athwart the pate,It acted like a perfectcoup de grace.Whether it was a random shot,Or aim’d maliciously,—tho’ Fame saysnot—Certain his soul (the Knight so crack’d his crown)Fled from his body; but which way it went,Or whether Friars’ souls fly up, or down,Remains a matter of nice argument.Points so abstruse I dare not dwell upon;Enough, for me, his body is not gone;For I have business, still, in my narration,With the fat carcass of this holy porpus;And Death, tho’ sharp in his Administration,Never suspended such anHabeas Corpus.END OF PART I.A man roughly awakens another man.THEKNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.PART THE SECOND.ContentsReader! if you have Genius, you’ll discover,Do what you will to keep it cool,It, now and then, in spite of you, boils over,Upon a fool.Haven’t you (lucky man ifnot) been vex’d,Worn, fretted, and perplex’d,By a pert, busy, would-be-clever knave,A forward, empty, self-sufficient slave?And haven’t you, all christian patience gone,At last, put down the puppy with your wit;—On whom it seem’d, tho’ you had Mines of it,Extravagance to spend a jest upon?—And haven’t you, (I’m sure you have, my friend!)When you have laid the puppy low,—All little pique, and malice, at an end,—Been sorry for the blow?And said, (if witty, so would say your Bard,)“Damn it! I hit that meddling fool too hard?”Thus did the brave Sir Thomas say;—Whose Genius didn’t much disturb his pate:It rather, in his bones, and muscles, lay,—Like many other men’s of good estate:Thus did Sir Thomas say;—and well he might,When pity to resentment did succeed;For, certainly, (tho’ not withwit) the KnightHad hit the Friar very hard, indeed!And heads, nineteen in twenty, ’tis confest,Can feel a crab-stick sooner than a jest.There was, in the Knight’s family, a manCast in the roughest mould Dame Nature boasts;With shoulders wider than a dripping pan,And legs as thick, about the calves, as posts.All the domesticks, viewing, in this hulk,So large a specimen of Nature’s whims,With kitchen wit, allusive to his bulk,Had christen’d him the Duke of Limbs.Thro’out the Castle, every whipper-snapperWas canvassing the merits of this strapper:Most of the Men voted his size alarming;But all the Maids,nem. con.declare’d it charming!This wight possess’d a quality most rare;—I tremble when I mention it, I swear!Lest pretty Ladies question my veracity:’Twas—when he had a secret in his care,To keep it, with the greatest pertinacity.Pour but a secret in him, and ’twould glue himLike rosin, on a well-cork’d bottle’s snout;Had twenty devils come with cork-screws to him,They never could have screw’d the secret out.Now, when Sir Thomas, in the dark, alone,Had kill’d a Friar, weighing twenty stone,Whose carcass must be hid, before the dawn,Judging he might as hopelessly desireTo move a Convent as the Friar,He thought on this man’s secresy, and brawn;—And, like a swallow, o’er the lawn he skims,Up to the Cock-loft of the Duke of Limbs:Where Somnus, son of Nox, the humble copyOf his own daughter Mors,8had made assaultOn the Duke’s eye-lids,—not with juice of poppy,But potent draughts, distill’d from hops and malt.Certainly, nothing operates much quickerAgainst two persons’ secret dialogues,Than one of them being asleep, in liquor,Snoring like twenty thousand hogs.Yet circumstance did, presently, requireThe Knight to tell his tale;And to instruct his Man, knock’d down with ale,That he (Sir Thomas) had knock’d down a Friar.How wake a man, in such a case?Sir, the best method—I have tried a score—Is, when his nose is playing thoro’ bass,To pull it, till you make him roar.A Sleeper’s nose is made on the same planAs the small wire ’twixt a Doll’s wooden thighs;For pull the nose, or wire, the Doll, or Man,Will open, in a minute, both their eyes.This mode Sir Thomas took,—and, in a trice,Grasp’d, with his thumb and finger, like a vice,That feature which the human face embosses,And pull’d the Duke of Limbs by the proboscis.The Man awoke, and goggle’d on his master;—He saw his Master goggling upon him;—Fresh from concluding, on a Friar’s nob,What Coroners would call an awkward job,He glare’d, all horror-struck and grim,—Paler than Paris-plaister!His hair stuck up, like bristles on a pig;—So Garrick look’d, when he perform’d Macbeth;Who, ere he entered, after Duncan’s death,Rumple’d his wig.The Knight cried, “Follow me!”—with strange grimaces;The Man arose,—And began “sacrificing to the Graces,”9By putting on his clothes;But he reverse’d, in making himself smart,A Scotchman’s toilet, altogether:And merely clapp’d a cover on that partThe Highlanders expose to wind and weather.They reach’d the bower where the Friar lay;When, to his Man,The Knight began,In doleful accents, thus to say:“Here a fat Friar lies, kill’d with a mauling,For coming, in the dark, a-caterwauling;Whom I (O cursed spite!) did lay so!”Thus, solemnly, Sir Thomas spake, and sigh’d;—To whom the Duke of Limbs replied—“Odrabbit it! Sir Thomas! you don’t say so!”Then, taking the huge Friarperthe hocks,He whirl’d the ton of blubber three times round,And swung it on his shoulders, from the ground,With strength that yields, in any age, to no man’s,—Tho’ Milo’s ghost should rise, bearing the OxHe carried at the games of the old Romans.Nay, I opine—let Fame say what it can—Of ancient vigour, (Fame is, oft, a Liar)That Milo was a pigmy to this Man,And his fat Ox quite skinny to the Friar.Besides,—I hold it in much doubtIf Roman graziers (should the truth come out)Were, like the English, knowing in the matter;——I wouldn’t breed my beastmore Romano;—For, I suspect, in fatt’ning they were dull,And when they made an ox out of a bull,They fed him ill,—and, then, he got no fatterThan a fat operaSoprano.10Over the moat, (the draw-bridge being down)Gallantly stalk’d the brawny Duke of Limbs,BearingJohannes, of the shaven crown,Fame’d, when alive, for spoiling maids, and hymns;For manglingPater-Nosters, and goose-pies,And telling sundry beads,—and sundry lies.Across a marsh he strode, with steadier gaitThan Satan trod the Syrtis, at his fall,And perch’d himself, with his monastick weight,Upon the Convent-garden’s wall;—Whence, on the grounds within it, as he gaze’d,To find a spot where he might leave his load,He ’spied aHousesolittle, it seem’d raise’dMore for Man’s visits, than his fix’d abode;—And Cynthia aided him to gaze his fill,For, now, she sought Endymion on the hill.Arise, Tarquinius!11shew thy lofty face!While I describe, with dignity, the place.Snug in an English garden’s shadiest spot,A structure stands, and welcomes many a breeze;Lonely, and simple as a Ploughman’s cot,Where Monarchs may unbend, who wish for ease.There sit Philosophers; and sitting read;And to some end apply the dullest pages;And pity the Barbarians, north of Tweed,Who scout these fabricks of the southern Sages.Sure, for an Edifice in estimation,Never was any less presuming seen!It shrinks, so modestly, from observation!And hides behind all sorts of evergreen;—Like a coy Maid, design’d for filthy Man,Peeping, at his approach, behind her fan.Into this place, unnotice’d by beholders,The Duke of Limbs, most circumspectly, stole,And shot the Friar off his shoulders,Just like a sack of round Newcastle coal:Not taking any pains,Nor caring, in the least,How he deposited the Friar’s remains,No more than if a Friar were a beast.No funeral, of which you ever heard,Was mark’d with ceremonies half so slight;For John was left, not like the dead interr’d,But, like the living, sitting bolt upright!Has no shrewd Reader, of one sex or t’other,Recurring to the facts already stated,Thought on a certain Roger?—that same brotherWho hated John, and whom John hated?’Tis, now, a necessary thing to sayThat, at this juncture, Roger wasn’t well;Poor Man! he had been rubbing, all the day,His stomach with coarse towels:And clapping trenchers, hot as hell,Upon his bowels;Where spasms were kicking up a furious frolick,Afflicting him with mulligrubs and cholick.He also had imbibe’d, to sooth his pains,Ofpulvis rheivery many grains;And to the garden’s deepest shade was bent,To give, quite privily, his sorrows vent:When,there,—alive and merry to appearance—He ’spied his ancient foe, by the moon’s light!—Who sat erect, with so much perseverance,It look’d as if he kept his post in spite.A case it is of piteous distress,If, carrying a secret grief about,We wish to bury it in a recess,And find another there, who keeps us out.Expecting, soon, his enemy to go,Roger, at first, walk’d to and fro,With tolerably tranquil paces;But finding John determine’d to remain,Roger, each time he pass’d, thro’ spite or pain,Made, at his adversary, hideous faces.How misery will lower human pride!And make us buckle!—Roger, who, all his life, had John defied,Was now oblige’d to speak him fair,—and truckle.“Behold me,” Roger cried, “behold me, John!Entreating as afavouryou’ll be gone;Me! your sworn foe, tho’ fellow-lodger;Me!—who, in agony, tho’ suing now to you,Would, once, have seen you damn’d ere make a bow to you.Me,—Roger!”12To this address, so fraught with the pathetick,John remain’d dumb, as a Pythagorean;Seeming to hint, “Roger, you’re a plebeianPeripatetick.”When such choice oratory has not hit,When it is, e’en, unanswer’d by a grunt,’Twould justify tame Job to curse a bit,And set an Angler swearing, in his punt.Cholerick Roger could not brook it;—So seeing a huge brick-bat, up he took it;And aiming, like a marksman at a crow,Plump on the breast he hit his deadly foe;Who fell, like Pedants’ periods, to the ground,—Very inanimate, and very round.Here is another Picture, reader mine!I gave you one in the first Canto;13—This is more solemn, mystical, and fine,—Like something in the Castle of Otranto.Bring, bring me, now, a Painter, for the work,Who on the subject will, with furor, rush!Some Artist who can sup upon raw pork,To make him dream of horrors, for his brush!Come, Limners, come! who choke your house’s entryWith dear, unmeaning lumber, from your easels;Dull heads of the Nobility and Gentry;Full length of fubsey Belles, or Beaux like weasels!Come, Limners, hither come! and drawA finer incident than e’er ye saw!Here is a John, by moon-light, (a fat monk)Lying stonedead; and, here, a Roger,quick!And over John stands Roger, in a funk,Supposing he has kill’d him with a brick!There, Painters! there!Now, by Apelles’s gamboge, I swear!Such a dead subject never comes,Among thoselifeless livingye display;Then, thro’ your palettes thrust your graphick thumbs,—And work away!Seeing John dead as a door nail,Roger began to wring his hands, and wail;Calling himself, Beast, Butcher, cruel Turk!Thrice “Benedicite!” he mutter’d;Thrice, in the eloquence of grief he utter’d;“I’ve done a pretty job of journey-work!”Some people will shew symptoms of repentanceWhen Conscience, like a chastening Angel, smites ’em;Some from mere dread of the Law’s sentence,When Newgate, like the very Devil, frights ’em;—ThatVirtue’s struggles, in the heart, denotes,ThisVice’s hints, to men’s left ears, and throats.Now Roger’s conscience, it appears,Was not, by half, so lively as his fears.His breast, soon after he was born,Grew like an Hostler’s lantern, at an Inn;All the circumference was dirty horn,And feebly blink’d the ray of warmth within.In short, for one of his religious function,His Conscience was both cowardly and callous;No melting Cherub whisper’d to’t “Compunction!”But grim Jack Ketch disturb’d it, crying “Gallows!”And all his sorrow, for this deed abhorr’d,Was nothing but antipathy tocord.A padlock’d door stood in the garden wall,Where John, by Roger’s brick-bat, chance’d to fall,And Roger had a key that could undo it;Thro’ this same door, at any time of day,They brought, into the Convent, corn, and hay;——Sometimes, at dusk, a pretty girl came thro’ it:Just to confess herself, to some grave codger;Perhaps, she came to John,—perhaps, to Roger.Out at this portal Roger made a shiftTo lug his worst of foes:For, seizing (as the gout was wont) his toes,He dragg’d the load he couldn’t lift.Achilles, thus, drew round the Trojan plain,The ten years’ Adversary he had slain.—Yet,—for I scorn a Grecian to disparage,—Achilles in more style, and splendour, did it;Hesported Murder strapp’d behind his carriage,—ButbourgeoisRoger sneak’d on foot, and hid it.Roger, however, labour’d on,—Puffing and tugging;—And hauling John,As fishermen, on shore, haul up a boat;Till, after a great deal of lugging,He lugg’d him to the edge of the Knight’s moat;And stuck him up so straight upon his rear,Touching, almost, the water, with his heels,That the defunct might pass, not seen too near,For some fat gentleman who bobb’d for eels.Swiftly did Roger, then, retrace his ground,Lighter than he came out, by many a pound.So have I seen, on Marlb’rough downs, a hack,Ease’d of a great man’s chaise, and coming back,From Bladud’s springs, upon the western road;No bloated Noble’s luggage at his rump,Whose doom’s, that dread of pick-pockets, the pump,He canters home, from Bath, without his load.Sir Thomas being scrupulous, and queasy,Couldn’t, in all this interval, be easy.He went to bed;—and, there, began to burn;Nine times he turn’d, in wondrous perturbation;—He woke her Ladyship, at every turn,And gave her, full nine times, complete vexation.To seek the Duke of Limbs, at length, he rose,And prowl’d with him, lamenting Fortune’s stripes;Now in the rookery among the crows,Now squashing in the marsh, among the snipes:Wishing strange wishes;—among many,He wish’d—ere he had clapp’d his eyes on any.All Priests, and Crabsticks, thrown into the fire;—Or, seeing Providence ordain’d it so,That Priest, and Crabstick, (to his grief) must grow,He wish’d stout Crabstick couldn’t kill fat Friar.Men’s wishes will be partial, now and then;—As, in this case, ’tis plainly seen;Wherein, Sir Thomas, full of spleen,Wish’d to burn all the Crabs, and Clergymen.Think ye thathe,—at wishing tho’ a dab,—To wish such harm to anyKnightwould urge ye?Yet he, a Knight, had taken up a Crab,And thump’d to death, with it, one of the Clergy.As he went wishing on,With the great Duke of Limbs behind him,—Horror on horror!—he saw JohnWhere least of all he ever thought to find him:Stuck up, on end, in placid grace,Like a stuff’d Kangaroo,—tho’ vastly fatter,—With the full moon upon his chubby face,Like a brass pot-lid shining on a platter.“’Sdeath!” quoth the Knight, of half his powers bereft,“Didst thou not tell mewherethis Friar was left?Men rise again,to push us from our stools!”14To which the Duke replied, with steady phiz,—“Them as took pains to push that Friar fromhis,At such a time o’night, was cursed fools.”“Ah!” sigh’d Sir Thomas, “while I wander here,By fortune stamp’d a Homicide, alas!”(And, as he spoke, a penitential tearMingled with Heaven’s dew-drops, on the grass;)—“Will no one from my eyes yon Spectre pull?”“Sir Thomas,” said the Duke of Limbs, “I wool.”He would have thrown the garbage in the moat,But the Knight told him fat was prone to float.The Lout, at length, having bethought him,Heave’d up the Friar on his back once more;And (Castles having armories of yore)Into the Knight’s old Armory he brought him.Among the gorgeous, shining Coats of Mail,That grace’d the walls, on high, in gallant shew,—As pewter pots, in houses fame’d for ale,Glitter, above the Bar-maid, in a row,—A curious, antique suit was hoarded,Cover’d with dust;Which had, for many years, affordedAn iron dinner to that ostrich, Rust.Though this was all too little,—in a minute,The Duke of Limbs ramm’d the fat Friar in it;So a good Housewife takes a narrow skin,To make black puddings, and stuffs hog’s meat in.The Knight, who saw this ceremony pass,Inquire’d the meaning; when the Duke did say,—“I’ll tie him on ould Dumpling, that’s at grass,And turn him out, a top of the highway.”This Steed,—who now, it seems, was grazing,—In the French wars had often borne the Knight;—His symmetry beyond the power of praising,And prouder than Bucephalus, in fight!Once, how he paw’d the ground, and snuff’d the gale!Uncropp’d his ears, undock’d his flowing tail;No blemish was within him, nor without him;Perfect he was in every part;—No barbarous Farrier, with infernal art,Had mutilated the least bit about him.Of high Arabian pedigree,Father of many four-foot babes was he;And sweet hoof’d Beauties still would he be rumpling;But, counting five and twenty from his birth,At grass for life, unwieldy in the girth,He had obtain’d, alas! the name of Dumpling.Now, at the postern stood the gay old Charger;Saddle’d, and house’d,—in full caparison!—Now on his back,—no rider larger,—Upright, and stiff, and tied with cords, sat John:Arm’d cap-à-pié completely, like a knightGoing to fight.A Lance was in the rest, of stately beech:Nothing was wanting, but a Page, or ’Squire;—The Duke, with thistles, switch’d old Dumpling’s breech;And off he clatter’d with the martial Friar.Now, in the Convent let us take a peep,—Where Roger, like Sir Thomas, couldn’t sleep:Instead of singing requiems, and psalms,For fat John’s soul, he had been seize’d with qualms,Thinking it would be rash to tarry there;—And having, prudently, resolve’d on flight,Knock’d up a neighbouring miller, in the night,And borrow’d his grey Mare.Thus, trotting off,—beneath a row of treesHe saw “a sight that made his marrow freeze!”A furious Warrior follow’d him, in mail,Upon a Charger, close at his Mare’s tail!He cross’d himself!—and, canting, cried,Oh, sadly have I sinned!Then stuck his heels in his Mare’s side;And, then, old Dumpling whinny’d!Roger whipp’d, and Roger spurr’d,Distilling drops of fear!But while he spurr’d, still, still he heardThe wanton Dumpling at his rear.’Twas dawn!—he look’d behind him, in the chase;When, lo! the features of fat John,—His beaver up, and pressing on,—Glare’d, ghastly, in the wretched Roger’s face!The Miller’s Mare, who oft had gone the way,Scamper’d with Roger into Norwich town;And, there, to all the market-folks’ dismay,Old Dumpling beat the mare, with Roger, down.Brief let me be;—the Story soon took air;—For Townsmen are inquisitive, of course,When a live Monk rides in upon a Mare,Chase’d by a dead one, arm’d, upon a Horse.Sir Thomas up to London sped, full fast,To beg his life, and lands, of Royal Harry,And, for his services, in Gallia, past,His suit did not miscarry:—For, in those days,—thank Heaven they are mended!—Kings hang’d poor Rogues, while rich ones were befriended.Two men ride horseback.ContentsYe Criticks, and yeHyper-Criticks!—whoHave deign’d (in reading this my story thro’)A patient, or impatient, ear to lend me,—If, as I humbly amble, ye complainI give my Pegasus too loose a rein,’Tis time to callmy Bettersto defend me.Come,Swift! who made so merry with the Nine;With thy far bolder Muse, Oh, shelter mine!When she is style’d a slattern, and a trollop;—Force stubborn Gravity to doff his gloom;Point to thy Cælia, and thy Dressing-Room,Thy Nymph at bed-time, and thy fame’d Maw-Wallop!Come,Sterne!—whose prose, with all a Poet’s art,Tickles the fancy, while it melts the heart!—Since at apologies I ne’er was handy,—Come, while fastidious Readers run me hard,And screen, sly playful wag! a hapless Bard,Behind one volume of thy Tristram Shandy!Ye Two, alone!—tho’ I could bring a scoreOf brilliant names, and high examples, more—Plead for me, when ’tis said I misbehave me!And, ye,sour Censors! in your crabbed fits,Who will not let them rescue me asWits,Prithee, asParsons, suffer ’em to save me!

THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.A man is surprised by a (dead?) man in a gardenTHEKNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.PART FIRST.ContentsInour Fifth Harry’s reign, when ’twas the fashionTo thump the French, poor creatures! to excess;—Tho’ Britons, now a days, shew more compassion,And thump them, certainly, a great deal less;—In Harry’s reign, when flush’d Lancastrian rosesOf York’s pale blossoms had usurp’d the right;3As wine drives Nature out of drunkards’ noses,Till red, triumphantly, eclipses white;—In Harry’s reign—but let me to my song,Or good king Harry’s reign may seem too long.Sir Thomas Erpingham, a gallant knight,When this king Harry went to war, in France,Girded a sword about his middle;Resolving, very lustily, to fight,And teach the Frenchmen how to dance,Without a fiddle.And wond’rous bold Sir Thomas prove’d in battle,Performing prodigies, with spear and shield;His valour, like a murrain among cattle,Was reckon’d very fatal in the field.Yet, tho’ Sir Thomas had an iron fist,He was, at heart, a mild Philanthropist.Much did he grieve, when making Frenchmen die,To any inconvenience to put ’em:“It quite distress’d his feelings,” he would cry,“That he must cut their throats,”—and, then he cut ’em.Thus, during many a Campaign,He cut, and grieve’d, and cut, and came again;—Pitying, and killing;—Lamenting sorely for men’s souls,While pretty little eyelet holes,Clean thro’ their bodies he kept drilling:Till palling on his Laurels, grown so thick,(As boys pull blackberries, till they are sick,)Homeward he bent his course, to wreath ’em;And in his Castle, near fair Norwich town,Glutted with glory, he sat down,In perfect solitude, beneath ’em.Now, sitting under Laurels, Heroes say,Gives grace, and dignity—and so it may—When men have done campaigning;But, certainly, these gentlemen must ownThat sitting under Laurels, quite alone,Is much more dignified than entertaining.Pious Æneas, who, in his narrationOf his own prowess, felt so great a charm;—(For, tho’ he feign’d great grief in the relation,He made the story longer than your arm;4)Pious Æneas no more pleasure knewThan did our Knight—who could he pious too—In telling his exploits, and martial brawls:But piousThomashad no Dido near him—No Queen—King, Lord, nor Commoner to hear him—So he was force’d to tell them to the walls:And to his Castle walls, in solemn guise,The knight, full often, did soliloquize:—For “Walls have ears,” Sir Thomas had been told;Yet thought the tedious hours would seem much shorter,If, now and then, a tale he could unfoldTo ears of flesh and blood, not stone and mortar.At length, his oldCastellumgrew so dull,That legions of Blue Devils seize’d the Knight;Megrim invested his belaurell’d skull;Spleen laid embargoes on his appetite;Till, thro’ the day-time, he was haunted, wholly,By all the imps of “loathed Melancholy!”—Heaven keep her, and her imps, for ever, from us!—An Incubus,5whene’er he went to bed,Sat on his stomach, like a lump of lead,Making unseemly faces at Sir Thomas.Plagues such as these might make a Parson swear;Sir Thomas being but a Layman,Swore, very roundly,à la militaire,Or, rather, (from vexation) like a Drayman:Damning his Walls, out of all line and level;Sinking his drawbridges and moats;Wishing that he were cutting throats—And they were at the devil.“What’s to be done,” Sir Thomas said one day,“To driveEnnuiaway?How is the evil to be parried?What can remind me of my former life?—Those happy days I spent in noise and strife!”The last word struck him;—“Zounds!” says he,“a Wife!”—And so he married.Muse! regulate your pace;—Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling!Here is a stately Lady in the case:We mustn’t, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.O God of Love! Urchin of spite, and play!Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen’s quarters;His torch bedimming, as thou runn’st away,Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!Sly, wandering God! whose frolick arrows passThro’ hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys;Who mark’st with Milkmaids’ forms, the tell-tale grass,And make’st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing,Young God of dimples! in thy roguish flight;And let thy Poet catch it, now, to singThe beauty of the Dame who won the Knight!Her beauty!—but Sir Thomas’s own SonnetBeats all that I can say upon it.

A man is surprised by a (dead?) man in a garden

Contents

Inour Fifth Harry’s reign, when ’twas the fashionTo thump the French, poor creatures! to excess;—Tho’ Britons, now a days, shew more compassion,And thump them, certainly, a great deal less;—In Harry’s reign, when flush’d Lancastrian rosesOf York’s pale blossoms had usurp’d the right;3As wine drives Nature out of drunkards’ noses,Till red, triumphantly, eclipses white;—In Harry’s reign—but let me to my song,Or good king Harry’s reign may seem too long.Sir Thomas Erpingham, a gallant knight,When this king Harry went to war, in France,Girded a sword about his middle;Resolving, very lustily, to fight,And teach the Frenchmen how to dance,Without a fiddle.And wond’rous bold Sir Thomas prove’d in battle,Performing prodigies, with spear and shield;His valour, like a murrain among cattle,Was reckon’d very fatal in the field.Yet, tho’ Sir Thomas had an iron fist,He was, at heart, a mild Philanthropist.Much did he grieve, when making Frenchmen die,To any inconvenience to put ’em:“It quite distress’d his feelings,” he would cry,“That he must cut their throats,”—and, then he cut ’em.Thus, during many a Campaign,He cut, and grieve’d, and cut, and came again;—Pitying, and killing;—Lamenting sorely for men’s souls,While pretty little eyelet holes,Clean thro’ their bodies he kept drilling:Till palling on his Laurels, grown so thick,(As boys pull blackberries, till they are sick,)Homeward he bent his course, to wreath ’em;And in his Castle, near fair Norwich town,Glutted with glory, he sat down,In perfect solitude, beneath ’em.Now, sitting under Laurels, Heroes say,Gives grace, and dignity—and so it may—When men have done campaigning;But, certainly, these gentlemen must ownThat sitting under Laurels, quite alone,Is much more dignified than entertaining.Pious Æneas, who, in his narrationOf his own prowess, felt so great a charm;—(For, tho’ he feign’d great grief in the relation,He made the story longer than your arm;4)Pious Æneas no more pleasure knewThan did our Knight—who could he pious too—In telling his exploits, and martial brawls:But piousThomashad no Dido near him—No Queen—King, Lord, nor Commoner to hear him—So he was force’d to tell them to the walls:And to his Castle walls, in solemn guise,The knight, full often, did soliloquize:—For “Walls have ears,” Sir Thomas had been told;Yet thought the tedious hours would seem much shorter,If, now and then, a tale he could unfoldTo ears of flesh and blood, not stone and mortar.At length, his oldCastellumgrew so dull,That legions of Blue Devils seize’d the Knight;Megrim invested his belaurell’d skull;Spleen laid embargoes on his appetite;Till, thro’ the day-time, he was haunted, wholly,By all the imps of “loathed Melancholy!”—Heaven keep her, and her imps, for ever, from us!—An Incubus,5whene’er he went to bed,Sat on his stomach, like a lump of lead,Making unseemly faces at Sir Thomas.Plagues such as these might make a Parson swear;Sir Thomas being but a Layman,Swore, very roundly,à la militaire,Or, rather, (from vexation) like a Drayman:Damning his Walls, out of all line and level;Sinking his drawbridges and moats;Wishing that he were cutting throats—And they were at the devil.“What’s to be done,” Sir Thomas said one day,“To driveEnnuiaway?How is the evil to be parried?What can remind me of my former life?—Those happy days I spent in noise and strife!”The last word struck him;—“Zounds!” says he,“a Wife!”—And so he married.Muse! regulate your pace;—Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling!Here is a stately Lady in the case:We mustn’t, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.O God of Love! Urchin of spite, and play!Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen’s quarters;His torch bedimming, as thou runn’st away,Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!Sly, wandering God! whose frolick arrows passThro’ hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys;Who mark’st with Milkmaids’ forms, the tell-tale grass,And make’st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing,Young God of dimples! in thy roguish flight;And let thy Poet catch it, now, to singThe beauty of the Dame who won the Knight!Her beauty!—but Sir Thomas’s own SonnetBeats all that I can say upon it.

Inour Fifth Harry’s reign, when ’twas the fashionTo thump the French, poor creatures! to excess;—Tho’ Britons, now a days, shew more compassion,And thump them, certainly, a great deal less;—

Inour Fifth Harry’s reign, when ’twas the fashion

To thump the French, poor creatures! to excess;—

Tho’ Britons, now a days, shew more compassion,

And thump them, certainly, a great deal less;—

In Harry’s reign, when flush’d Lancastrian rosesOf York’s pale blossoms had usurp’d the right;3As wine drives Nature out of drunkards’ noses,Till red, triumphantly, eclipses white;—In Harry’s reign—but let me to my song,Or good king Harry’s reign may seem too long.

In Harry’s reign, when flush’d Lancastrian roses

Of York’s pale blossoms had usurp’d the right;3

As wine drives Nature out of drunkards’ noses,

Till red, triumphantly, eclipses white;—

In Harry’s reign—but let me to my song,

Or good king Harry’s reign may seem too long.

Sir Thomas Erpingham, a gallant knight,When this king Harry went to war, in France,Girded a sword about his middle;Resolving, very lustily, to fight,And teach the Frenchmen how to dance,Without a fiddle.

Sir Thomas Erpingham, a gallant knight,

When this king Harry went to war, in France,

Girded a sword about his middle;

Resolving, very lustily, to fight,

And teach the Frenchmen how to dance,

Without a fiddle.

And wond’rous bold Sir Thomas prove’d in battle,Performing prodigies, with spear and shield;His valour, like a murrain among cattle,Was reckon’d very fatal in the field.Yet, tho’ Sir Thomas had an iron fist,He was, at heart, a mild Philanthropist.

And wond’rous bold Sir Thomas prove’d in battle,

Performing prodigies, with spear and shield;

His valour, like a murrain among cattle,

Was reckon’d very fatal in the field.

Yet, tho’ Sir Thomas had an iron fist,

He was, at heart, a mild Philanthropist.

Much did he grieve, when making Frenchmen die,To any inconvenience to put ’em:“It quite distress’d his feelings,” he would cry,“That he must cut their throats,”—and, then he cut ’em.

Much did he grieve, when making Frenchmen die,

To any inconvenience to put ’em:

“It quite distress’d his feelings,” he would cry,

“That he must cut their throats,”—and, then he cut ’em.

Thus, during many a Campaign,He cut, and grieve’d, and cut, and came again;—Pitying, and killing;—Lamenting sorely for men’s souls,While pretty little eyelet holes,Clean thro’ their bodies he kept drilling:

Thus, during many a Campaign,

He cut, and grieve’d, and cut, and came again;—

Pitying, and killing;—

Lamenting sorely for men’s souls,

While pretty little eyelet holes,

Clean thro’ their bodies he kept drilling:

Till palling on his Laurels, grown so thick,(As boys pull blackberries, till they are sick,)Homeward he bent his course, to wreath ’em;And in his Castle, near fair Norwich town,Glutted with glory, he sat down,In perfect solitude, beneath ’em.

Till palling on his Laurels, grown so thick,

(As boys pull blackberries, till they are sick,)

Homeward he bent his course, to wreath ’em;

And in his Castle, near fair Norwich town,

Glutted with glory, he sat down,

In perfect solitude, beneath ’em.

Now, sitting under Laurels, Heroes say,Gives grace, and dignity—and so it may—When men have done campaigning;But, certainly, these gentlemen must ownThat sitting under Laurels, quite alone,Is much more dignified than entertaining.

Now, sitting under Laurels, Heroes say,

Gives grace, and dignity—and so it may—

When men have done campaigning;

But, certainly, these gentlemen must own

That sitting under Laurels, quite alone,

Is much more dignified than entertaining.

Pious Æneas, who, in his narrationOf his own prowess, felt so great a charm;—(For, tho’ he feign’d great grief in the relation,He made the story longer than your arm;4)

Pious Æneas, who, in his narration

Of his own prowess, felt so great a charm;—

(For, tho’ he feign’d great grief in the relation,

He made the story longer than your arm;4)

Pious Æneas no more pleasure knewThan did our Knight—who could he pious too—In telling his exploits, and martial brawls:But piousThomashad no Dido near him—No Queen—King, Lord, nor Commoner to hear him—So he was force’d to tell them to the walls:

Pious Æneas no more pleasure knew

Than did our Knight—who could he pious too—

In telling his exploits, and martial brawls:

But piousThomashad no Dido near him—

No Queen—King, Lord, nor Commoner to hear him—

So he was force’d to tell them to the walls:

And to his Castle walls, in solemn guise,The knight, full often, did soliloquize:—

And to his Castle walls, in solemn guise,

The knight, full often, did soliloquize:—

For “Walls have ears,” Sir Thomas had been told;Yet thought the tedious hours would seem much shorter,If, now and then, a tale he could unfoldTo ears of flesh and blood, not stone and mortar.

For “Walls have ears,” Sir Thomas had been told;

Yet thought the tedious hours would seem much shorter,

If, now and then, a tale he could unfold

To ears of flesh and blood, not stone and mortar.

At length, his oldCastellumgrew so dull,That legions of Blue Devils seize’d the Knight;Megrim invested his belaurell’d skull;Spleen laid embargoes on his appetite;

At length, his oldCastellumgrew so dull,

That legions of Blue Devils seize’d the Knight;

Megrim invested his belaurell’d skull;

Spleen laid embargoes on his appetite;

Till, thro’ the day-time, he was haunted, wholly,By all the imps of “loathed Melancholy!”—Heaven keep her, and her imps, for ever, from us!—An Incubus,5whene’er he went to bed,Sat on his stomach, like a lump of lead,Making unseemly faces at Sir Thomas.

Till, thro’ the day-time, he was haunted, wholly,

By all the imps of “loathed Melancholy!”—

Heaven keep her, and her imps, for ever, from us!—

An Incubus,5whene’er he went to bed,

Sat on his stomach, like a lump of lead,

Making unseemly faces at Sir Thomas.

Plagues such as these might make a Parson swear;Sir Thomas being but a Layman,Swore, very roundly,à la militaire,Or, rather, (from vexation) like a Drayman:

Plagues such as these might make a Parson swear;

Sir Thomas being but a Layman,

Swore, very roundly,à la militaire,

Or, rather, (from vexation) like a Drayman:

Damning his Walls, out of all line and level;Sinking his drawbridges and moats;Wishing that he were cutting throats—And they were at the devil.

Damning his Walls, out of all line and level;

Sinking his drawbridges and moats;

Wishing that he were cutting throats—

And they were at the devil.

“What’s to be done,” Sir Thomas said one day,“To driveEnnuiaway?How is the evil to be parried?What can remind me of my former life?—Those happy days I spent in noise and strife!”The last word struck him;—“Zounds!” says he,“a Wife!”—And so he married.

“What’s to be done,” Sir Thomas said one day,

“To driveEnnuiaway?

How is the evil to be parried?

What can remind me of my former life?—

Those happy days I spent in noise and strife!”

The last word struck him;—“Zounds!” says he,

“a Wife!”—

And so he married.

Muse! regulate your pace;—Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling!Here is a stately Lady in the case:We mustn’t, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.

Muse! regulate your pace;—

Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling!

Here is a stately Lady in the case:

We mustn’t, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.

O God of Love! Urchin of spite, and play!Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen’s quarters;His torch bedimming, as thou runn’st away,Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!

O God of Love! Urchin of spite, and play!

Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen’s quarters;

His torch bedimming, as thou runn’st away,

Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!

Sly, wandering God! whose frolick arrows passThro’ hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys;Who mark’st with Milkmaids’ forms, the tell-tale grass,And make’st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!

Sly, wandering God! whose frolick arrows pass

Thro’ hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys;

Who mark’st with Milkmaids’ forms, the tell-tale grass,

And make’st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!

Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing,Young God of dimples! in thy roguish flight;And let thy Poet catch it, now, to singThe beauty of the Dame who won the Knight!

Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing,

Young God of dimples! in thy roguish flight;

And let thy Poet catch it, now, to sing

The beauty of the Dame who won the Knight!

Her beauty!—but Sir Thomas’s own SonnetBeats all that I can say upon it.

Her beauty!—but Sir Thomas’s own Sonnet

Beats all that I can say upon it.

A man reads to a demure woman.SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM’s6SONNETON HIS LADY.Contents1Suchstar-likelustre lights herEyes,They must have darted from aSphere,Our dullerSystemto surprise,Outshining all thePlanetshere;And, having wander’d from their wonted place,Fix in the wond’rousHeavenof herFace.2The modestRose, whose blushes speakThe ardent kisses of the Sun,Off’ring a tribute to herCheek,Droops, to perceive itsTintoutdone;Then withering with envy and despair,Dies on herLips, and leaves itsFragrancethere.3Ringlets, that to herBreastdescend,Increasethe beauties theyinvade;Thus branches in luxuriance bend,To grace thelovely Hillsthey shade;And thus the glowingClimatedid enticeTendrils to curl, unprune’d, o’erParadise.Sir Thomas having close’d his love-sick strain,Come, buxom Muse! and let us frisk again!Close to a Chapel, near the Castle-gates,Dwelt certain stickers in the Devil’s skirts;Who, with prodigious fervour, shave their pates,And shew a most religious scorn for shirts.Their House’s sole Endowment was our Knight’s:—Thither an Abbot, and twelve Friars, retreating,Conquer’d (sage, pious men!) their appetitesWith that infallible specifick—eating.’Twould seem, since tenanted by holy Friars,That Peace and Harmony reign’d here eternally;—Whoever told you so were cursed liars;—The holy Friars quarrell’d most infernally.Not a day pastWithout some schism among these heavenly lodgers;But none of their dissensions seem’d to lastSo long as Friar John’s and Friar Roger’s.I have been very accurate in my researches,And find this Convent (truce withwhysandhows)Kept in a constant ferment with therowsOf these two quarrelsome fat sons of Churches.But when Sir Thomas went to his devotions,Proceeding thro’ their Cloister with his Bride,You never could have dream’d of their commotions,The stiff-rump’d rascals look’d so sanctified:And it became the custom of the KnightTo go to matins every day;He jogg’d his Bride, as soon as it was light,Crying, “my dear, ’tis time for us to pray.”—This custom he establish’d, very soon,After his honey-moon.Wives of this age might think his zeal surprising;But much his pious lady did it please,To see her Husband, every morning, rising,And going, instantly, upon his knees.Never, I ween,In any person’s recollection,Was such a couple seen,For genuflection!Making as great a drudgery of prayerAs humble Curates are oblige’d to do,—Whose labour, wo the while! scarce buys them cassocks;And, every morning, whether foul or fair,Sir Thomas and the Dame were in their pew,Craw-thumping, upon hassocks.It could not otherwise befall(Sir Thomas, and his Wife, this course pursuing,)But that the Lady, affable to all,Should greet the Friars, on her wayTo matins, as she met them, every day,Good morninging, andhow d’ye doing:Now nodding to this Friar, now to that,As thro’ the Cloister she was wont to trip;Stopping, sometimes, to have a little chat,On casual topicks, with the holy brothers;—So condescending was her Ladyship,To Roger, John, and all the others.All this was natural enoughTo any female of urbanity;—But holy men are made of as frail stuffAs all the lighter sons of Vanity!—And these her Ladyship’s chaste condescensions,In Friar John bred damnable desire;Heterodox, unclean intentions;—Abominable in a Friar!Whene’er she greeted him, his gills grew red,While she was quite unconscious of the matter;—But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her,Out of his bullock-head.That coxcombswereandare, I need not give,Nor take the trouble, now, to prove;Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live,Have thought a Lady’s condescension, love.This happen’d with fat Friar John!—Monastick Coxcomb! amorous, and gummy;Fill’d with conceit up to his very brim!—He thought his guts and garbage doated on,By a fair Dame, whose Husband was tohimHyperion to a mummy.Burning with flames the Lady never knew,Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese,He sent her a much warmerbillet-douxThan Abelard e’er writ to Eloïse.But whether Friar John’s fat shape and face,Tho’ pleading both together,Were sorry advocates, in such a case;—Or, whetherHe marr’d his hopes, by suffering his penWith too much fervour to display ’em;—As very tender Nurses, now and then,Cuddle their Children, till they overlay ’em;—’Twas plain, his pray’r to decorate the browsOf good Sir Thomas was so far from granted,That the Dame went, directly, to her spouse,And told him what the filthy Friar wanted.Think, Reader, think! if thou hast ta’en, for life,A partner to thy bed, for worse or better,Think what Sir Thomas felt, when his chaste wifeBrandish’d, before his eyes, the Friar’s letter!A woman shows a letter to a man, who appears taken aback.He felt, Sir,—Zounds!—Yes, Zounds! I say, Sir,—for it makes me swear—More torture than he suffer’d from the woundsHe got among the French, in France;—Not that I take upon me to advanceThe knight was ever wounded there.Think gravely, Sir, I pray:—fancy the Knight—(’Tis quite a Picture)—with his heart’s delight!Fancy you see his virtuous Lady stand,Holding the Friar’s foulness in her hand!—How should Sir Thomas, Sir, behave?Why bounce, and sputter, surely, like a squib:—You would have done the same, Sir, if a knave,A frouzy Friar, meddle’d with your Rib.His bosom almost burst with ireAgainst the Friar;Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue;His cheeks turn’d purple, and his nose turn’d blue;He swore with this mock Saint he’d soon be even;—He’d have him flay’d, like Saint Bartholomew;—And, now again, he’d have him stone’d, like Stephen.But, “Ira furor brevis est,”As Horace, quaintly, has express’d;—Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and frothWork thro’ the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer,Pull’d out the vent-peg of his wrath,To let the stream of his revenge run clear:Debating, with himself, what mode might suit him,To trounce the rogue who wanted to cornute him.First, an attack against his Foe he plann’d,Learn’d in the Field, where late he fought so felly;That is—to march up, bravely, sword in hand,And run the Friar thro’ his holy belly.At last, his better judgment did declare—Seeing his honour would as little shineBy sticking Friars, as by killing swine—To circumvent him, by aruse de guerre:And, as the project ripen’d in his head,Thus to his virtuous Wife he said:“Now sit thee down, my Lady bright!And list thy Lord’s desire;An assignation thou shalt write,Beshrew me! to the Friar.“Aread him, at the midnight hour,In silent sort to go,And bide thy coming, in the Bower—For there do Crabsticks grow.“He shall not tarry long;—for why?WhenTwelvehave striking done,Then, by the God of Gardens!7IWill cudgel him tillOne.”The Lady wrote just what Sir Thomas told her;For, it is no less strange than true,That Wives did, once, what Husbands bid them do;—Lord! how this World improves, as we grow older!She name’d the midnight hour;—Telling the Friar to repairTo the sweet, secret Bower;—But not a word of any crabsticks there.Thus have I seen a liquorish, black rat,Lure’d by the Cook, to sniff, and smell her bacon;And, when he’s eager for a bit of fat,Down goes a trap upon him, and he’s taken.A tiny Page,—for, formerly, a boyWas a mere dunce who did not understandThe doctrines of Sir Pandarus, of Troy,—Slipp’d the Dame’s note into the Friar’s hand,As he was walking in the cloister;And, then, slipp’d off,—as silent as an oyster.The Friar read;—the Friar chuckle’d:—For, now the Farce’s unities were right:Videlicet—The Argument, a Cuckold;The Scene, a Bow’r; Time, Twelve o’clock, at night.Blithe was fat John!—and, dreading no mishap,Stole, at the hour appointed, to thetrap;But, so perfume’d, so musk’d, for the occasion,—Histributeto the nose so likeinvasion,—You would have sworn, to smell him, ’twas no rat,But a dead, putrified, old civet-cat.He reach’d the spot, anticipating blisses,Soft murmurs, melting sighs, and burning kisses,Trances of joy, and mingling of the souls;When, whack! Sir Thomas hit him on the joles.Now, on his head it came, now on his face,His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back;In short, on almost every placeWe read of in the Almanack.Blows rattle’d on him thick as hail;Making him rue the day that he was born;—Sir Thomas plied his cudgel like a flail,And thrash’d as if he had been thrashing corn.At length, a thump,—(painful the facts, alas!Truth urges us Historians to relate!)—Took Friar John so smart athwart the pate,It acted like a perfectcoup de grace.Whether it was a random shot,Or aim’d maliciously,—tho’ Fame saysnot—Certain his soul (the Knight so crack’d his crown)Fled from his body; but which way it went,Or whether Friars’ souls fly up, or down,Remains a matter of nice argument.Points so abstruse I dare not dwell upon;Enough, for me, his body is not gone;For I have business, still, in my narration,With the fat carcass of this holy porpus;And Death, tho’ sharp in his Administration,Never suspended such anHabeas Corpus.END OF PART I.

A man reads to a demure woman.

Contents

1Suchstar-likelustre lights herEyes,They must have darted from aSphere,Our dullerSystemto surprise,Outshining all thePlanetshere;And, having wander’d from their wonted place,Fix in the wond’rousHeavenof herFace.2The modestRose, whose blushes speakThe ardent kisses of the Sun,Off’ring a tribute to herCheek,Droops, to perceive itsTintoutdone;Then withering with envy and despair,Dies on herLips, and leaves itsFragrancethere.3Ringlets, that to herBreastdescend,Increasethe beauties theyinvade;Thus branches in luxuriance bend,To grace thelovely Hillsthey shade;And thus the glowingClimatedid enticeTendrils to curl, unprune’d, o’erParadise.Sir Thomas having close’d his love-sick strain,Come, buxom Muse! and let us frisk again!Close to a Chapel, near the Castle-gates,Dwelt certain stickers in the Devil’s skirts;Who, with prodigious fervour, shave their pates,And shew a most religious scorn for shirts.Their House’s sole Endowment was our Knight’s:—Thither an Abbot, and twelve Friars, retreating,Conquer’d (sage, pious men!) their appetitesWith that infallible specifick—eating.’Twould seem, since tenanted by holy Friars,That Peace and Harmony reign’d here eternally;—Whoever told you so were cursed liars;—The holy Friars quarrell’d most infernally.Not a day pastWithout some schism among these heavenly lodgers;But none of their dissensions seem’d to lastSo long as Friar John’s and Friar Roger’s.I have been very accurate in my researches,And find this Convent (truce withwhysandhows)Kept in a constant ferment with therowsOf these two quarrelsome fat sons of Churches.But when Sir Thomas went to his devotions,Proceeding thro’ their Cloister with his Bride,You never could have dream’d of their commotions,The stiff-rump’d rascals look’d so sanctified:And it became the custom of the KnightTo go to matins every day;He jogg’d his Bride, as soon as it was light,Crying, “my dear, ’tis time for us to pray.”—This custom he establish’d, very soon,After his honey-moon.Wives of this age might think his zeal surprising;But much his pious lady did it please,To see her Husband, every morning, rising,And going, instantly, upon his knees.Never, I ween,In any person’s recollection,Was such a couple seen,For genuflection!Making as great a drudgery of prayerAs humble Curates are oblige’d to do,—Whose labour, wo the while! scarce buys them cassocks;And, every morning, whether foul or fair,Sir Thomas and the Dame were in their pew,Craw-thumping, upon hassocks.It could not otherwise befall(Sir Thomas, and his Wife, this course pursuing,)But that the Lady, affable to all,Should greet the Friars, on her wayTo matins, as she met them, every day,Good morninging, andhow d’ye doing:Now nodding to this Friar, now to that,As thro’ the Cloister she was wont to trip;Stopping, sometimes, to have a little chat,On casual topicks, with the holy brothers;—So condescending was her Ladyship,To Roger, John, and all the others.All this was natural enoughTo any female of urbanity;—But holy men are made of as frail stuffAs all the lighter sons of Vanity!—And these her Ladyship’s chaste condescensions,In Friar John bred damnable desire;Heterodox, unclean intentions;—Abominable in a Friar!Whene’er she greeted him, his gills grew red,While she was quite unconscious of the matter;—But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her,Out of his bullock-head.That coxcombswereandare, I need not give,Nor take the trouble, now, to prove;Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live,Have thought a Lady’s condescension, love.This happen’d with fat Friar John!—Monastick Coxcomb! amorous, and gummy;Fill’d with conceit up to his very brim!—He thought his guts and garbage doated on,By a fair Dame, whose Husband was tohimHyperion to a mummy.Burning with flames the Lady never knew,Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese,He sent her a much warmerbillet-douxThan Abelard e’er writ to Eloïse.But whether Friar John’s fat shape and face,Tho’ pleading both together,Were sorry advocates, in such a case;—Or, whetherHe marr’d his hopes, by suffering his penWith too much fervour to display ’em;—As very tender Nurses, now and then,Cuddle their Children, till they overlay ’em;—’Twas plain, his pray’r to decorate the browsOf good Sir Thomas was so far from granted,That the Dame went, directly, to her spouse,And told him what the filthy Friar wanted.Think, Reader, think! if thou hast ta’en, for life,A partner to thy bed, for worse or better,Think what Sir Thomas felt, when his chaste wifeBrandish’d, before his eyes, the Friar’s letter!A woman shows a letter to a man, who appears taken aback.He felt, Sir,—Zounds!—Yes, Zounds! I say, Sir,—for it makes me swear—More torture than he suffer’d from the woundsHe got among the French, in France;—Not that I take upon me to advanceThe knight was ever wounded there.Think gravely, Sir, I pray:—fancy the Knight—(’Tis quite a Picture)—with his heart’s delight!Fancy you see his virtuous Lady stand,Holding the Friar’s foulness in her hand!—How should Sir Thomas, Sir, behave?Why bounce, and sputter, surely, like a squib:—You would have done the same, Sir, if a knave,A frouzy Friar, meddle’d with your Rib.His bosom almost burst with ireAgainst the Friar;Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue;His cheeks turn’d purple, and his nose turn’d blue;He swore with this mock Saint he’d soon be even;—He’d have him flay’d, like Saint Bartholomew;—And, now again, he’d have him stone’d, like Stephen.But, “Ira furor brevis est,”As Horace, quaintly, has express’d;—Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and frothWork thro’ the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer,Pull’d out the vent-peg of his wrath,To let the stream of his revenge run clear:Debating, with himself, what mode might suit him,To trounce the rogue who wanted to cornute him.First, an attack against his Foe he plann’d,Learn’d in the Field, where late he fought so felly;That is—to march up, bravely, sword in hand,And run the Friar thro’ his holy belly.At last, his better judgment did declare—Seeing his honour would as little shineBy sticking Friars, as by killing swine—To circumvent him, by aruse de guerre:And, as the project ripen’d in his head,Thus to his virtuous Wife he said:“Now sit thee down, my Lady bright!And list thy Lord’s desire;An assignation thou shalt write,Beshrew me! to the Friar.“Aread him, at the midnight hour,In silent sort to go,And bide thy coming, in the Bower—For there do Crabsticks grow.“He shall not tarry long;—for why?WhenTwelvehave striking done,Then, by the God of Gardens!7IWill cudgel him tillOne.”The Lady wrote just what Sir Thomas told her;For, it is no less strange than true,That Wives did, once, what Husbands bid them do;—Lord! how this World improves, as we grow older!She name’d the midnight hour;—Telling the Friar to repairTo the sweet, secret Bower;—But not a word of any crabsticks there.Thus have I seen a liquorish, black rat,Lure’d by the Cook, to sniff, and smell her bacon;And, when he’s eager for a bit of fat,Down goes a trap upon him, and he’s taken.A tiny Page,—for, formerly, a boyWas a mere dunce who did not understandThe doctrines of Sir Pandarus, of Troy,—Slipp’d the Dame’s note into the Friar’s hand,As he was walking in the cloister;And, then, slipp’d off,—as silent as an oyster.The Friar read;—the Friar chuckle’d:—For, now the Farce’s unities were right:Videlicet—The Argument, a Cuckold;The Scene, a Bow’r; Time, Twelve o’clock, at night.Blithe was fat John!—and, dreading no mishap,Stole, at the hour appointed, to thetrap;But, so perfume’d, so musk’d, for the occasion,—Histributeto the nose so likeinvasion,—You would have sworn, to smell him, ’twas no rat,But a dead, putrified, old civet-cat.He reach’d the spot, anticipating blisses,Soft murmurs, melting sighs, and burning kisses,Trances of joy, and mingling of the souls;When, whack! Sir Thomas hit him on the joles.Now, on his head it came, now on his face,His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back;In short, on almost every placeWe read of in the Almanack.Blows rattle’d on him thick as hail;Making him rue the day that he was born;—Sir Thomas plied his cudgel like a flail,And thrash’d as if he had been thrashing corn.At length, a thump,—(painful the facts, alas!Truth urges us Historians to relate!)—Took Friar John so smart athwart the pate,It acted like a perfectcoup de grace.Whether it was a random shot,Or aim’d maliciously,—tho’ Fame saysnot—Certain his soul (the Knight so crack’d his crown)Fled from his body; but which way it went,Or whether Friars’ souls fly up, or down,Remains a matter of nice argument.Points so abstruse I dare not dwell upon;Enough, for me, his body is not gone;For I have business, still, in my narration,With the fat carcass of this holy porpus;And Death, tho’ sharp in his Administration,Never suspended such anHabeas Corpus.

Suchstar-likelustre lights herEyes,They must have darted from aSphere,Our dullerSystemto surprise,Outshining all thePlanetshere;And, having wander’d from their wonted place,Fix in the wond’rousHeavenof herFace.

Suchstar-likelustre lights herEyes,

They must have darted from aSphere,

Our dullerSystemto surprise,

Outshining all thePlanetshere;

And, having wander’d from their wonted place,

Fix in the wond’rousHeavenof herFace.

The modestRose, whose blushes speakThe ardent kisses of the Sun,Off’ring a tribute to herCheek,Droops, to perceive itsTintoutdone;Then withering with envy and despair,Dies on herLips, and leaves itsFragrancethere.

The modestRose, whose blushes speak

The ardent kisses of the Sun,

Off’ring a tribute to herCheek,

Droops, to perceive itsTintoutdone;

Then withering with envy and despair,

Dies on herLips, and leaves itsFragrancethere.

Ringlets, that to herBreastdescend,Increasethe beauties theyinvade;Thus branches in luxuriance bend,To grace thelovely Hillsthey shade;And thus the glowingClimatedid enticeTendrils to curl, unprune’d, o’erParadise.

Ringlets, that to herBreastdescend,

Increasethe beauties theyinvade;

Thus branches in luxuriance bend,

To grace thelovely Hillsthey shade;

And thus the glowingClimatedid entice

Tendrils to curl, unprune’d, o’erParadise.

Sir Thomas having close’d his love-sick strain,Come, buxom Muse! and let us frisk again!

Sir Thomas having close’d his love-sick strain,

Come, buxom Muse! and let us frisk again!

Close to a Chapel, near the Castle-gates,Dwelt certain stickers in the Devil’s skirts;Who, with prodigious fervour, shave their pates,And shew a most religious scorn for shirts.

Close to a Chapel, near the Castle-gates,

Dwelt certain stickers in the Devil’s skirts;

Who, with prodigious fervour, shave their pates,

And shew a most religious scorn for shirts.

Their House’s sole Endowment was our Knight’s:—Thither an Abbot, and twelve Friars, retreating,Conquer’d (sage, pious men!) their appetitesWith that infallible specifick—eating.

Their House’s sole Endowment was our Knight’s:—

Thither an Abbot, and twelve Friars, retreating,

Conquer’d (sage, pious men!) their appetites

With that infallible specifick—eating.

’Twould seem, since tenanted by holy Friars,That Peace and Harmony reign’d here eternally;—Whoever told you so were cursed liars;—The holy Friars quarrell’d most infernally.

’Twould seem, since tenanted by holy Friars,

That Peace and Harmony reign’d here eternally;—

Whoever told you so were cursed liars;—

The holy Friars quarrell’d most infernally.

Not a day pastWithout some schism among these heavenly lodgers;But none of their dissensions seem’d to lastSo long as Friar John’s and Friar Roger’s.

Not a day past

Without some schism among these heavenly lodgers;

But none of their dissensions seem’d to last

So long as Friar John’s and Friar Roger’s.

I have been very accurate in my researches,And find this Convent (truce withwhysandhows)Kept in a constant ferment with therowsOf these two quarrelsome fat sons of Churches.

I have been very accurate in my researches,

And find this Convent (truce withwhysandhows)

Kept in a constant ferment with therows

Of these two quarrelsome fat sons of Churches.

But when Sir Thomas went to his devotions,Proceeding thro’ their Cloister with his Bride,You never could have dream’d of their commotions,The stiff-rump’d rascals look’d so sanctified:

But when Sir Thomas went to his devotions,

Proceeding thro’ their Cloister with his Bride,

You never could have dream’d of their commotions,

The stiff-rump’d rascals look’d so sanctified:

And it became the custom of the KnightTo go to matins every day;He jogg’d his Bride, as soon as it was light,Crying, “my dear, ’tis time for us to pray.”—

And it became the custom of the Knight

To go to matins every day;

He jogg’d his Bride, as soon as it was light,

Crying, “my dear, ’tis time for us to pray.”—

This custom he establish’d, very soon,After his honey-moon.

This custom he establish’d, very soon,

After his honey-moon.

Wives of this age might think his zeal surprising;But much his pious lady did it please,To see her Husband, every morning, rising,And going, instantly, upon his knees.

Wives of this age might think his zeal surprising;

But much his pious lady did it please,

To see her Husband, every morning, rising,

And going, instantly, upon his knees.

Never, I ween,In any person’s recollection,Was such a couple seen,For genuflection!

Never, I ween,

In any person’s recollection,

Was such a couple seen,

For genuflection!

Making as great a drudgery of prayerAs humble Curates are oblige’d to do,—Whose labour, wo the while! scarce buys them cassocks;And, every morning, whether foul or fair,Sir Thomas and the Dame were in their pew,Craw-thumping, upon hassocks.

Making as great a drudgery of prayer

As humble Curates are oblige’d to do,—

Whose labour, wo the while! scarce buys them cassocks;

And, every morning, whether foul or fair,

Sir Thomas and the Dame were in their pew,

Craw-thumping, upon hassocks.

It could not otherwise befall(Sir Thomas, and his Wife, this course pursuing,)But that the Lady, affable to all,Should greet the Friars, on her wayTo matins, as she met them, every day,Good morninging, andhow d’ye doing:

It could not otherwise befall

(Sir Thomas, and his Wife, this course pursuing,)

But that the Lady, affable to all,

Should greet the Friars, on her way

To matins, as she met them, every day,

Good morninging, andhow d’ye doing:

Now nodding to this Friar, now to that,As thro’ the Cloister she was wont to trip;Stopping, sometimes, to have a little chat,On casual topicks, with the holy brothers;—So condescending was her Ladyship,To Roger, John, and all the others.

Now nodding to this Friar, now to that,

As thro’ the Cloister she was wont to trip;

Stopping, sometimes, to have a little chat,

On casual topicks, with the holy brothers;—

So condescending was her Ladyship,

To Roger, John, and all the others.

All this was natural enoughTo any female of urbanity;—But holy men are made of as frail stuffAs all the lighter sons of Vanity!—

All this was natural enough

To any female of urbanity;—

But holy men are made of as frail stuff

As all the lighter sons of Vanity!—

And these her Ladyship’s chaste condescensions,In Friar John bred damnable desire;Heterodox, unclean intentions;—Abominable in a Friar!

And these her Ladyship’s chaste condescensions,

In Friar John bred damnable desire;

Heterodox, unclean intentions;—

Abominable in a Friar!

Whene’er she greeted him, his gills grew red,While she was quite unconscious of the matter;—But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her,Out of his bullock-head.

Whene’er she greeted him, his gills grew red,

While she was quite unconscious of the matter;—

But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her,

Out of his bullock-head.

That coxcombswereandare, I need not give,Nor take the trouble, now, to prove;Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live,Have thought a Lady’s condescension, love.

That coxcombswereandare, I need not give,

Nor take the trouble, now, to prove;

Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live,

Have thought a Lady’s condescension, love.

This happen’d with fat Friar John!—Monastick Coxcomb! amorous, and gummy;Fill’d with conceit up to his very brim!—He thought his guts and garbage doated on,By a fair Dame, whose Husband was tohimHyperion to a mummy.

This happen’d with fat Friar John!—

Monastick Coxcomb! amorous, and gummy;

Fill’d with conceit up to his very brim!—

He thought his guts and garbage doated on,

By a fair Dame, whose Husband was tohim

Hyperion to a mummy.

Burning with flames the Lady never knew,Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese,He sent her a much warmerbillet-douxThan Abelard e’er writ to Eloïse.

Burning with flames the Lady never knew,

Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese,

He sent her a much warmerbillet-doux

Than Abelard e’er writ to Eloïse.

But whether Friar John’s fat shape and face,Tho’ pleading both together,Were sorry advocates, in such a case;—Or, whetherHe marr’d his hopes, by suffering his penWith too much fervour to display ’em;—As very tender Nurses, now and then,Cuddle their Children, till they overlay ’em;—

But whether Friar John’s fat shape and face,

Tho’ pleading both together,

Were sorry advocates, in such a case;—

Or, whether

He marr’d his hopes, by suffering his pen

With too much fervour to display ’em;—

As very tender Nurses, now and then,

Cuddle their Children, till they overlay ’em;—

’Twas plain, his pray’r to decorate the browsOf good Sir Thomas was so far from granted,That the Dame went, directly, to her spouse,And told him what the filthy Friar wanted.

’Twas plain, his pray’r to decorate the brows

Of good Sir Thomas was so far from granted,

That the Dame went, directly, to her spouse,

And told him what the filthy Friar wanted.

Think, Reader, think! if thou hast ta’en, for life,A partner to thy bed, for worse or better,Think what Sir Thomas felt, when his chaste wifeBrandish’d, before his eyes, the Friar’s letter!

Think, Reader, think! if thou hast ta’en, for life,

A partner to thy bed, for worse or better,

Think what Sir Thomas felt, when his chaste wife

Brandish’d, before his eyes, the Friar’s letter!

A woman shows a letter to a man, who appears taken aback.

He felt, Sir,—Zounds!—Yes, Zounds! I say, Sir,—for it makes me swear—More torture than he suffer’d from the woundsHe got among the French, in France;—Not that I take upon me to advanceThe knight was ever wounded there.

He felt, Sir,—Zounds!—

Yes, Zounds! I say, Sir,—for it makes me swear—

More torture than he suffer’d from the wounds

He got among the French, in France;—

Not that I take upon me to advance

The knight was ever wounded there.

Think gravely, Sir, I pray:—fancy the Knight—(’Tis quite a Picture)—with his heart’s delight!Fancy you see his virtuous Lady stand,Holding the Friar’s foulness in her hand!—

Think gravely, Sir, I pray:—fancy the Knight—

(’Tis quite a Picture)—with his heart’s delight!

Fancy you see his virtuous Lady stand,

Holding the Friar’s foulness in her hand!—

How should Sir Thomas, Sir, behave?Why bounce, and sputter, surely, like a squib:—You would have done the same, Sir, if a knave,A frouzy Friar, meddle’d with your Rib.

How should Sir Thomas, Sir, behave?

Why bounce, and sputter, surely, like a squib:—

You would have done the same, Sir, if a knave,

A frouzy Friar, meddle’d with your Rib.

His bosom almost burst with ireAgainst the Friar;

His bosom almost burst with ire

Against the Friar;

Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue;His cheeks turn’d purple, and his nose turn’d blue;He swore with this mock Saint he’d soon be even;—He’d have him flay’d, like Saint Bartholomew;—And, now again, he’d have him stone’d, like Stephen.

Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue;

His cheeks turn’d purple, and his nose turn’d blue;

He swore with this mock Saint he’d soon be even;—

He’d have him flay’d, like Saint Bartholomew;—

And, now again, he’d have him stone’d, like Stephen.

But, “Ira furor brevis est,”As Horace, quaintly, has express’d;—

But, “Ira furor brevis est,”

As Horace, quaintly, has express’d;—

Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and frothWork thro’ the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer,Pull’d out the vent-peg of his wrath,To let the stream of his revenge run clear:

Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and froth

Work thro’ the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer,

Pull’d out the vent-peg of his wrath,

To let the stream of his revenge run clear:

Debating, with himself, what mode might suit him,To trounce the rogue who wanted to cornute him.

Debating, with himself, what mode might suit him,

To trounce the rogue who wanted to cornute him.

First, an attack against his Foe he plann’d,Learn’d in the Field, where late he fought so felly;That is—to march up, bravely, sword in hand,And run the Friar thro’ his holy belly.

First, an attack against his Foe he plann’d,

Learn’d in the Field, where late he fought so felly;

That is—to march up, bravely, sword in hand,

And run the Friar thro’ his holy belly.

At last, his better judgment did declare—Seeing his honour would as little shineBy sticking Friars, as by killing swine—To circumvent him, by aruse de guerre:

At last, his better judgment did declare—

Seeing his honour would as little shine

By sticking Friars, as by killing swine—

To circumvent him, by aruse de guerre:

And, as the project ripen’d in his head,Thus to his virtuous Wife he said:

And, as the project ripen’d in his head,

Thus to his virtuous Wife he said:

“Now sit thee down, my Lady bright!And list thy Lord’s desire;An assignation thou shalt write,Beshrew me! to the Friar.

“Now sit thee down, my Lady bright!

And list thy Lord’s desire;

An assignation thou shalt write,

Beshrew me! to the Friar.

“Aread him, at the midnight hour,In silent sort to go,And bide thy coming, in the Bower—For there do Crabsticks grow.

“Aread him, at the midnight hour,

In silent sort to go,

And bide thy coming, in the Bower—

For there do Crabsticks grow.

“He shall not tarry long;—for why?WhenTwelvehave striking done,Then, by the God of Gardens!7IWill cudgel him tillOne.”

“He shall not tarry long;—for why?

WhenTwelvehave striking done,

Then, by the God of Gardens!7I

Will cudgel him tillOne.”

The Lady wrote just what Sir Thomas told her;For, it is no less strange than true,That Wives did, once, what Husbands bid them do;—Lord! how this World improves, as we grow older!

The Lady wrote just what Sir Thomas told her;

For, it is no less strange than true,

That Wives did, once, what Husbands bid them do;—

Lord! how this World improves, as we grow older!

She name’d the midnight hour;—Telling the Friar to repairTo the sweet, secret Bower;—But not a word of any crabsticks there.

She name’d the midnight hour;—

Telling the Friar to repair

To the sweet, secret Bower;—

But not a word of any crabsticks there.

Thus have I seen a liquorish, black rat,Lure’d by the Cook, to sniff, and smell her bacon;And, when he’s eager for a bit of fat,Down goes a trap upon him, and he’s taken.

Thus have I seen a liquorish, black rat,

Lure’d by the Cook, to sniff, and smell her bacon;

And, when he’s eager for a bit of fat,

Down goes a trap upon him, and he’s taken.

A tiny Page,—for, formerly, a boyWas a mere dunce who did not understandThe doctrines of Sir Pandarus, of Troy,—Slipp’d the Dame’s note into the Friar’s hand,As he was walking in the cloister;And, then, slipp’d off,—as silent as an oyster.

A tiny Page,—for, formerly, a boy

Was a mere dunce who did not understand

The doctrines of Sir Pandarus, of Troy,—

Slipp’d the Dame’s note into the Friar’s hand,

As he was walking in the cloister;

And, then, slipp’d off,—as silent as an oyster.

The Friar read;—the Friar chuckle’d:—For, now the Farce’s unities were right:Videlicet—The Argument, a Cuckold;The Scene, a Bow’r; Time, Twelve o’clock, at night.

The Friar read;—the Friar chuckle’d:—

For, now the Farce’s unities were right:

Videlicet—The Argument, a Cuckold;

The Scene, a Bow’r; Time, Twelve o’clock, at night.

Blithe was fat John!—and, dreading no mishap,Stole, at the hour appointed, to thetrap;But, so perfume’d, so musk’d, for the occasion,—Histributeto the nose so likeinvasion,—You would have sworn, to smell him, ’twas no rat,But a dead, putrified, old civet-cat.

Blithe was fat John!—and, dreading no mishap,

Stole, at the hour appointed, to thetrap;

But, so perfume’d, so musk’d, for the occasion,—

Histributeto the nose so likeinvasion,—

You would have sworn, to smell him, ’twas no rat,

But a dead, putrified, old civet-cat.

He reach’d the spot, anticipating blisses,Soft murmurs, melting sighs, and burning kisses,Trances of joy, and mingling of the souls;When, whack! Sir Thomas hit him on the joles.

He reach’d the spot, anticipating blisses,

Soft murmurs, melting sighs, and burning kisses,

Trances of joy, and mingling of the souls;

When, whack! Sir Thomas hit him on the joles.

Now, on his head it came, now on his face,His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back;In short, on almost every placeWe read of in the Almanack.

Now, on his head it came, now on his face,

His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back;

In short, on almost every place

We read of in the Almanack.

Blows rattle’d on him thick as hail;Making him rue the day that he was born;—Sir Thomas plied his cudgel like a flail,And thrash’d as if he had been thrashing corn.

Blows rattle’d on him thick as hail;

Making him rue the day that he was born;—

Sir Thomas plied his cudgel like a flail,

And thrash’d as if he had been thrashing corn.

At length, a thump,—(painful the facts, alas!Truth urges us Historians to relate!)—Took Friar John so smart athwart the pate,It acted like a perfectcoup de grace.

At length, a thump,—(painful the facts, alas!

Truth urges us Historians to relate!)—

Took Friar John so smart athwart the pate,

It acted like a perfectcoup de grace.

Whether it was a random shot,Or aim’d maliciously,—tho’ Fame saysnot—Certain his soul (the Knight so crack’d his crown)Fled from his body; but which way it went,Or whether Friars’ souls fly up, or down,Remains a matter of nice argument.

Whether it was a random shot,

Or aim’d maliciously,—tho’ Fame saysnot—

Certain his soul (the Knight so crack’d his crown)

Fled from his body; but which way it went,

Or whether Friars’ souls fly up, or down,

Remains a matter of nice argument.

Points so abstruse I dare not dwell upon;Enough, for me, his body is not gone;

Points so abstruse I dare not dwell upon;

Enough, for me, his body is not gone;

For I have business, still, in my narration,With the fat carcass of this holy porpus;And Death, tho’ sharp in his Administration,Never suspended such anHabeas Corpus.

For I have business, still, in my narration,

With the fat carcass of this holy porpus;

And Death, tho’ sharp in his Administration,

Never suspended such anHabeas Corpus.

END OF PART I.

A man roughly awakens another man.THEKNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.PART THE SECOND.ContentsReader! if you have Genius, you’ll discover,Do what you will to keep it cool,It, now and then, in spite of you, boils over,Upon a fool.Haven’t you (lucky man ifnot) been vex’d,Worn, fretted, and perplex’d,By a pert, busy, would-be-clever knave,A forward, empty, self-sufficient slave?And haven’t you, all christian patience gone,At last, put down the puppy with your wit;—On whom it seem’d, tho’ you had Mines of it,Extravagance to spend a jest upon?—And haven’t you, (I’m sure you have, my friend!)When you have laid the puppy low,—All little pique, and malice, at an end,—Been sorry for the blow?And said, (if witty, so would say your Bard,)“Damn it! I hit that meddling fool too hard?”Thus did the brave Sir Thomas say;—Whose Genius didn’t much disturb his pate:It rather, in his bones, and muscles, lay,—Like many other men’s of good estate:Thus did Sir Thomas say;—and well he might,When pity to resentment did succeed;For, certainly, (tho’ not withwit) the KnightHad hit the Friar very hard, indeed!And heads, nineteen in twenty, ’tis confest,Can feel a crab-stick sooner than a jest.There was, in the Knight’s family, a manCast in the roughest mould Dame Nature boasts;With shoulders wider than a dripping pan,And legs as thick, about the calves, as posts.All the domesticks, viewing, in this hulk,So large a specimen of Nature’s whims,With kitchen wit, allusive to his bulk,Had christen’d him the Duke of Limbs.Thro’out the Castle, every whipper-snapperWas canvassing the merits of this strapper:Most of the Men voted his size alarming;But all the Maids,nem. con.declare’d it charming!This wight possess’d a quality most rare;—I tremble when I mention it, I swear!Lest pretty Ladies question my veracity:’Twas—when he had a secret in his care,To keep it, with the greatest pertinacity.Pour but a secret in him, and ’twould glue himLike rosin, on a well-cork’d bottle’s snout;Had twenty devils come with cork-screws to him,They never could have screw’d the secret out.Now, when Sir Thomas, in the dark, alone,Had kill’d a Friar, weighing twenty stone,Whose carcass must be hid, before the dawn,Judging he might as hopelessly desireTo move a Convent as the Friar,He thought on this man’s secresy, and brawn;—And, like a swallow, o’er the lawn he skims,Up to the Cock-loft of the Duke of Limbs:Where Somnus, son of Nox, the humble copyOf his own daughter Mors,8had made assaultOn the Duke’s eye-lids,—not with juice of poppy,But potent draughts, distill’d from hops and malt.Certainly, nothing operates much quickerAgainst two persons’ secret dialogues,Than one of them being asleep, in liquor,Snoring like twenty thousand hogs.Yet circumstance did, presently, requireThe Knight to tell his tale;And to instruct his Man, knock’d down with ale,That he (Sir Thomas) had knock’d down a Friar.How wake a man, in such a case?Sir, the best method—I have tried a score—Is, when his nose is playing thoro’ bass,To pull it, till you make him roar.A Sleeper’s nose is made on the same planAs the small wire ’twixt a Doll’s wooden thighs;For pull the nose, or wire, the Doll, or Man,Will open, in a minute, both their eyes.This mode Sir Thomas took,—and, in a trice,Grasp’d, with his thumb and finger, like a vice,That feature which the human face embosses,And pull’d the Duke of Limbs by the proboscis.The Man awoke, and goggle’d on his master;—He saw his Master goggling upon him;—Fresh from concluding, on a Friar’s nob,What Coroners would call an awkward job,He glare’d, all horror-struck and grim,—Paler than Paris-plaister!His hair stuck up, like bristles on a pig;—So Garrick look’d, when he perform’d Macbeth;Who, ere he entered, after Duncan’s death,Rumple’d his wig.The Knight cried, “Follow me!”—with strange grimaces;The Man arose,—And began “sacrificing to the Graces,”9By putting on his clothes;But he reverse’d, in making himself smart,A Scotchman’s toilet, altogether:And merely clapp’d a cover on that partThe Highlanders expose to wind and weather.They reach’d the bower where the Friar lay;When, to his Man,The Knight began,In doleful accents, thus to say:“Here a fat Friar lies, kill’d with a mauling,For coming, in the dark, a-caterwauling;Whom I (O cursed spite!) did lay so!”Thus, solemnly, Sir Thomas spake, and sigh’d;—To whom the Duke of Limbs replied—“Odrabbit it! Sir Thomas! you don’t say so!”Then, taking the huge Friarperthe hocks,He whirl’d the ton of blubber three times round,And swung it on his shoulders, from the ground,With strength that yields, in any age, to no man’s,—Tho’ Milo’s ghost should rise, bearing the OxHe carried at the games of the old Romans.Nay, I opine—let Fame say what it can—Of ancient vigour, (Fame is, oft, a Liar)That Milo was a pigmy to this Man,And his fat Ox quite skinny to the Friar.Besides,—I hold it in much doubtIf Roman graziers (should the truth come out)Were, like the English, knowing in the matter;——I wouldn’t breed my beastmore Romano;—For, I suspect, in fatt’ning they were dull,And when they made an ox out of a bull,They fed him ill,—and, then, he got no fatterThan a fat operaSoprano.10Over the moat, (the draw-bridge being down)Gallantly stalk’d the brawny Duke of Limbs,BearingJohannes, of the shaven crown,Fame’d, when alive, for spoiling maids, and hymns;For manglingPater-Nosters, and goose-pies,And telling sundry beads,—and sundry lies.Across a marsh he strode, with steadier gaitThan Satan trod the Syrtis, at his fall,And perch’d himself, with his monastick weight,Upon the Convent-garden’s wall;—Whence, on the grounds within it, as he gaze’d,To find a spot where he might leave his load,He ’spied aHousesolittle, it seem’d raise’dMore for Man’s visits, than his fix’d abode;—And Cynthia aided him to gaze his fill,For, now, she sought Endymion on the hill.Arise, Tarquinius!11shew thy lofty face!While I describe, with dignity, the place.Snug in an English garden’s shadiest spot,A structure stands, and welcomes many a breeze;Lonely, and simple as a Ploughman’s cot,Where Monarchs may unbend, who wish for ease.There sit Philosophers; and sitting read;And to some end apply the dullest pages;And pity the Barbarians, north of Tweed,Who scout these fabricks of the southern Sages.Sure, for an Edifice in estimation,Never was any less presuming seen!It shrinks, so modestly, from observation!And hides behind all sorts of evergreen;—Like a coy Maid, design’d for filthy Man,Peeping, at his approach, behind her fan.Into this place, unnotice’d by beholders,The Duke of Limbs, most circumspectly, stole,And shot the Friar off his shoulders,Just like a sack of round Newcastle coal:Not taking any pains,Nor caring, in the least,How he deposited the Friar’s remains,No more than if a Friar were a beast.No funeral, of which you ever heard,Was mark’d with ceremonies half so slight;For John was left, not like the dead interr’d,But, like the living, sitting bolt upright!Has no shrewd Reader, of one sex or t’other,Recurring to the facts already stated,Thought on a certain Roger?—that same brotherWho hated John, and whom John hated?’Tis, now, a necessary thing to sayThat, at this juncture, Roger wasn’t well;Poor Man! he had been rubbing, all the day,His stomach with coarse towels:And clapping trenchers, hot as hell,Upon his bowels;Where spasms were kicking up a furious frolick,Afflicting him with mulligrubs and cholick.He also had imbibe’d, to sooth his pains,Ofpulvis rheivery many grains;And to the garden’s deepest shade was bent,To give, quite privily, his sorrows vent:When,there,—alive and merry to appearance—He ’spied his ancient foe, by the moon’s light!—Who sat erect, with so much perseverance,It look’d as if he kept his post in spite.A case it is of piteous distress,If, carrying a secret grief about,We wish to bury it in a recess,And find another there, who keeps us out.Expecting, soon, his enemy to go,Roger, at first, walk’d to and fro,With tolerably tranquil paces;But finding John determine’d to remain,Roger, each time he pass’d, thro’ spite or pain,Made, at his adversary, hideous faces.How misery will lower human pride!And make us buckle!—Roger, who, all his life, had John defied,Was now oblige’d to speak him fair,—and truckle.“Behold me,” Roger cried, “behold me, John!Entreating as afavouryou’ll be gone;Me! your sworn foe, tho’ fellow-lodger;Me!—who, in agony, tho’ suing now to you,Would, once, have seen you damn’d ere make a bow to you.Me,—Roger!”12To this address, so fraught with the pathetick,John remain’d dumb, as a Pythagorean;Seeming to hint, “Roger, you’re a plebeianPeripatetick.”When such choice oratory has not hit,When it is, e’en, unanswer’d by a grunt,’Twould justify tame Job to curse a bit,And set an Angler swearing, in his punt.Cholerick Roger could not brook it;—So seeing a huge brick-bat, up he took it;And aiming, like a marksman at a crow,Plump on the breast he hit his deadly foe;Who fell, like Pedants’ periods, to the ground,—Very inanimate, and very round.Here is another Picture, reader mine!I gave you one in the first Canto;13—This is more solemn, mystical, and fine,—Like something in the Castle of Otranto.Bring, bring me, now, a Painter, for the work,Who on the subject will, with furor, rush!Some Artist who can sup upon raw pork,To make him dream of horrors, for his brush!Come, Limners, come! who choke your house’s entryWith dear, unmeaning lumber, from your easels;Dull heads of the Nobility and Gentry;Full length of fubsey Belles, or Beaux like weasels!Come, Limners, hither come! and drawA finer incident than e’er ye saw!Here is a John, by moon-light, (a fat monk)Lying stonedead; and, here, a Roger,quick!And over John stands Roger, in a funk,Supposing he has kill’d him with a brick!There, Painters! there!Now, by Apelles’s gamboge, I swear!Such a dead subject never comes,Among thoselifeless livingye display;Then, thro’ your palettes thrust your graphick thumbs,—And work away!Seeing John dead as a door nail,Roger began to wring his hands, and wail;Calling himself, Beast, Butcher, cruel Turk!Thrice “Benedicite!” he mutter’d;Thrice, in the eloquence of grief he utter’d;“I’ve done a pretty job of journey-work!”Some people will shew symptoms of repentanceWhen Conscience, like a chastening Angel, smites ’em;Some from mere dread of the Law’s sentence,When Newgate, like the very Devil, frights ’em;—ThatVirtue’s struggles, in the heart, denotes,ThisVice’s hints, to men’s left ears, and throats.Now Roger’s conscience, it appears,Was not, by half, so lively as his fears.His breast, soon after he was born,Grew like an Hostler’s lantern, at an Inn;All the circumference was dirty horn,And feebly blink’d the ray of warmth within.In short, for one of his religious function,His Conscience was both cowardly and callous;No melting Cherub whisper’d to’t “Compunction!”But grim Jack Ketch disturb’d it, crying “Gallows!”And all his sorrow, for this deed abhorr’d,Was nothing but antipathy tocord.A padlock’d door stood in the garden wall,Where John, by Roger’s brick-bat, chance’d to fall,And Roger had a key that could undo it;Thro’ this same door, at any time of day,They brought, into the Convent, corn, and hay;——Sometimes, at dusk, a pretty girl came thro’ it:Just to confess herself, to some grave codger;Perhaps, she came to John,—perhaps, to Roger.Out at this portal Roger made a shiftTo lug his worst of foes:For, seizing (as the gout was wont) his toes,He dragg’d the load he couldn’t lift.Achilles, thus, drew round the Trojan plain,The ten years’ Adversary he had slain.—Yet,—for I scorn a Grecian to disparage,—Achilles in more style, and splendour, did it;Hesported Murder strapp’d behind his carriage,—ButbourgeoisRoger sneak’d on foot, and hid it.Roger, however, labour’d on,—Puffing and tugging;—And hauling John,As fishermen, on shore, haul up a boat;Till, after a great deal of lugging,He lugg’d him to the edge of the Knight’s moat;And stuck him up so straight upon his rear,Touching, almost, the water, with his heels,That the defunct might pass, not seen too near,For some fat gentleman who bobb’d for eels.Swiftly did Roger, then, retrace his ground,Lighter than he came out, by many a pound.So have I seen, on Marlb’rough downs, a hack,Ease’d of a great man’s chaise, and coming back,From Bladud’s springs, upon the western road;No bloated Noble’s luggage at his rump,Whose doom’s, that dread of pick-pockets, the pump,He canters home, from Bath, without his load.Sir Thomas being scrupulous, and queasy,Couldn’t, in all this interval, be easy.He went to bed;—and, there, began to burn;Nine times he turn’d, in wondrous perturbation;—He woke her Ladyship, at every turn,And gave her, full nine times, complete vexation.To seek the Duke of Limbs, at length, he rose,And prowl’d with him, lamenting Fortune’s stripes;Now in the rookery among the crows,Now squashing in the marsh, among the snipes:Wishing strange wishes;—among many,He wish’d—ere he had clapp’d his eyes on any.All Priests, and Crabsticks, thrown into the fire;—Or, seeing Providence ordain’d it so,That Priest, and Crabstick, (to his grief) must grow,He wish’d stout Crabstick couldn’t kill fat Friar.Men’s wishes will be partial, now and then;—As, in this case, ’tis plainly seen;Wherein, Sir Thomas, full of spleen,Wish’d to burn all the Crabs, and Clergymen.Think ye thathe,—at wishing tho’ a dab,—To wish such harm to anyKnightwould urge ye?Yet he, a Knight, had taken up a Crab,And thump’d to death, with it, one of the Clergy.As he went wishing on,With the great Duke of Limbs behind him,—Horror on horror!—he saw JohnWhere least of all he ever thought to find him:Stuck up, on end, in placid grace,Like a stuff’d Kangaroo,—tho’ vastly fatter,—With the full moon upon his chubby face,Like a brass pot-lid shining on a platter.“’Sdeath!” quoth the Knight, of half his powers bereft,“Didst thou not tell mewherethis Friar was left?Men rise again,to push us from our stools!”14To which the Duke replied, with steady phiz,—“Them as took pains to push that Friar fromhis,At such a time o’night, was cursed fools.”“Ah!” sigh’d Sir Thomas, “while I wander here,By fortune stamp’d a Homicide, alas!”(And, as he spoke, a penitential tearMingled with Heaven’s dew-drops, on the grass;)—“Will no one from my eyes yon Spectre pull?”“Sir Thomas,” said the Duke of Limbs, “I wool.”He would have thrown the garbage in the moat,But the Knight told him fat was prone to float.The Lout, at length, having bethought him,Heave’d up the Friar on his back once more;And (Castles having armories of yore)Into the Knight’s old Armory he brought him.Among the gorgeous, shining Coats of Mail,That grace’d the walls, on high, in gallant shew,—As pewter pots, in houses fame’d for ale,Glitter, above the Bar-maid, in a row,—A curious, antique suit was hoarded,Cover’d with dust;Which had, for many years, affordedAn iron dinner to that ostrich, Rust.Though this was all too little,—in a minute,The Duke of Limbs ramm’d the fat Friar in it;So a good Housewife takes a narrow skin,To make black puddings, and stuffs hog’s meat in.The Knight, who saw this ceremony pass,Inquire’d the meaning; when the Duke did say,—“I’ll tie him on ould Dumpling, that’s at grass,And turn him out, a top of the highway.”This Steed,—who now, it seems, was grazing,—In the French wars had often borne the Knight;—His symmetry beyond the power of praising,And prouder than Bucephalus, in fight!Once, how he paw’d the ground, and snuff’d the gale!Uncropp’d his ears, undock’d his flowing tail;No blemish was within him, nor without him;Perfect he was in every part;—No barbarous Farrier, with infernal art,Had mutilated the least bit about him.Of high Arabian pedigree,Father of many four-foot babes was he;And sweet hoof’d Beauties still would he be rumpling;But, counting five and twenty from his birth,At grass for life, unwieldy in the girth,He had obtain’d, alas! the name of Dumpling.Now, at the postern stood the gay old Charger;Saddle’d, and house’d,—in full caparison!—Now on his back,—no rider larger,—Upright, and stiff, and tied with cords, sat John:Arm’d cap-à-pié completely, like a knightGoing to fight.A Lance was in the rest, of stately beech:Nothing was wanting, but a Page, or ’Squire;—The Duke, with thistles, switch’d old Dumpling’s breech;And off he clatter’d with the martial Friar.Now, in the Convent let us take a peep,—Where Roger, like Sir Thomas, couldn’t sleep:Instead of singing requiems, and psalms,For fat John’s soul, he had been seize’d with qualms,Thinking it would be rash to tarry there;—And having, prudently, resolve’d on flight,Knock’d up a neighbouring miller, in the night,And borrow’d his grey Mare.Thus, trotting off,—beneath a row of treesHe saw “a sight that made his marrow freeze!”A furious Warrior follow’d him, in mail,Upon a Charger, close at his Mare’s tail!He cross’d himself!—and, canting, cried,Oh, sadly have I sinned!Then stuck his heels in his Mare’s side;And, then, old Dumpling whinny’d!Roger whipp’d, and Roger spurr’d,Distilling drops of fear!But while he spurr’d, still, still he heardThe wanton Dumpling at his rear.’Twas dawn!—he look’d behind him, in the chase;When, lo! the features of fat John,—His beaver up, and pressing on,—Glare’d, ghastly, in the wretched Roger’s face!The Miller’s Mare, who oft had gone the way,Scamper’d with Roger into Norwich town;And, there, to all the market-folks’ dismay,Old Dumpling beat the mare, with Roger, down.Brief let me be;—the Story soon took air;—For Townsmen are inquisitive, of course,When a live Monk rides in upon a Mare,Chase’d by a dead one, arm’d, upon a Horse.Sir Thomas up to London sped, full fast,To beg his life, and lands, of Royal Harry,And, for his services, in Gallia, past,His suit did not miscarry:—For, in those days,—thank Heaven they are mended!—Kings hang’d poor Rogues, while rich ones were befriended.Two men ride horseback.

A man roughly awakens another man.

Contents

Reader! if you have Genius, you’ll discover,Do what you will to keep it cool,It, now and then, in spite of you, boils over,Upon a fool.Haven’t you (lucky man ifnot) been vex’d,Worn, fretted, and perplex’d,By a pert, busy, would-be-clever knave,A forward, empty, self-sufficient slave?And haven’t you, all christian patience gone,At last, put down the puppy with your wit;—On whom it seem’d, tho’ you had Mines of it,Extravagance to spend a jest upon?—And haven’t you, (I’m sure you have, my friend!)When you have laid the puppy low,—All little pique, and malice, at an end,—Been sorry for the blow?And said, (if witty, so would say your Bard,)“Damn it! I hit that meddling fool too hard?”Thus did the brave Sir Thomas say;—Whose Genius didn’t much disturb his pate:It rather, in his bones, and muscles, lay,—Like many other men’s of good estate:Thus did Sir Thomas say;—and well he might,When pity to resentment did succeed;For, certainly, (tho’ not withwit) the KnightHad hit the Friar very hard, indeed!And heads, nineteen in twenty, ’tis confest,Can feel a crab-stick sooner than a jest.There was, in the Knight’s family, a manCast in the roughest mould Dame Nature boasts;With shoulders wider than a dripping pan,And legs as thick, about the calves, as posts.All the domesticks, viewing, in this hulk,So large a specimen of Nature’s whims,With kitchen wit, allusive to his bulk,Had christen’d him the Duke of Limbs.Thro’out the Castle, every whipper-snapperWas canvassing the merits of this strapper:Most of the Men voted his size alarming;But all the Maids,nem. con.declare’d it charming!This wight possess’d a quality most rare;—I tremble when I mention it, I swear!Lest pretty Ladies question my veracity:’Twas—when he had a secret in his care,To keep it, with the greatest pertinacity.Pour but a secret in him, and ’twould glue himLike rosin, on a well-cork’d bottle’s snout;Had twenty devils come with cork-screws to him,They never could have screw’d the secret out.Now, when Sir Thomas, in the dark, alone,Had kill’d a Friar, weighing twenty stone,Whose carcass must be hid, before the dawn,Judging he might as hopelessly desireTo move a Convent as the Friar,He thought on this man’s secresy, and brawn;—And, like a swallow, o’er the lawn he skims,Up to the Cock-loft of the Duke of Limbs:Where Somnus, son of Nox, the humble copyOf his own daughter Mors,8had made assaultOn the Duke’s eye-lids,—not with juice of poppy,But potent draughts, distill’d from hops and malt.Certainly, nothing operates much quickerAgainst two persons’ secret dialogues,Than one of them being asleep, in liquor,Snoring like twenty thousand hogs.Yet circumstance did, presently, requireThe Knight to tell his tale;And to instruct his Man, knock’d down with ale,That he (Sir Thomas) had knock’d down a Friar.How wake a man, in such a case?Sir, the best method—I have tried a score—Is, when his nose is playing thoro’ bass,To pull it, till you make him roar.A Sleeper’s nose is made on the same planAs the small wire ’twixt a Doll’s wooden thighs;For pull the nose, or wire, the Doll, or Man,Will open, in a minute, both their eyes.This mode Sir Thomas took,—and, in a trice,Grasp’d, with his thumb and finger, like a vice,That feature which the human face embosses,And pull’d the Duke of Limbs by the proboscis.The Man awoke, and goggle’d on his master;—He saw his Master goggling upon him;—Fresh from concluding, on a Friar’s nob,What Coroners would call an awkward job,He glare’d, all horror-struck and grim,—Paler than Paris-plaister!His hair stuck up, like bristles on a pig;—So Garrick look’d, when he perform’d Macbeth;Who, ere he entered, after Duncan’s death,Rumple’d his wig.The Knight cried, “Follow me!”—with strange grimaces;The Man arose,—And began “sacrificing to the Graces,”9By putting on his clothes;But he reverse’d, in making himself smart,A Scotchman’s toilet, altogether:And merely clapp’d a cover on that partThe Highlanders expose to wind and weather.They reach’d the bower where the Friar lay;When, to his Man,The Knight began,In doleful accents, thus to say:“Here a fat Friar lies, kill’d with a mauling,For coming, in the dark, a-caterwauling;Whom I (O cursed spite!) did lay so!”Thus, solemnly, Sir Thomas spake, and sigh’d;—To whom the Duke of Limbs replied—“Odrabbit it! Sir Thomas! you don’t say so!”Then, taking the huge Friarperthe hocks,He whirl’d the ton of blubber three times round,And swung it on his shoulders, from the ground,With strength that yields, in any age, to no man’s,—Tho’ Milo’s ghost should rise, bearing the OxHe carried at the games of the old Romans.Nay, I opine—let Fame say what it can—Of ancient vigour, (Fame is, oft, a Liar)That Milo was a pigmy to this Man,And his fat Ox quite skinny to the Friar.Besides,—I hold it in much doubtIf Roman graziers (should the truth come out)Were, like the English, knowing in the matter;——I wouldn’t breed my beastmore Romano;—For, I suspect, in fatt’ning they were dull,And when they made an ox out of a bull,They fed him ill,—and, then, he got no fatterThan a fat operaSoprano.10Over the moat, (the draw-bridge being down)Gallantly stalk’d the brawny Duke of Limbs,BearingJohannes, of the shaven crown,Fame’d, when alive, for spoiling maids, and hymns;For manglingPater-Nosters, and goose-pies,And telling sundry beads,—and sundry lies.Across a marsh he strode, with steadier gaitThan Satan trod the Syrtis, at his fall,And perch’d himself, with his monastick weight,Upon the Convent-garden’s wall;—Whence, on the grounds within it, as he gaze’d,To find a spot where he might leave his load,He ’spied aHousesolittle, it seem’d raise’dMore for Man’s visits, than his fix’d abode;—And Cynthia aided him to gaze his fill,For, now, she sought Endymion on the hill.Arise, Tarquinius!11shew thy lofty face!While I describe, with dignity, the place.Snug in an English garden’s shadiest spot,A structure stands, and welcomes many a breeze;Lonely, and simple as a Ploughman’s cot,Where Monarchs may unbend, who wish for ease.There sit Philosophers; and sitting read;And to some end apply the dullest pages;And pity the Barbarians, north of Tweed,Who scout these fabricks of the southern Sages.Sure, for an Edifice in estimation,Never was any less presuming seen!It shrinks, so modestly, from observation!And hides behind all sorts of evergreen;—Like a coy Maid, design’d for filthy Man,Peeping, at his approach, behind her fan.Into this place, unnotice’d by beholders,The Duke of Limbs, most circumspectly, stole,And shot the Friar off his shoulders,Just like a sack of round Newcastle coal:Not taking any pains,Nor caring, in the least,How he deposited the Friar’s remains,No more than if a Friar were a beast.No funeral, of which you ever heard,Was mark’d with ceremonies half so slight;For John was left, not like the dead interr’d,But, like the living, sitting bolt upright!Has no shrewd Reader, of one sex or t’other,Recurring to the facts already stated,Thought on a certain Roger?—that same brotherWho hated John, and whom John hated?’Tis, now, a necessary thing to sayThat, at this juncture, Roger wasn’t well;Poor Man! he had been rubbing, all the day,His stomach with coarse towels:And clapping trenchers, hot as hell,Upon his bowels;Where spasms were kicking up a furious frolick,Afflicting him with mulligrubs and cholick.He also had imbibe’d, to sooth his pains,Ofpulvis rheivery many grains;And to the garden’s deepest shade was bent,To give, quite privily, his sorrows vent:When,there,—alive and merry to appearance—He ’spied his ancient foe, by the moon’s light!—Who sat erect, with so much perseverance,It look’d as if he kept his post in spite.A case it is of piteous distress,If, carrying a secret grief about,We wish to bury it in a recess,And find another there, who keeps us out.Expecting, soon, his enemy to go,Roger, at first, walk’d to and fro,With tolerably tranquil paces;But finding John determine’d to remain,Roger, each time he pass’d, thro’ spite or pain,Made, at his adversary, hideous faces.How misery will lower human pride!And make us buckle!—Roger, who, all his life, had John defied,Was now oblige’d to speak him fair,—and truckle.“Behold me,” Roger cried, “behold me, John!Entreating as afavouryou’ll be gone;Me! your sworn foe, tho’ fellow-lodger;Me!—who, in agony, tho’ suing now to you,Would, once, have seen you damn’d ere make a bow to you.Me,—Roger!”12To this address, so fraught with the pathetick,John remain’d dumb, as a Pythagorean;Seeming to hint, “Roger, you’re a plebeianPeripatetick.”When such choice oratory has not hit,When it is, e’en, unanswer’d by a grunt,’Twould justify tame Job to curse a bit,And set an Angler swearing, in his punt.Cholerick Roger could not brook it;—So seeing a huge brick-bat, up he took it;And aiming, like a marksman at a crow,Plump on the breast he hit his deadly foe;Who fell, like Pedants’ periods, to the ground,—Very inanimate, and very round.Here is another Picture, reader mine!I gave you one in the first Canto;13—This is more solemn, mystical, and fine,—Like something in the Castle of Otranto.Bring, bring me, now, a Painter, for the work,Who on the subject will, with furor, rush!Some Artist who can sup upon raw pork,To make him dream of horrors, for his brush!Come, Limners, come! who choke your house’s entryWith dear, unmeaning lumber, from your easels;Dull heads of the Nobility and Gentry;Full length of fubsey Belles, or Beaux like weasels!Come, Limners, hither come! and drawA finer incident than e’er ye saw!Here is a John, by moon-light, (a fat monk)Lying stonedead; and, here, a Roger,quick!And over John stands Roger, in a funk,Supposing he has kill’d him with a brick!There, Painters! there!Now, by Apelles’s gamboge, I swear!Such a dead subject never comes,Among thoselifeless livingye display;Then, thro’ your palettes thrust your graphick thumbs,—And work away!Seeing John dead as a door nail,Roger began to wring his hands, and wail;Calling himself, Beast, Butcher, cruel Turk!Thrice “Benedicite!” he mutter’d;Thrice, in the eloquence of grief he utter’d;“I’ve done a pretty job of journey-work!”Some people will shew symptoms of repentanceWhen Conscience, like a chastening Angel, smites ’em;Some from mere dread of the Law’s sentence,When Newgate, like the very Devil, frights ’em;—ThatVirtue’s struggles, in the heart, denotes,ThisVice’s hints, to men’s left ears, and throats.Now Roger’s conscience, it appears,Was not, by half, so lively as his fears.His breast, soon after he was born,Grew like an Hostler’s lantern, at an Inn;All the circumference was dirty horn,And feebly blink’d the ray of warmth within.In short, for one of his religious function,His Conscience was both cowardly and callous;No melting Cherub whisper’d to’t “Compunction!”But grim Jack Ketch disturb’d it, crying “Gallows!”And all his sorrow, for this deed abhorr’d,Was nothing but antipathy tocord.A padlock’d door stood in the garden wall,Where John, by Roger’s brick-bat, chance’d to fall,And Roger had a key that could undo it;Thro’ this same door, at any time of day,They brought, into the Convent, corn, and hay;——Sometimes, at dusk, a pretty girl came thro’ it:Just to confess herself, to some grave codger;Perhaps, she came to John,—perhaps, to Roger.Out at this portal Roger made a shiftTo lug his worst of foes:For, seizing (as the gout was wont) his toes,He dragg’d the load he couldn’t lift.Achilles, thus, drew round the Trojan plain,The ten years’ Adversary he had slain.—Yet,—for I scorn a Grecian to disparage,—Achilles in more style, and splendour, did it;Hesported Murder strapp’d behind his carriage,—ButbourgeoisRoger sneak’d on foot, and hid it.Roger, however, labour’d on,—Puffing and tugging;—And hauling John,As fishermen, on shore, haul up a boat;Till, after a great deal of lugging,He lugg’d him to the edge of the Knight’s moat;And stuck him up so straight upon his rear,Touching, almost, the water, with his heels,That the defunct might pass, not seen too near,For some fat gentleman who bobb’d for eels.Swiftly did Roger, then, retrace his ground,Lighter than he came out, by many a pound.So have I seen, on Marlb’rough downs, a hack,Ease’d of a great man’s chaise, and coming back,From Bladud’s springs, upon the western road;No bloated Noble’s luggage at his rump,Whose doom’s, that dread of pick-pockets, the pump,He canters home, from Bath, without his load.Sir Thomas being scrupulous, and queasy,Couldn’t, in all this interval, be easy.He went to bed;—and, there, began to burn;Nine times he turn’d, in wondrous perturbation;—He woke her Ladyship, at every turn,And gave her, full nine times, complete vexation.To seek the Duke of Limbs, at length, he rose,And prowl’d with him, lamenting Fortune’s stripes;Now in the rookery among the crows,Now squashing in the marsh, among the snipes:Wishing strange wishes;—among many,He wish’d—ere he had clapp’d his eyes on any.All Priests, and Crabsticks, thrown into the fire;—Or, seeing Providence ordain’d it so,That Priest, and Crabstick, (to his grief) must grow,He wish’d stout Crabstick couldn’t kill fat Friar.Men’s wishes will be partial, now and then;—As, in this case, ’tis plainly seen;Wherein, Sir Thomas, full of spleen,Wish’d to burn all the Crabs, and Clergymen.Think ye thathe,—at wishing tho’ a dab,—To wish such harm to anyKnightwould urge ye?Yet he, a Knight, had taken up a Crab,And thump’d to death, with it, one of the Clergy.As he went wishing on,With the great Duke of Limbs behind him,—Horror on horror!—he saw JohnWhere least of all he ever thought to find him:Stuck up, on end, in placid grace,Like a stuff’d Kangaroo,—tho’ vastly fatter,—With the full moon upon his chubby face,Like a brass pot-lid shining on a platter.“’Sdeath!” quoth the Knight, of half his powers bereft,“Didst thou not tell mewherethis Friar was left?Men rise again,to push us from our stools!”14To which the Duke replied, with steady phiz,—“Them as took pains to push that Friar fromhis,At such a time o’night, was cursed fools.”“Ah!” sigh’d Sir Thomas, “while I wander here,By fortune stamp’d a Homicide, alas!”(And, as he spoke, a penitential tearMingled with Heaven’s dew-drops, on the grass;)—“Will no one from my eyes yon Spectre pull?”“Sir Thomas,” said the Duke of Limbs, “I wool.”He would have thrown the garbage in the moat,But the Knight told him fat was prone to float.The Lout, at length, having bethought him,Heave’d up the Friar on his back once more;And (Castles having armories of yore)Into the Knight’s old Armory he brought him.Among the gorgeous, shining Coats of Mail,That grace’d the walls, on high, in gallant shew,—As pewter pots, in houses fame’d for ale,Glitter, above the Bar-maid, in a row,—A curious, antique suit was hoarded,Cover’d with dust;Which had, for many years, affordedAn iron dinner to that ostrich, Rust.Though this was all too little,—in a minute,The Duke of Limbs ramm’d the fat Friar in it;So a good Housewife takes a narrow skin,To make black puddings, and stuffs hog’s meat in.The Knight, who saw this ceremony pass,Inquire’d the meaning; when the Duke did say,—“I’ll tie him on ould Dumpling, that’s at grass,And turn him out, a top of the highway.”This Steed,—who now, it seems, was grazing,—In the French wars had often borne the Knight;—His symmetry beyond the power of praising,And prouder than Bucephalus, in fight!Once, how he paw’d the ground, and snuff’d the gale!Uncropp’d his ears, undock’d his flowing tail;No blemish was within him, nor without him;Perfect he was in every part;—No barbarous Farrier, with infernal art,Had mutilated the least bit about him.Of high Arabian pedigree,Father of many four-foot babes was he;And sweet hoof’d Beauties still would he be rumpling;But, counting five and twenty from his birth,At grass for life, unwieldy in the girth,He had obtain’d, alas! the name of Dumpling.Now, at the postern stood the gay old Charger;Saddle’d, and house’d,—in full caparison!—Now on his back,—no rider larger,—Upright, and stiff, and tied with cords, sat John:Arm’d cap-à-pié completely, like a knightGoing to fight.A Lance was in the rest, of stately beech:Nothing was wanting, but a Page, or ’Squire;—The Duke, with thistles, switch’d old Dumpling’s breech;And off he clatter’d with the martial Friar.Now, in the Convent let us take a peep,—Where Roger, like Sir Thomas, couldn’t sleep:Instead of singing requiems, and psalms,For fat John’s soul, he had been seize’d with qualms,Thinking it would be rash to tarry there;—And having, prudently, resolve’d on flight,Knock’d up a neighbouring miller, in the night,And borrow’d his grey Mare.Thus, trotting off,—beneath a row of treesHe saw “a sight that made his marrow freeze!”A furious Warrior follow’d him, in mail,Upon a Charger, close at his Mare’s tail!He cross’d himself!—and, canting, cried,Oh, sadly have I sinned!Then stuck his heels in his Mare’s side;And, then, old Dumpling whinny’d!Roger whipp’d, and Roger spurr’d,Distilling drops of fear!But while he spurr’d, still, still he heardThe wanton Dumpling at his rear.’Twas dawn!—he look’d behind him, in the chase;When, lo! the features of fat John,—His beaver up, and pressing on,—Glare’d, ghastly, in the wretched Roger’s face!The Miller’s Mare, who oft had gone the way,Scamper’d with Roger into Norwich town;And, there, to all the market-folks’ dismay,Old Dumpling beat the mare, with Roger, down.Brief let me be;—the Story soon took air;—For Townsmen are inquisitive, of course,When a live Monk rides in upon a Mare,Chase’d by a dead one, arm’d, upon a Horse.Sir Thomas up to London sped, full fast,To beg his life, and lands, of Royal Harry,And, for his services, in Gallia, past,His suit did not miscarry:—For, in those days,—thank Heaven they are mended!—Kings hang’d poor Rogues, while rich ones were befriended.

Reader! if you have Genius, you’ll discover,Do what you will to keep it cool,It, now and then, in spite of you, boils over,Upon a fool.

Reader! if you have Genius, you’ll discover,

Do what you will to keep it cool,

It, now and then, in spite of you, boils over,

Upon a fool.

Haven’t you (lucky man ifnot) been vex’d,Worn, fretted, and perplex’d,By a pert, busy, would-be-clever knave,A forward, empty, self-sufficient slave?

Haven’t you (lucky man ifnot) been vex’d,

Worn, fretted, and perplex’d,

By a pert, busy, would-be-clever knave,

A forward, empty, self-sufficient slave?

And haven’t you, all christian patience gone,At last, put down the puppy with your wit;—On whom it seem’d, tho’ you had Mines of it,Extravagance to spend a jest upon?—

And haven’t you, all christian patience gone,

At last, put down the puppy with your wit;—

On whom it seem’d, tho’ you had Mines of it,

Extravagance to spend a jest upon?—

And haven’t you, (I’m sure you have, my friend!)When you have laid the puppy low,—All little pique, and malice, at an end,—Been sorry for the blow?And said, (if witty, so would say your Bard,)“Damn it! I hit that meddling fool too hard?”

And haven’t you, (I’m sure you have, my friend!)

When you have laid the puppy low,—

All little pique, and malice, at an end,—

Been sorry for the blow?

And said, (if witty, so would say your Bard,)

“Damn it! I hit that meddling fool too hard?”

Thus did the brave Sir Thomas say;—Whose Genius didn’t much disturb his pate:It rather, in his bones, and muscles, lay,—Like many other men’s of good estate:

Thus did the brave Sir Thomas say;—

Whose Genius didn’t much disturb his pate:

It rather, in his bones, and muscles, lay,—

Like many other men’s of good estate:

Thus did Sir Thomas say;—and well he might,When pity to resentment did succeed;For, certainly, (tho’ not withwit) the KnightHad hit the Friar very hard, indeed!And heads, nineteen in twenty, ’tis confest,Can feel a crab-stick sooner than a jest.

Thus did Sir Thomas say;—and well he might,

When pity to resentment did succeed;

For, certainly, (tho’ not withwit) the Knight

Had hit the Friar very hard, indeed!

And heads, nineteen in twenty, ’tis confest,

Can feel a crab-stick sooner than a jest.

There was, in the Knight’s family, a manCast in the roughest mould Dame Nature boasts;With shoulders wider than a dripping pan,And legs as thick, about the calves, as posts.

There was, in the Knight’s family, a man

Cast in the roughest mould Dame Nature boasts;

With shoulders wider than a dripping pan,

And legs as thick, about the calves, as posts.

All the domesticks, viewing, in this hulk,So large a specimen of Nature’s whims,With kitchen wit, allusive to his bulk,Had christen’d him the Duke of Limbs.

All the domesticks, viewing, in this hulk,

So large a specimen of Nature’s whims,

With kitchen wit, allusive to his bulk,

Had christen’d him the Duke of Limbs.

Thro’out the Castle, every whipper-snapperWas canvassing the merits of this strapper:Most of the Men voted his size alarming;But all the Maids,nem. con.declare’d it charming!

Thro’out the Castle, every whipper-snapper

Was canvassing the merits of this strapper:

Most of the Men voted his size alarming;

But all the Maids,nem. con.declare’d it charming!

This wight possess’d a quality most rare;—I tremble when I mention it, I swear!Lest pretty Ladies question my veracity:’Twas—when he had a secret in his care,To keep it, with the greatest pertinacity.

This wight possess’d a quality most rare;—

I tremble when I mention it, I swear!

Lest pretty Ladies question my veracity:

’Twas—when he had a secret in his care,

To keep it, with the greatest pertinacity.

Pour but a secret in him, and ’twould glue himLike rosin, on a well-cork’d bottle’s snout;Had twenty devils come with cork-screws to him,They never could have screw’d the secret out.

Pour but a secret in him, and ’twould glue him

Like rosin, on a well-cork’d bottle’s snout;

Had twenty devils come with cork-screws to him,

They never could have screw’d the secret out.

Now, when Sir Thomas, in the dark, alone,Had kill’d a Friar, weighing twenty stone,Whose carcass must be hid, before the dawn,Judging he might as hopelessly desireTo move a Convent as the Friar,He thought on this man’s secresy, and brawn;—And, like a swallow, o’er the lawn he skims,Up to the Cock-loft of the Duke of Limbs:

Now, when Sir Thomas, in the dark, alone,

Had kill’d a Friar, weighing twenty stone,

Whose carcass must be hid, before the dawn,

Judging he might as hopelessly desire

To move a Convent as the Friar,

He thought on this man’s secresy, and brawn;—

And, like a swallow, o’er the lawn he skims,

Up to the Cock-loft of the Duke of Limbs:

Where Somnus, son of Nox, the humble copyOf his own daughter Mors,8had made assaultOn the Duke’s eye-lids,—not with juice of poppy,But potent draughts, distill’d from hops and malt.

Where Somnus, son of Nox, the humble copy

Of his own daughter Mors,8had made assault

On the Duke’s eye-lids,—not with juice of poppy,

But potent draughts, distill’d from hops and malt.

Certainly, nothing operates much quickerAgainst two persons’ secret dialogues,Than one of them being asleep, in liquor,Snoring like twenty thousand hogs.

Certainly, nothing operates much quicker

Against two persons’ secret dialogues,

Than one of them being asleep, in liquor,

Snoring like twenty thousand hogs.

Yet circumstance did, presently, requireThe Knight to tell his tale;And to instruct his Man, knock’d down with ale,That he (Sir Thomas) had knock’d down a Friar.

Yet circumstance did, presently, require

The Knight to tell his tale;

And to instruct his Man, knock’d down with ale,

That he (Sir Thomas) had knock’d down a Friar.

How wake a man, in such a case?Sir, the best method—I have tried a score—Is, when his nose is playing thoro’ bass,To pull it, till you make him roar.

How wake a man, in such a case?

Sir, the best method—I have tried a score—

Is, when his nose is playing thoro’ bass,

To pull it, till you make him roar.

A Sleeper’s nose is made on the same planAs the small wire ’twixt a Doll’s wooden thighs;For pull the nose, or wire, the Doll, or Man,Will open, in a minute, both their eyes.

A Sleeper’s nose is made on the same plan

As the small wire ’twixt a Doll’s wooden thighs;

For pull the nose, or wire, the Doll, or Man,

Will open, in a minute, both their eyes.

This mode Sir Thomas took,—and, in a trice,Grasp’d, with his thumb and finger, like a vice,That feature which the human face embosses,And pull’d the Duke of Limbs by the proboscis.

This mode Sir Thomas took,—and, in a trice,

Grasp’d, with his thumb and finger, like a vice,

That feature which the human face embosses,

And pull’d the Duke of Limbs by the proboscis.

The Man awoke, and goggle’d on his master;—He saw his Master goggling upon him;—Fresh from concluding, on a Friar’s nob,What Coroners would call an awkward job,He glare’d, all horror-struck and grim,—Paler than Paris-plaister!

The Man awoke, and goggle’d on his master;—

He saw his Master goggling upon him;—

Fresh from concluding, on a Friar’s nob,

What Coroners would call an awkward job,

He glare’d, all horror-struck and grim,—

Paler than Paris-plaister!

His hair stuck up, like bristles on a pig;—So Garrick look’d, when he perform’d Macbeth;Who, ere he entered, after Duncan’s death,Rumple’d his wig.

His hair stuck up, like bristles on a pig;—

So Garrick look’d, when he perform’d Macbeth;

Who, ere he entered, after Duncan’s death,

Rumple’d his wig.

The Knight cried, “Follow me!”—with strange grimaces;The Man arose,—And began “sacrificing to the Graces,”9By putting on his clothes;

The Knight cried, “Follow me!”—with strange grimaces;

The Man arose,—

And began “sacrificing to the Graces,”9

By putting on his clothes;

But he reverse’d, in making himself smart,A Scotchman’s toilet, altogether:And merely clapp’d a cover on that partThe Highlanders expose to wind and weather.

But he reverse’d, in making himself smart,

A Scotchman’s toilet, altogether:

And merely clapp’d a cover on that part

The Highlanders expose to wind and weather.

They reach’d the bower where the Friar lay;When, to his Man,The Knight began,In doleful accents, thus to say:

They reach’d the bower where the Friar lay;

When, to his Man,

The Knight began,

In doleful accents, thus to say:

“Here a fat Friar lies, kill’d with a mauling,For coming, in the dark, a-caterwauling;Whom I (O cursed spite!) did lay so!”Thus, solemnly, Sir Thomas spake, and sigh’d;—To whom the Duke of Limbs replied—“Odrabbit it! Sir Thomas! you don’t say so!”

“Here a fat Friar lies, kill’d with a mauling,

For coming, in the dark, a-caterwauling;

Whom I (O cursed spite!) did lay so!”

Thus, solemnly, Sir Thomas spake, and sigh’d;—

To whom the Duke of Limbs replied—

“Odrabbit it! Sir Thomas! you don’t say so!”

Then, taking the huge Friarperthe hocks,He whirl’d the ton of blubber three times round,And swung it on his shoulders, from the ground,With strength that yields, in any age, to no man’s,—Tho’ Milo’s ghost should rise, bearing the OxHe carried at the games of the old Romans.

Then, taking the huge Friarperthe hocks,

He whirl’d the ton of blubber three times round,

And swung it on his shoulders, from the ground,

With strength that yields, in any age, to no man’s,—

Tho’ Milo’s ghost should rise, bearing the Ox

He carried at the games of the old Romans.

Nay, I opine—let Fame say what it can—Of ancient vigour, (Fame is, oft, a Liar)That Milo was a pigmy to this Man,And his fat Ox quite skinny to the Friar.

Nay, I opine—let Fame say what it can—

Of ancient vigour, (Fame is, oft, a Liar)

That Milo was a pigmy to this Man,

And his fat Ox quite skinny to the Friar.

Besides,—I hold it in much doubtIf Roman graziers (should the truth come out)Were, like the English, knowing in the matter;——I wouldn’t breed my beastmore Romano;—For, I suspect, in fatt’ning they were dull,And when they made an ox out of a bull,They fed him ill,—and, then, he got no fatterThan a fat operaSoprano.10

Besides,—I hold it in much doubt

If Roman graziers (should the truth come out)

Were, like the English, knowing in the matter;—

—I wouldn’t breed my beastmore Romano;—

For, I suspect, in fatt’ning they were dull,

And when they made an ox out of a bull,

They fed him ill,—and, then, he got no fatter

Than a fat operaSoprano.10

Over the moat, (the draw-bridge being down)Gallantly stalk’d the brawny Duke of Limbs,BearingJohannes, of the shaven crown,Fame’d, when alive, for spoiling maids, and hymns;For manglingPater-Nosters, and goose-pies,And telling sundry beads,—and sundry lies.

Over the moat, (the draw-bridge being down)

Gallantly stalk’d the brawny Duke of Limbs,

BearingJohannes, of the shaven crown,

Fame’d, when alive, for spoiling maids, and hymns;

For manglingPater-Nosters, and goose-pies,

And telling sundry beads,—and sundry lies.

Across a marsh he strode, with steadier gaitThan Satan trod the Syrtis, at his fall,And perch’d himself, with his monastick weight,Upon the Convent-garden’s wall;—

Across a marsh he strode, with steadier gait

Than Satan trod the Syrtis, at his fall,

And perch’d himself, with his monastick weight,

Upon the Convent-garden’s wall;—

Whence, on the grounds within it, as he gaze’d,To find a spot where he might leave his load,He ’spied aHousesolittle, it seem’d raise’dMore for Man’s visits, than his fix’d abode;—And Cynthia aided him to gaze his fill,For, now, she sought Endymion on the hill.

Whence, on the grounds within it, as he gaze’d,

To find a spot where he might leave his load,

He ’spied aHousesolittle, it seem’d raise’d

More for Man’s visits, than his fix’d abode;—

And Cynthia aided him to gaze his fill,

For, now, she sought Endymion on the hill.

Arise, Tarquinius!11shew thy lofty face!While I describe, with dignity, the place.

Arise, Tarquinius!11shew thy lofty face!

While I describe, with dignity, the place.

Snug in an English garden’s shadiest spot,A structure stands, and welcomes many a breeze;Lonely, and simple as a Ploughman’s cot,Where Monarchs may unbend, who wish for ease.

Snug in an English garden’s shadiest spot,

A structure stands, and welcomes many a breeze;

Lonely, and simple as a Ploughman’s cot,

Where Monarchs may unbend, who wish for ease.

There sit Philosophers; and sitting read;And to some end apply the dullest pages;And pity the Barbarians, north of Tweed,Who scout these fabricks of the southern Sages.

There sit Philosophers; and sitting read;

And to some end apply the dullest pages;

And pity the Barbarians, north of Tweed,

Who scout these fabricks of the southern Sages.

Sure, for an Edifice in estimation,Never was any less presuming seen!It shrinks, so modestly, from observation!And hides behind all sorts of evergreen;—Like a coy Maid, design’d for filthy Man,Peeping, at his approach, behind her fan.

Sure, for an Edifice in estimation,

Never was any less presuming seen!

It shrinks, so modestly, from observation!

And hides behind all sorts of evergreen;—

Like a coy Maid, design’d for filthy Man,

Peeping, at his approach, behind her fan.

Into this place, unnotice’d by beholders,The Duke of Limbs, most circumspectly, stole,And shot the Friar off his shoulders,Just like a sack of round Newcastle coal:

Into this place, unnotice’d by beholders,

The Duke of Limbs, most circumspectly, stole,

And shot the Friar off his shoulders,

Just like a sack of round Newcastle coal:

Not taking any pains,Nor caring, in the least,How he deposited the Friar’s remains,No more than if a Friar were a beast.

Not taking any pains,

Nor caring, in the least,

How he deposited the Friar’s remains,

No more than if a Friar were a beast.

No funeral, of which you ever heard,Was mark’d with ceremonies half so slight;For John was left, not like the dead interr’d,But, like the living, sitting bolt upright!

No funeral, of which you ever heard,

Was mark’d with ceremonies half so slight;

For John was left, not like the dead interr’d,

But, like the living, sitting bolt upright!

Has no shrewd Reader, of one sex or t’other,Recurring to the facts already stated,Thought on a certain Roger?—that same brotherWho hated John, and whom John hated?

Has no shrewd Reader, of one sex or t’other,

Recurring to the facts already stated,

Thought on a certain Roger?—that same brother

Who hated John, and whom John hated?

’Tis, now, a necessary thing to sayThat, at this juncture, Roger wasn’t well;Poor Man! he had been rubbing, all the day,His stomach with coarse towels:And clapping trenchers, hot as hell,Upon his bowels;Where spasms were kicking up a furious frolick,Afflicting him with mulligrubs and cholick.

’Tis, now, a necessary thing to say

That, at this juncture, Roger wasn’t well;

Poor Man! he had been rubbing, all the day,

His stomach with coarse towels:

And clapping trenchers, hot as hell,

Upon his bowels;

Where spasms were kicking up a furious frolick,

Afflicting him with mulligrubs and cholick.

He also had imbibe’d, to sooth his pains,Ofpulvis rheivery many grains;And to the garden’s deepest shade was bent,To give, quite privily, his sorrows vent:

He also had imbibe’d, to sooth his pains,

Ofpulvis rheivery many grains;

And to the garden’s deepest shade was bent,

To give, quite privily, his sorrows vent:

When,there,—alive and merry to appearance—He ’spied his ancient foe, by the moon’s light!—Who sat erect, with so much perseverance,It look’d as if he kept his post in spite.

When,there,—alive and merry to appearance—

He ’spied his ancient foe, by the moon’s light!—

Who sat erect, with so much perseverance,

It look’d as if he kept his post in spite.

A case it is of piteous distress,If, carrying a secret grief about,We wish to bury it in a recess,And find another there, who keeps us out.

A case it is of piteous distress,

If, carrying a secret grief about,

We wish to bury it in a recess,

And find another there, who keeps us out.

Expecting, soon, his enemy to go,Roger, at first, walk’d to and fro,With tolerably tranquil paces;But finding John determine’d to remain,Roger, each time he pass’d, thro’ spite or pain,Made, at his adversary, hideous faces.

Expecting, soon, his enemy to go,

Roger, at first, walk’d to and fro,

With tolerably tranquil paces;

But finding John determine’d to remain,

Roger, each time he pass’d, thro’ spite or pain,

Made, at his adversary, hideous faces.

How misery will lower human pride!And make us buckle!—Roger, who, all his life, had John defied,Was now oblige’d to speak him fair,—and truckle.

How misery will lower human pride!

And make us buckle!—

Roger, who, all his life, had John defied,

Was now oblige’d to speak him fair,—and truckle.

“Behold me,” Roger cried, “behold me, John!Entreating as afavouryou’ll be gone;Me! your sworn foe, tho’ fellow-lodger;Me!—who, in agony, tho’ suing now to you,Would, once, have seen you damn’d ere make a bow to you.Me,—Roger!”12

“Behold me,” Roger cried, “behold me, John!

Entreating as afavouryou’ll be gone;

Me! your sworn foe, tho’ fellow-lodger;

Me!—who, in agony, tho’ suing now to you,

Would, once, have seen you damn’d ere make a bow to you.

Me,—Roger!”12

To this address, so fraught with the pathetick,John remain’d dumb, as a Pythagorean;Seeming to hint, “Roger, you’re a plebeianPeripatetick.”

To this address, so fraught with the pathetick,

John remain’d dumb, as a Pythagorean;

Seeming to hint, “Roger, you’re a plebeian

Peripatetick.”

When such choice oratory has not hit,When it is, e’en, unanswer’d by a grunt,’Twould justify tame Job to curse a bit,And set an Angler swearing, in his punt.

When such choice oratory has not hit,

When it is, e’en, unanswer’d by a grunt,

’Twould justify tame Job to curse a bit,

And set an Angler swearing, in his punt.

Cholerick Roger could not brook it;—So seeing a huge brick-bat, up he took it;And aiming, like a marksman at a crow,Plump on the breast he hit his deadly foe;Who fell, like Pedants’ periods, to the ground,—Very inanimate, and very round.

Cholerick Roger could not brook it;—

So seeing a huge brick-bat, up he took it;

And aiming, like a marksman at a crow,

Plump on the breast he hit his deadly foe;

Who fell, like Pedants’ periods, to the ground,—

Very inanimate, and very round.

Here is another Picture, reader mine!I gave you one in the first Canto;13—This is more solemn, mystical, and fine,—Like something in the Castle of Otranto.

Here is another Picture, reader mine!

I gave you one in the first Canto;13—

This is more solemn, mystical, and fine,—

Like something in the Castle of Otranto.

Bring, bring me, now, a Painter, for the work,Who on the subject will, with furor, rush!Some Artist who can sup upon raw pork,To make him dream of horrors, for his brush!

Bring, bring me, now, a Painter, for the work,

Who on the subject will, with furor, rush!

Some Artist who can sup upon raw pork,

To make him dream of horrors, for his brush!

Come, Limners, come! who choke your house’s entryWith dear, unmeaning lumber, from your easels;Dull heads of the Nobility and Gentry;Full length of fubsey Belles, or Beaux like weasels!

Come, Limners, come! who choke your house’s entry

With dear, unmeaning lumber, from your easels;

Dull heads of the Nobility and Gentry;

Full length of fubsey Belles, or Beaux like weasels!

Come, Limners, hither come! and drawA finer incident than e’er ye saw!

Come, Limners, hither come! and draw

A finer incident than e’er ye saw!

Here is a John, by moon-light, (a fat monk)Lying stonedead; and, here, a Roger,quick!And over John stands Roger, in a funk,Supposing he has kill’d him with a brick!

Here is a John, by moon-light, (a fat monk)

Lying stonedead; and, here, a Roger,quick!

And over John stands Roger, in a funk,

Supposing he has kill’d him with a brick!

There, Painters! there!Now, by Apelles’s gamboge, I swear!

There, Painters! there!

Now, by Apelles’s gamboge, I swear!

Such a dead subject never comes,Among thoselifeless livingye display;Then, thro’ your palettes thrust your graphick thumbs,—And work away!

Such a dead subject never comes,

Among thoselifeless livingye display;

Then, thro’ your palettes thrust your graphick thumbs,—

And work away!

Seeing John dead as a door nail,Roger began to wring his hands, and wail;Calling himself, Beast, Butcher, cruel Turk!Thrice “Benedicite!” he mutter’d;Thrice, in the eloquence of grief he utter’d;“I’ve done a pretty job of journey-work!”

Seeing John dead as a door nail,

Roger began to wring his hands, and wail;

Calling himself, Beast, Butcher, cruel Turk!

Thrice “Benedicite!” he mutter’d;

Thrice, in the eloquence of grief he utter’d;

“I’ve done a pretty job of journey-work!”

Some people will shew symptoms of repentanceWhen Conscience, like a chastening Angel, smites ’em;Some from mere dread of the Law’s sentence,When Newgate, like the very Devil, frights ’em;—

Some people will shew symptoms of repentance

When Conscience, like a chastening Angel, smites ’em;

Some from mere dread of the Law’s sentence,

When Newgate, like the very Devil, frights ’em;—

ThatVirtue’s struggles, in the heart, denotes,ThisVice’s hints, to men’s left ears, and throats.

ThatVirtue’s struggles, in the heart, denotes,

ThisVice’s hints, to men’s left ears, and throats.

Now Roger’s conscience, it appears,Was not, by half, so lively as his fears.

Now Roger’s conscience, it appears,

Was not, by half, so lively as his fears.

His breast, soon after he was born,Grew like an Hostler’s lantern, at an Inn;All the circumference was dirty horn,And feebly blink’d the ray of warmth within.

His breast, soon after he was born,

Grew like an Hostler’s lantern, at an Inn;

All the circumference was dirty horn,

And feebly blink’d the ray of warmth within.

In short, for one of his religious function,His Conscience was both cowardly and callous;No melting Cherub whisper’d to’t “Compunction!”But grim Jack Ketch disturb’d it, crying “Gallows!”

In short, for one of his religious function,

His Conscience was both cowardly and callous;

No melting Cherub whisper’d to’t “Compunction!”

But grim Jack Ketch disturb’d it, crying “Gallows!”

And all his sorrow, for this deed abhorr’d,Was nothing but antipathy tocord.

And all his sorrow, for this deed abhorr’d,

Was nothing but antipathy tocord.

A padlock’d door stood in the garden wall,Where John, by Roger’s brick-bat, chance’d to fall,And Roger had a key that could undo it;Thro’ this same door, at any time of day,They brought, into the Convent, corn, and hay;——Sometimes, at dusk, a pretty girl came thro’ it:Just to confess herself, to some grave codger;Perhaps, she came to John,—perhaps, to Roger.

A padlock’d door stood in the garden wall,

Where John, by Roger’s brick-bat, chance’d to fall,

And Roger had a key that could undo it;

Thro’ this same door, at any time of day,

They brought, into the Convent, corn, and hay;——

Sometimes, at dusk, a pretty girl came thro’ it:

Just to confess herself, to some grave codger;

Perhaps, she came to John,—perhaps, to Roger.

Out at this portal Roger made a shiftTo lug his worst of foes:For, seizing (as the gout was wont) his toes,He dragg’d the load he couldn’t lift.

Out at this portal Roger made a shift

To lug his worst of foes:

For, seizing (as the gout was wont) his toes,

He dragg’d the load he couldn’t lift.

Achilles, thus, drew round the Trojan plain,The ten years’ Adversary he had slain.—

Achilles, thus, drew round the Trojan plain,

The ten years’ Adversary he had slain.—

Yet,—for I scorn a Grecian to disparage,—Achilles in more style, and splendour, did it;Hesported Murder strapp’d behind his carriage,—ButbourgeoisRoger sneak’d on foot, and hid it.

Yet,—for I scorn a Grecian to disparage,—

Achilles in more style, and splendour, did it;

Hesported Murder strapp’d behind his carriage,—

ButbourgeoisRoger sneak’d on foot, and hid it.

Roger, however, labour’d on,—Puffing and tugging;—And hauling John,As fishermen, on shore, haul up a boat;Till, after a great deal of lugging,He lugg’d him to the edge of the Knight’s moat;And stuck him up so straight upon his rear,Touching, almost, the water, with his heels,That the defunct might pass, not seen too near,For some fat gentleman who bobb’d for eels.

Roger, however, labour’d on,—

Puffing and tugging;—

And hauling John,

As fishermen, on shore, haul up a boat;

Till, after a great deal of lugging,

He lugg’d him to the edge of the Knight’s moat;

And stuck him up so straight upon his rear,

Touching, almost, the water, with his heels,

That the defunct might pass, not seen too near,

For some fat gentleman who bobb’d for eels.

Swiftly did Roger, then, retrace his ground,Lighter than he came out, by many a pound.

Swiftly did Roger, then, retrace his ground,

Lighter than he came out, by many a pound.

So have I seen, on Marlb’rough downs, a hack,Ease’d of a great man’s chaise, and coming back,From Bladud’s springs, upon the western road;No bloated Noble’s luggage at his rump,Whose doom’s, that dread of pick-pockets, the pump,He canters home, from Bath, without his load.

So have I seen, on Marlb’rough downs, a hack,

Ease’d of a great man’s chaise, and coming back,

From Bladud’s springs, upon the western road;

No bloated Noble’s luggage at his rump,

Whose doom’s, that dread of pick-pockets, the pump,

He canters home, from Bath, without his load.

Sir Thomas being scrupulous, and queasy,Couldn’t, in all this interval, be easy.

Sir Thomas being scrupulous, and queasy,

Couldn’t, in all this interval, be easy.

He went to bed;—and, there, began to burn;Nine times he turn’d, in wondrous perturbation;—He woke her Ladyship, at every turn,And gave her, full nine times, complete vexation.

He went to bed;—and, there, began to burn;

Nine times he turn’d, in wondrous perturbation;—

He woke her Ladyship, at every turn,

And gave her, full nine times, complete vexation.

To seek the Duke of Limbs, at length, he rose,And prowl’d with him, lamenting Fortune’s stripes;Now in the rookery among the crows,Now squashing in the marsh, among the snipes:

To seek the Duke of Limbs, at length, he rose,

And prowl’d with him, lamenting Fortune’s stripes;

Now in the rookery among the crows,

Now squashing in the marsh, among the snipes:

Wishing strange wishes;—among many,He wish’d—ere he had clapp’d his eyes on any.

Wishing strange wishes;—among many,

He wish’d—ere he had clapp’d his eyes on any.

All Priests, and Crabsticks, thrown into the fire;—Or, seeing Providence ordain’d it so,That Priest, and Crabstick, (to his grief) must grow,He wish’d stout Crabstick couldn’t kill fat Friar.

All Priests, and Crabsticks, thrown into the fire;—

Or, seeing Providence ordain’d it so,

That Priest, and Crabstick, (to his grief) must grow,

He wish’d stout Crabstick couldn’t kill fat Friar.

Men’s wishes will be partial, now and then;—As, in this case, ’tis plainly seen;Wherein, Sir Thomas, full of spleen,Wish’d to burn all the Crabs, and Clergymen.

Men’s wishes will be partial, now and then;—

As, in this case, ’tis plainly seen;

Wherein, Sir Thomas, full of spleen,

Wish’d to burn all the Crabs, and Clergymen.

Think ye thathe,—at wishing tho’ a dab,—To wish such harm to anyKnightwould urge ye?Yet he, a Knight, had taken up a Crab,And thump’d to death, with it, one of the Clergy.

Think ye thathe,—at wishing tho’ a dab,—

To wish such harm to anyKnightwould urge ye?

Yet he, a Knight, had taken up a Crab,

And thump’d to death, with it, one of the Clergy.

As he went wishing on,With the great Duke of Limbs behind him,—Horror on horror!—he saw JohnWhere least of all he ever thought to find him:

As he went wishing on,

With the great Duke of Limbs behind him,—

Horror on horror!—he saw John

Where least of all he ever thought to find him:

Stuck up, on end, in placid grace,Like a stuff’d Kangaroo,—tho’ vastly fatter,—With the full moon upon his chubby face,Like a brass pot-lid shining on a platter.

Stuck up, on end, in placid grace,

Like a stuff’d Kangaroo,—tho’ vastly fatter,—

With the full moon upon his chubby face,

Like a brass pot-lid shining on a platter.

“’Sdeath!” quoth the Knight, of half his powers bereft,“Didst thou not tell mewherethis Friar was left?Men rise again,to push us from our stools!”14To which the Duke replied, with steady phiz,—“Them as took pains to push that Friar fromhis,At such a time o’night, was cursed fools.”

“’Sdeath!” quoth the Knight, of half his powers bereft,

“Didst thou not tell mewherethis Friar was left?

Men rise again,to push us from our stools!”14

To which the Duke replied, with steady phiz,—

“Them as took pains to push that Friar fromhis,

At such a time o’night, was cursed fools.”

“Ah!” sigh’d Sir Thomas, “while I wander here,By fortune stamp’d a Homicide, alas!”(And, as he spoke, a penitential tearMingled with Heaven’s dew-drops, on the grass;)—“Will no one from my eyes yon Spectre pull?”“Sir Thomas,” said the Duke of Limbs, “I wool.”

“Ah!” sigh’d Sir Thomas, “while I wander here,

By fortune stamp’d a Homicide, alas!”

(And, as he spoke, a penitential tear

Mingled with Heaven’s dew-drops, on the grass;)—

“Will no one from my eyes yon Spectre pull?”

“Sir Thomas,” said the Duke of Limbs, “I wool.”

He would have thrown the garbage in the moat,But the Knight told him fat was prone to float.

He would have thrown the garbage in the moat,

But the Knight told him fat was prone to float.

The Lout, at length, having bethought him,Heave’d up the Friar on his back once more;And (Castles having armories of yore)Into the Knight’s old Armory he brought him.

The Lout, at length, having bethought him,

Heave’d up the Friar on his back once more;

And (Castles having armories of yore)

Into the Knight’s old Armory he brought him.

Among the gorgeous, shining Coats of Mail,That grace’d the walls, on high, in gallant shew,—As pewter pots, in houses fame’d for ale,Glitter, above the Bar-maid, in a row,—

Among the gorgeous, shining Coats of Mail,

That grace’d the walls, on high, in gallant shew,—

As pewter pots, in houses fame’d for ale,

Glitter, above the Bar-maid, in a row,—

A curious, antique suit was hoarded,Cover’d with dust;Which had, for many years, affordedAn iron dinner to that ostrich, Rust.

A curious, antique suit was hoarded,

Cover’d with dust;

Which had, for many years, afforded

An iron dinner to that ostrich, Rust.

Though this was all too little,—in a minute,The Duke of Limbs ramm’d the fat Friar in it;So a good Housewife takes a narrow skin,To make black puddings, and stuffs hog’s meat in.

Though this was all too little,—in a minute,

The Duke of Limbs ramm’d the fat Friar in it;

So a good Housewife takes a narrow skin,

To make black puddings, and stuffs hog’s meat in.

The Knight, who saw this ceremony pass,Inquire’d the meaning; when the Duke did say,—“I’ll tie him on ould Dumpling, that’s at grass,And turn him out, a top of the highway.”

The Knight, who saw this ceremony pass,

Inquire’d the meaning; when the Duke did say,—

“I’ll tie him on ould Dumpling, that’s at grass,

And turn him out, a top of the highway.”

This Steed,—who now, it seems, was grazing,—In the French wars had often borne the Knight;—His symmetry beyond the power of praising,And prouder than Bucephalus, in fight!

This Steed,—who now, it seems, was grazing,—

In the French wars had often borne the Knight;—

His symmetry beyond the power of praising,

And prouder than Bucephalus, in fight!

Once, how he paw’d the ground, and snuff’d the gale!Uncropp’d his ears, undock’d his flowing tail;No blemish was within him, nor without him;Perfect he was in every part;—No barbarous Farrier, with infernal art,Had mutilated the least bit about him.

Once, how he paw’d the ground, and snuff’d the gale!

Uncropp’d his ears, undock’d his flowing tail;

No blemish was within him, nor without him;

Perfect he was in every part;—

No barbarous Farrier, with infernal art,

Had mutilated the least bit about him.

Of high Arabian pedigree,Father of many four-foot babes was he;And sweet hoof’d Beauties still would he be rumpling;But, counting five and twenty from his birth,At grass for life, unwieldy in the girth,He had obtain’d, alas! the name of Dumpling.

Of high Arabian pedigree,

Father of many four-foot babes was he;

And sweet hoof’d Beauties still would he be rumpling;

But, counting five and twenty from his birth,

At grass for life, unwieldy in the girth,

He had obtain’d, alas! the name of Dumpling.

Now, at the postern stood the gay old Charger;Saddle’d, and house’d,—in full caparison!—Now on his back,—no rider larger,—Upright, and stiff, and tied with cords, sat John:Arm’d cap-à-pié completely, like a knightGoing to fight.

Now, at the postern stood the gay old Charger;

Saddle’d, and house’d,—in full caparison!—

Now on his back,—no rider larger,—

Upright, and stiff, and tied with cords, sat John:

Arm’d cap-à-pié completely, like a knight

Going to fight.

A Lance was in the rest, of stately beech:Nothing was wanting, but a Page, or ’Squire;—The Duke, with thistles, switch’d old Dumpling’s breech;And off he clatter’d with the martial Friar.

A Lance was in the rest, of stately beech:

Nothing was wanting, but a Page, or ’Squire;—

The Duke, with thistles, switch’d old Dumpling’s breech;

And off he clatter’d with the martial Friar.

Now, in the Convent let us take a peep,—Where Roger, like Sir Thomas, couldn’t sleep:

Now, in the Convent let us take a peep,—

Where Roger, like Sir Thomas, couldn’t sleep:

Instead of singing requiems, and psalms,For fat John’s soul, he had been seize’d with qualms,Thinking it would be rash to tarry there;—And having, prudently, resolve’d on flight,Knock’d up a neighbouring miller, in the night,And borrow’d his grey Mare.

Instead of singing requiems, and psalms,

For fat John’s soul, he had been seize’d with qualms,

Thinking it would be rash to tarry there;—

And having, prudently, resolve’d on flight,

Knock’d up a neighbouring miller, in the night,

And borrow’d his grey Mare.

Thus, trotting off,—beneath a row of treesHe saw “a sight that made his marrow freeze!”A furious Warrior follow’d him, in mail,Upon a Charger, close at his Mare’s tail!

Thus, trotting off,—beneath a row of trees

He saw “a sight that made his marrow freeze!”

A furious Warrior follow’d him, in mail,

Upon a Charger, close at his Mare’s tail!

He cross’d himself!—and, canting, cried,Oh, sadly have I sinned!Then stuck his heels in his Mare’s side;And, then, old Dumpling whinny’d!

He cross’d himself!—and, canting, cried,

Oh, sadly have I sinned!

Then stuck his heels in his Mare’s side;

And, then, old Dumpling whinny’d!

Roger whipp’d, and Roger spurr’d,Distilling drops of fear!But while he spurr’d, still, still he heardThe wanton Dumpling at his rear.

Roger whipp’d, and Roger spurr’d,

Distilling drops of fear!

But while he spurr’d, still, still he heard

The wanton Dumpling at his rear.

’Twas dawn!—he look’d behind him, in the chase;When, lo! the features of fat John,—His beaver up, and pressing on,—Glare’d, ghastly, in the wretched Roger’s face!

’Twas dawn!—he look’d behind him, in the chase;

When, lo! the features of fat John,—

His beaver up, and pressing on,—

Glare’d, ghastly, in the wretched Roger’s face!

The Miller’s Mare, who oft had gone the way,Scamper’d with Roger into Norwich town;And, there, to all the market-folks’ dismay,Old Dumpling beat the mare, with Roger, down.

The Miller’s Mare, who oft had gone the way,

Scamper’d with Roger into Norwich town;

And, there, to all the market-folks’ dismay,

Old Dumpling beat the mare, with Roger, down.

Brief let me be;—the Story soon took air;—For Townsmen are inquisitive, of course,When a live Monk rides in upon a Mare,Chase’d by a dead one, arm’d, upon a Horse.

Brief let me be;—the Story soon took air;—

For Townsmen are inquisitive, of course,

When a live Monk rides in upon a Mare,

Chase’d by a dead one, arm’d, upon a Horse.

Sir Thomas up to London sped, full fast,To beg his life, and lands, of Royal Harry,And, for his services, in Gallia, past,His suit did not miscarry:—

Sir Thomas up to London sped, full fast,

To beg his life, and lands, of Royal Harry,

And, for his services, in Gallia, past,

His suit did not miscarry:—

For, in those days,—thank Heaven they are mended!—Kings hang’d poor Rogues, while rich ones were befriended.

For, in those days,—thank Heaven they are mended!—

Kings hang’d poor Rogues, while rich ones were befriended.

Two men ride horseback.

ContentsYe Criticks, and yeHyper-Criticks!—whoHave deign’d (in reading this my story thro’)A patient, or impatient, ear to lend me,—If, as I humbly amble, ye complainI give my Pegasus too loose a rein,’Tis time to callmy Bettersto defend me.Come,Swift! who made so merry with the Nine;With thy far bolder Muse, Oh, shelter mine!When she is style’d a slattern, and a trollop;—Force stubborn Gravity to doff his gloom;Point to thy Cælia, and thy Dressing-Room,Thy Nymph at bed-time, and thy fame’d Maw-Wallop!Come,Sterne!—whose prose, with all a Poet’s art,Tickles the fancy, while it melts the heart!—Since at apologies I ne’er was handy,—Come, while fastidious Readers run me hard,And screen, sly playful wag! a hapless Bard,Behind one volume of thy Tristram Shandy!Ye Two, alone!—tho’ I could bring a scoreOf brilliant names, and high examples, more—Plead for me, when ’tis said I misbehave me!And, ye,sour Censors! in your crabbed fits,Who will not let them rescue me asWits,Prithee, asParsons, suffer ’em to save me!

Contents

Ye Criticks, and yeHyper-Criticks!—whoHave deign’d (in reading this my story thro’)A patient, or impatient, ear to lend me,—If, as I humbly amble, ye complainI give my Pegasus too loose a rein,’Tis time to callmy Bettersto defend me.Come,Swift! who made so merry with the Nine;With thy far bolder Muse, Oh, shelter mine!When she is style’d a slattern, and a trollop;—Force stubborn Gravity to doff his gloom;Point to thy Cælia, and thy Dressing-Room,Thy Nymph at bed-time, and thy fame’d Maw-Wallop!Come,Sterne!—whose prose, with all a Poet’s art,Tickles the fancy, while it melts the heart!—Since at apologies I ne’er was handy,—Come, while fastidious Readers run me hard,And screen, sly playful wag! a hapless Bard,Behind one volume of thy Tristram Shandy!Ye Two, alone!—tho’ I could bring a scoreOf brilliant names, and high examples, more—Plead for me, when ’tis said I misbehave me!And, ye,sour Censors! in your crabbed fits,Who will not let them rescue me asWits,Prithee, asParsons, suffer ’em to save me!

Ye Criticks, and yeHyper-Criticks!—whoHave deign’d (in reading this my story thro’)A patient, or impatient, ear to lend me,—If, as I humbly amble, ye complainI give my Pegasus too loose a rein,’Tis time to callmy Bettersto defend me.

Ye Criticks, and yeHyper-Criticks!—who

Have deign’d (in reading this my story thro’)

A patient, or impatient, ear to lend me,—

If, as I humbly amble, ye complain

I give my Pegasus too loose a rein,

’Tis time to callmy Bettersto defend me.

Come,Swift! who made so merry with the Nine;With thy far bolder Muse, Oh, shelter mine!When she is style’d a slattern, and a trollop;—Force stubborn Gravity to doff his gloom;Point to thy Cælia, and thy Dressing-Room,Thy Nymph at bed-time, and thy fame’d Maw-Wallop!

Come,Swift! who made so merry with the Nine;

With thy far bolder Muse, Oh, shelter mine!

When she is style’d a slattern, and a trollop;—

Force stubborn Gravity to doff his gloom;

Point to thy Cælia, and thy Dressing-Room,

Thy Nymph at bed-time, and thy fame’d Maw-Wallop!

Come,Sterne!—whose prose, with all a Poet’s art,Tickles the fancy, while it melts the heart!—Since at apologies I ne’er was handy,—Come, while fastidious Readers run me hard,And screen, sly playful wag! a hapless Bard,Behind one volume of thy Tristram Shandy!

Come,Sterne!—whose prose, with all a Poet’s art,

Tickles the fancy, while it melts the heart!—

Since at apologies I ne’er was handy,—

Come, while fastidious Readers run me hard,

And screen, sly playful wag! a hapless Bard,

Behind one volume of thy Tristram Shandy!

Ye Two, alone!—tho’ I could bring a scoreOf brilliant names, and high examples, more—Plead for me, when ’tis said I misbehave me!And, ye,sour Censors! in your crabbed fits,Who will not let them rescue me asWits,Prithee, asParsons, suffer ’em to save me!

Ye Two, alone!—tho’ I could bring a score

Of brilliant names, and high examples, more—

Plead for me, when ’tis said I misbehave me!

And, ye,sour Censors! in your crabbed fits,

Who will not let them rescue me asWits,

Prithee, asParsons, suffer ’em to save me!

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