ByWILLIAM DUNBAR.
Fulloft I muse, and hes in thochtHow this fals Warld is ay on flocht,Quhair[91a]no thing ferme is nor degest;[91d]And when I haif my mynd all socht,For to be blyth me think it best.
This warld ever dois flicht and wary,[91b]Fortoun sa fast hir quheill dois cary,Na tyme but[91e]turning can tak rest;For quhois fats change suld none be sary,For to be blyth me think it best.
Wald men considdir in mynd richt weill,Or Fortoun on him turn hir quheill,That erdly honour may nocht lest,His fall less panefull he suld feill;For to be blyth me think it best.
Quha with this warld dois warsill[91c]and stryfe,And dois his dayis in dolour dryfe,Thocht he in lordschip be possest,He levis bot ane wrechit lyfe:For to be blyth me think it best.
Off warldis gud and grit richess,Quhat fruct hes man but merriness?Thocht he this warld had eist and west,All wer povertie but glaidness:For to be blyth me think it best.
Quho suld for tynsall[92a]drowp or de,For thyng that is bot vanitie;Sen to the lyfe that evir dois lest,Heir is bot twynkling of an ee:For to be blyth me think it best.
Had I for warldis unkyndnéssIn hairt tane ony heviness,Or fro my plesans bene opprest;I had bene deid lang syne dowtless:For to be blyth me think it best.
How evir this warld do change and vary,Lat us in hairt nevir moir be sary,But evir be reddy and addrestTo pass out of this frawfull fary:[92b]For to be blyth me think it best.
ByMICHAEL DRAYTON.
Farin the country of ArdenThere woned[93d]a knight, hight Cassamen,As bold as Isenbras:Fell was he and eager bentIn battle and in tournamentAs was good Sir Topás.
He had, as antique stories tell,A daughter clepéd Dowsabell,A maiden fair and free.And for she was her fathers heir,Full well she was yconned[93a]the leir[93b]Of mickle courtesie.
The silk well couth she twist and twine,And make the finé marché pine,[93c]And with the needle work;And she couth help the priest to sayHis matins on a holiday,And sing a psalm in kirk.
She ware a frock of frolic greenMight well become a maiden queen,Which seemly was to see;A hood to that so neat and fine,In colour like the columbine,Inwrought full featously.
Her features all as fresh aboveAs is the grass that grows by Dove,And lithe as lass of Kent.Her skin as soft as Lemster[94a]wool,And white as snow on Peakish hull,[94b]Or swan that swims in Trent.
This maiden, in a morn betime,Went forth, when May was in the prime,To get sweet setiwall,[94c]The honeysuckle, the harlock,[94d]The lily and the lady-smock,[94k]To deck her summer-hall.[94e]
Thus, as she wandered here and there,And pickéd of the bloomy brere,She chancéd to espyA shepherd sitting on a bank,Like chanticleer he crowéd crank,[94f]And piped full merrily.
He learned his sheep[94g]as he him list,When he would whistle in his fist,To feed about him round,Whilst he full many a carol sang,Until the fields and meadows rang,And that the woods did sound.
In favour this same shepherd swainWas like the bedlam TamburlaineWhich held proud kings in awe.But meek as any lamb mought be,And innocent of ill as heWhom his lewd brother slaw.
This shepherd ware a sheep-gray cloke,Which was of the finest lokeThat could be cut with shear;His mittens were of bauzon’s[94h]skin,His cockers[94i]were of cordiwin,[94j]His hood of minivere.
His awl and lingell[95a]in a thong;His tarbox on his broadbelt hung,His breech of Cointree blue.Full crisp and curléd were his locks,His brows as white as Albion rocks,So like a lover true.
And piping still he spent the daySo merry as the popinjay,Which likéd Dowsabell,That would she ought, or would she nought,This lad would never from her thought,She in love-longing fell.
At length she tuckéd up her frock,White as the lily was her smock;She drew the shepherd nigh;But then the shepherd piped a good,That all the sheep forsook their food,To hear his melodie.
“Thy sheep,” quoth she, “cannot be leanThat have a jolly shepherd swainThe which can pipe so well.”“Yea, but,” saith he, “their shepherd may,If piping thus he pine awayIn love of Dowsabell.”
“Of love, fond boy, take then no keep,”[95b]Quoth she; “Look well unto thy sheep,Lest they should hap to stray.”Quoth he, “So had I done full well,Had I not seen fair DowsabellCome forth to gather may.”
With that she ’gan to vail her head,Her cheeks were like the roses red,But not a word she said.With that the shepherd ’gan to frown,He threw his pretty pipes adown,And on the ground him laid.
Saith she, “I may not stay till nightAnd leave my summer-hall undight,And all for love of thee.”“My cote,” saith he, “nor yet my foldShall neither sheep nor shepherd hold,Except thou favour me.”
Saith she, “Yet liever were I deadThan I should [yield me to be wed],And all for love of men.”Saith he, “Yet are you too unkindIf in your heart you cannot findTo love us now and then.
“And I to thee will be as kindAs Colin was to RosalindOf courtesy the flower.”“Then will I be as true,” quoth she,“As ever maiden yet might beUnto her paramour.”
With that she bent her snow-white kneeDown by the shepherd kneeléd she,And him she sweetly kist.With that the shepherd whooped for joy.Quoth he, “There’s never shepherd’s boyThat ever was so blist.”
ByMICHAEL DRAYTON.
OldChaucer doth of Topas tell,Mad Rabelais of Pantágruél,A later third of DowsabelWith such poor trifles playing;Others the like have laboured at,Some of this thing and some of that,And many of they knew not what,But what they may be saying.
Another sort there be, that willBe talking of the Fairies still,For never can they have their fill,As they were wedded to them;No tales of them their thirst can slake,So much delight therein they take,And some strange thing they fain would make,Knew they the way to do them.
Then since no Muse hath been so bold,Or of the later, or the old,Those elvish secrets to unfold,Which lie from others’ reading;My active Muse to light shall bringThe court of that proud Fairy King,And tell there of the revelling.Jove prosper my proceeding!
And thou, Nymphidia, gentle Fay,Which, meeting me upon the way,These secrets didst to me bewray,Which now I am in telling;My pretty, light, fantastic maid,I here invoke thee to my aid,That I may speak what thou hast said,In numbers smoothly swelling.
This palace standeth in the air,By necromancy placéd there,That it no tempest needs to fear,Which way soe’er it blow it.And somewhat southward tow’rds the noon,Whence lies a way up to the moon,And thence the Fairy can as soonPass to the earth below it.
The walls of spiders’ legs are madeWell mortiséd and finely laid;It was the master of his tradeIt curiously that builded;The windows of the eyes of cats,And for the roof, instead of slats,Is covered with the skins of bats,With moonshine that are gilded.
Hence Oberon him sport to make,Their rest when weary mortals take,And none but only fairies wake,Descendeth for his pleasure;And Mab, his merry Queen, by nightBestrides young folks that lie upright,(In elder times the mare that hight),Which plagues them out of measure.
Hence shadows, seeming idle shapes,Of little frisking elves and apesTo earth do make their wanton scapes,As hope of pastime hastes them;Which maids think on the hearth they seeWhen fires well-nigh consuméd be,There dancing hays[98]by two and three,Just as their fancy casts them.
These make our girls their sluttery rue,By pinching them both black and blue,And put a penny in their shoeThe house for cleanly sweeping;And in their courses make that roundIn meadows and in marshes found,Of them so called the Fairy Ground,Of which they have the keeping.
These when a child haps to be gotWhich after proves an idiotWhen folk perceive it thriveth not,The fault therein to smother,Some silly, doting, brainless calfThat understands things by the half,Say that the Fairy left this oafAnd took away the other.
But listen, and I shall you tellA chance in Faery that befell,Which certainly may please some well,In love and arms delighting,Of Oberon that jealous grewOf one of his own Fairy crew,Too well, he feared, his Queen that knew,His love but ill requiting.
Pigwiggin was this Fairy Knight,One wondrous gracious in the sightOf fair Queen Mab, which day and nightHe amorously observéd;Which made King Oberon suspectHis service took too good effect,His sauciness had often checkt,And could have wished him stervéd.
Pigwiggin gladly would commendSome token to Queen Mab to send,If sea or land him aught could lendWere worthy of her wearing;At length this lover doth deviseA bracelet made of emmets’ eyes,A thing he thought that she would prize,No whit her state impairing.
And to the Queen a letter writes,Which he most curiously indites,Conjuring her by all the ritesOf love, she would be pleasédTo meet him, her true servant, whereThey might, without suspect or fear,Themselves to one another clearAnd have their poor hearts easéd.
At midnight, the appointed hour;“And for the Queen a fitting bower,”Quoth he, “is that fair cowslip flowerOn Hient Hill[100]that bloweth;In all your train there’s not a fayThat ever went to gather mayBut she hath made it, in her way,The tallest there that groweth.”
When by Tom Thumb, a Fairy Page,He sent it, and doth him engageBy promise of a mighty wageIt secretly to carry;Which done, the Queen her maids doth call,And bids them to be ready all:She would go see her summer hall,She could no longer tarry.
Her chariot ready straight is made,Each thing therein is fitting laid,That she by nothing might be stayed,For nought must be her letting;Four nimble gnats the horses were,Their harnesses of gossamere,Fly Cranion the charioteerUpon the coach-box getting.
Her chariot of a snail’s fine shell,Which for the colours did excel,The fair Queen Mab becoming well,So lively was the limning;The seat the soft wool of the bee,The cover, gallantly to see,The wing of a pied butterfly;I trow ’twas simple trimming.
The wheels composed of cricket’s bones,And daintily made for the nonce,For fear of rattling on the stonesWith thistle-down they shod it;For all her maidens much did fearIf Oberon had chanced to hearThat Mab his Queen should have been there,He would not have abode it.
She mounts her chariot with a trice,Nor would she stay, for no advice,Until her maids that were so niceTo wait on her were fitted;But ran herself away alone,Which when they heard, there was not oneBut hasted after to be gone,As he had been diswitted.
Hop and Mop and Drop so clear,Pip and Trip and Skip that wereTo Mab, their sovereign, ever dear,Her special maids of honour;Fib and Tib and Pink and Pin,Tick and Quick and Jill and Jin,Tit and Nit and Wap and Win,The train that wait upon her.
Upon a grasshopper they gotAnd, what with amble, what with trot,For hedge and ditch they sparéd not,But after her they hie them;A cobweb over them they throw,To shield the wind if it should blow,Themselves they wisely could bestowLest any should espy them.
But let us leave Queen Mab awhile,Through many a gate, o’er many a stile,That now had gotten by this wile,Her dear Pigwiggin kissing;And tell how Oberon doth fare,Who grew as mad as any hareWhen he had sought each place with care,And found his Queen was missing.
By grisly Pluto he doth swear,He rent his clothes and tore his hair,And as he runneth here and thereAn acorn cup he greeteth,Which soon he taketh by the stalk,About his head he lets it walk,Nor doth he any creature balk,But lays on all he meeteth.
The Tuscan Poet doth advance,The frantic Paladin of France,And those more ancient do enhanceAlcides in his fury,And others Aiax Telamon,But to this time there hath been noneSo Bedlam as our Oberon,Of which I dare assure ye.
And first encountering with a Wasp,He in his arms the fly doth claspAs though his breath he forth would grasp,Him for Pigwiggin taking:“Where is my wife, thou rogue?” quoth be;“Pigwiggin, she is come to thee;Restore her, or thou diest by me!”Whereat the poor Wasp quaking
Cries, “Oberon, great Fairy King,Content thee, I am no such thing:I am a Wasp, behold my sting!”At which the Fairy started;When soon away the Wasp doth go,Poor wretch, was never frighted so;He thought his wings were much too slow,O’erjoyed they so were parted.
He next upon a Glow-worm light,You must suppose it now was night,Which, for her hinder part was bright,He took to be a devil,And furiously doth her assailFor carrying fire in her tail;He thrashed her rough coat with his flail;The mad King feared no evil.
“Oh!” quoth the Glow-worm, “hold thy hand,Thou puissant King of Fairy-land!Thy mighty strokes who may withstand?Hold, or of life despair I!”Together then herself doth roll,And tumbling down into a holeShe seemed as black as any coal;Which vext away the Fairy.
From thence he ran into a hive:Amongst the bees he letteth drive,And down their combs begins to rive,All likely to have spoiléd,Which with their wax his face besmeared,And with their honey daubed his beard:It would have made a man afearedTo see how he was moiléd.
A new adventure him betides;He met an Ant, which he bestrides,And post thereon away he rides,Which with his haste doth stumble;And came full over on her snout,Her heels so threw the dirt about,For she by no means could get out,But over him doth tumble.
And being in this piteous case,And all be-slurréd head and face,On runs he in this wild-goose chase,As here and there he rambles;Half blind, against a mole-hill hit,And for a mountain taking it,For all he was out of his witYet to the top he scrambles.
And being gotten to the top,Yet there himself he could not stop,But down on th’ other side doth chop,And to the foot came rumbling;So that the grubs, therein that bred,Hearing such turmoil over head,Thought surely they had all been dead;So fearful was the jumbling.
And falling down into a lake,Which him up to the neck doth take,His fury somewhat it doth slake;He calleth for a ferry;Where you may some recovery note;What was his club he made his boat,And in his oaken cup doth float,As safe as in a wherry.
Men talk of the adventures strangeOf Don Quixoit, and of their changeThrough which he arméd oft did range,Of Sancho Pancha’s travel;But should a man tell every thingDone by this frantic Fairy King,And them in lofty numbers sing,It well his wits might gravel.
Scarce set on shore, but therewithalHe meeteth Puck, which most men callHobgoblin, and on him doth fall,With words from frenzy spoken:“Oh, oh,” quoth Hob, “God save thy grace!Who drest thee in this piteous case?He thus that spoiled my sovereign’s face,I would his neck were broken!”
This Puck seems but a dreaming dolt,Still walking like a ragged colt,And oft out of a bush doth bolt,Of purpose to deceive us;And leading us makes us to stray,Long winter’s nights, out of the way;And when we stick in mire and clay,Hob doth with laughter leave us.
“Dear Puck,” quoth he, “my wife is gone:As e’er thou lov’st King Oberon,Let everything but this alone,With vengeance and pursue her;Bring her to me alive or dead,Or that vile thief, Pigwiggin’s head,That villain hath [my Queen misled];He to this folly drew her.”
Quoth Puck, “My liege, I’ll never lin,But I will thorough thick and thin,Until at length I bring her in;My dearest lord, ne’er doubt it.”Thorough brake, thorough briar,Thorough muck, thorough mire,Thorough water, thorough fire;And thus goes Puck about it.
This thing Nymphidia overheard,That on this mad king had a guard,Not doubting of a great reward,For first this business broaching;And through the air away doth go,Swift as an arrow from the bow,To let her sovereign Mab to knowWhat peril was approaching.
The Queen, bound with Love’s powerful charm,Sate with Pigwiggin arm in arm;Her merry maids, that thought no harm,About the room were skipping;A humble-bee, their minstrel, playedUpon his hautboy, every maidFit for this revel was arrayed,The hornpipe neatly tripping.
In comes Nymphidia, and doth cry,“My sovereign, for your safety fly,For there is danger but too nigh;I posted to forewarn you:The King hath sent Hobgoblin out,To seek you all the fields about,And of your safety you may doubt,If he but once discern you.”
When, like an uproar in a town,Before them everything went down;Some tore a ruff, and some a gown,’Gainst one another justling;They flew about like chaff i’ th’ wind;For haste some left their masks behind;Some could not stay their gloves to find;There never was such bustling.
Forth ran they, by a secret way,Into a brake that near them lay;Yet much they doubted there to stay,Lest Hob should hap to find them;He had a sharp and piercing sight,All one to him the day and night;And therefore were resolved, by flight,To leave this place behind them.
At length one chanced to find a nut,In th’ end of which a hole was cut,Which lay upon a hazel root,There scattered by a squirrelWhich out the kernel gotten had;When quoth this Fay, “Dear Queen, be glad;Let Oberon be ne’er so mad,I’ll set you safe from peril.
“Come all into this nut,” quoth she,“Come closely in; be ruled by me;Each one may here a chooser be,For room ye need not wrastle:Nor need ye be together heaped;”So one by one therein they crept,And lying down they soundly slept,And safe as in a castle.
Nymphidia, that this while doth watch,Perceived if Puck the Queen should catchThat he should be her over-match,Of which she well bethought her;Found it must be some powerful charm,The Queen against him that must arm,Or surely he would do her harm,For throughly he had sought her.
And listening if she aught could hear,That her might hinder, or might fear;But finding still the coast was clear;Nor creature had descried her;Each circumstance and having scanned,She came thereby to understand,Puck would be with them out of hand;When to her charms she hied her.
And first her fern-seed doth bestow,The kernel of the mistletoe;And here and there as Puck should go,With terror to affright him,She night-shade strews to work him ill,Therewith her vervain and her dill,That hindreth witches of their will,Of purpose to despite him.
Then sprinkles she the juice of rue,That groweth underneath the yew;With nine drops of the midnight dew,From lunary distilling:The molewarp’s[108a]brain mixed therewithal;And with the same the pismire’s gall:For she in nothing short would fall,The Fairy was so willing.
Then thrice under a briar doth creep,Which at both ends was rooted deep,And over it three times she leap;Her magic much availing:Then on Prosérpina doth call,And so upon her spell doth fall,Which here to you repeat I shall,Not in one tittle failing.
“By the croaking of a frog;By the howling of the dog;By the crying of the hogAgainst the storm arising;By the evening curfew bell,By the doleful dying knell,O let this my direful spell,Hob, hinder thy surprising!
“By the mandrake’s[108b]dreadful groans;By the lubrican’s[108c]sad moans;By the noise of dead men’s bonesIn charnel-houses rattling;By the hissing of the snake,The rustling of the fire-drake,[108d]I charge thee thou this place forsake,Nor of Queen Mab be prattling!
“By the whirlwind’s hollow sound,By the thunder’s dreadful stound,Yells of spirits underground,I charge thee not to fear us;By the screech-owl’s dismal note,By the black night-raven’s throat,I charge thee, Hob, to tear thy coatWith thorns, if thou come near us!”
Her spell thus spoke, she stept aside,And in a chink herself doth hide,To see thereof what would betide,For she doth only mind him:When presently she Puck espies,And well she marked his gloating eyes,How under every leaf he pries,In seeking still to find them.
But once the circle got within,The charms to work do straight begin,And he was caught as in a gin;For as he thus was busy,A pain he in his head-piece feels,Against a stubbéd tree he reels,And up went poor Hobgoblin’s heels,Alas! his brain was dizzy!
At length upon his feet he gets,Hobgoblin fumes, Hobgoblin frets;And as again he forward sets,And through the bushes scrambles,A stump doth trip him in his pace;Down comes poor Hob upon his face,And lamentably tore his case,Amongst the briars and brambles.
“A plague upon Queen Mab!” quoth he,“And all her maids where’er they beI think the devil guided me,To seek her so provokéd!”Where stumbling at a piece of wood,He fell into a ditch of mud,Where to the very chin he stood,In danger to be chokéd.
Now worse than e’er he was before,Poor Puck doth yell, poor Puck doth roar,That waked Queen Mab, who doubted soreSome treason had been wrought her:Until Nymphidia told the QueenWhat she had done, what she had seen,Who then had well-near cracked her spleenWith very extreme laughter.
But leave we Hob to clamber out,Queen Mab and all her Fairy rout,And come again to have a boutWith Oberon yet madding:And with Pigwiggin now distraught,Who much was troubled in his thought,That he so long the Queen had sought,And through the fields was gadding.
And as he runs he still doth cry,“King Oberon, I thee defy,And dare thee here in arms to try,For my dear lady’s honour:For that she is a Queen right good,In whose defence I’ll shed my blood,And that thou in this jealous moodHast laid this slander on her.”
And quickly arms him for the field,A little cockle-shell his shield,Which he could very bravely wield;Yet could it not be piercéd:His spear a bent both stiff and strong,And well-near of two inches long:The pile was of a horse-fly’s tongue,Whose sharpness nought reverséd.
And puts him on a coat of mail,Which was made of a fish’s scale,That when his foe should him assail,No point should be prevailing:His rapier was a hornet’s sting,It was a very dangerous thing,For if he chanced to hurt the King,It would be long in healing.
His helmet was a beetle’s head,Most horrible and full of dread,That able was to strike one dead,Yet did it well become him;And for a plume a horse’s hair,Which, being tosséd with the air,Had force to strike his foe with fear,And turn his weapon from him.
Himself he on an earwig set,Yet scarce he on his back could get,So oft and high he did curvet,Ere he himself could settle:He made him turn, and stop, and bound,To gallop, and to trot the round,He scarce could stand on any ground,He was so full of mettle.
When soon he met with Tomalin,One that a valiant knight had been,And to King Oberon of kin;Quoth he, “Thou manly Fairy,Tell Oberon I come prepared,Then bid him stand upon his guard;This hand his baseness shall reward,Let him be ne’er so wary.
“Say to him thus, that I defyHis slanders and his infamy,And as a mortal enemyDo publicly proclaim him:Withal that if I had mine own,He should not wear the Fairy crown,But with a vengeance should come down,Nor we a king should name him.”
This Tomalin could not abide,To hear his sovereign vilified;But to the Fairy Court him hied,(Full furiously he posted,)With everything Pigwiggin said:How title to the crown he laid,And in what arms he was arrayed,As how himself he boasted.
Twixt head and foot, from point to point,He told the arming of each joint,In every piece how neat and quoint,For Tomalin could do it:How fair he sat, how sure he rid,As of the courser he bestrid,How managed, and how well he did:The King which listened to it,
Quoth he, “Go, Tomalin, with speed,Provide me arms, provide my steed,And everything that I shall need;By thee I will be guided:To straight account call thou thy wit;See there be wanting not a whit,In everything see thou me fit,Just as my foe’s provided.”
Soon flew this news through Fairy-land,Which gave Queen Mab to understandThe combat that was then in handBetwixt those men so mighty:Which greatly she began to rue,Perceiving that all Fairy knewThe first occasion from her grewOf these affairs so weighty.
Wherefore attended with her maids,Through fogs, and mists, and damps she wades,To Proserpine the Queen of Shades,To treat, that it would please herThe cause into her hands to take,For ancient love and friendship’s sake,And soon thereof an end to make,Which of much care would ease her.
A while there let we Mab alone,And come we to King Oberon,Who, armed to meet his foe, is gone,For proud Pigwiggin crying:Who sought the Fairy King as fast,And had so well his journeys cast,That he arrivéd at the last,His puissant foe espying.
Stout Tomalin came with the King,Tom Thumb doth on Pigwiggin bring,That perfect were in everythingTo single fights belonging:And therefore they themselves engage,To see them exercise their rage,With fair and comely equipage,Not one the other wronging.
So like in arms these champions were,As they had been a very pair,So that a man would almost swear,That either had been either;Their furious steeds began to neigh,That they were heard a mighty way;Their staves upon their rests they lay;Yet ere they flew together
Their seconds minister an oath,Which was indifferent to them both,That on their knightly faith and trothNo magic them suppliéd;And sought them that they had no charms,Wherewith to work each other harms,But came with simple open armsTo have their causes triéd.
Together furiously they ran,That to the ground came horse and man;The blood out of their helmets span,So sharp were their encounters;And though they to the earth were thrown,Yet quickly they regained their own,Such nimbleness was never shown,They were two gallant mounters.
When in a second course againThey forward came with might and main,Yet which had better of the twain,The seconds could not judge yet;Their shields were into pieces cleft,Their helmets from their heads were reft,And to defend them nothing left,These champions would not budge yet.
Away from them their staves they threw,Their cruel swords they quickly drew,And freshly they the fight renew,They every stroke redoubled:Which made Prosérpina take heed,And make to them the greater speed,For fear lest they too much should bleed,Which wondrously her troubled.
When to th’ infernal Styx she goes,She takes the fogs from thence that rose,And[114]in a bag doth them enclose:When well she had them blended,She hies her then to Lethe spring,A bottle and thereof doth bring,Wherewith she meant to work the thingWhich only she intended.
Now Proserpine with Mab is gone,Unto the place where OberonAnd proud Pigwiggin, one to one,Both to be slain were likely:And there themselves they closely hide,Because they would not be espied;For Proserpine meant to decideThe matter very quickly.
And suddenly unties the poke,Which out of it sent such a smoke,As ready was them all to choke,So grievous was the pother;So that the knights each other lost,And stood as still as any post;Tom Thumb nor Tomalin could boastThemselves of any other.
But when the mist ’gan somewhat cease,Prosérpina commandeth peace;And that a while they should releaseEach other of their peril:“Which here,” quoth she, “I do proclaimTo all in dreadful Pluto’s name,That as ye will eschew his blame,You let me bear the quarrel:
“But here yourselves you must engage,Somewhat to cool your spleenish rage;Your grievous thirst and to assuageThat first you drink this liquor,Which shall your understanding clear,As plainly shall to you appear;Those things from me that you shall hear,Conceiving much the quicker.”
This Lethe water, you must know,The memory destroyeth so,That of our weal, or of our woe,Is all remembrance blotted;Of it nor can you ever think,For they no sooner took this drink,But nought into their brains could sinkOf what had them besotted.
King Oberon forgotten had,That he for jealousy ran mad,But of his Queen was wondrous glad,And asked how they came thither:Pigwiggin likewise doth forgetThat he Queen Mab had ever met;Or that they were so hard beset,When they were found together.
Nor neither of them both had thought,That e’er they each had other sought,Much less that they a combat fought,But such a dream were lothing.Tom Thumb had got a little sup,And Tomalin scarce kissed the cup,Yet had their brains so sure locked up,That they remembered nothing.
Queen Mab and her light maids, the while,Amongst themselves do closely smile,To see the King caught with this wile,With one another jesting:And to the Fairy Court they went,With mickle joy and merriment,Which thing was done with good intent,And thus I left them feasting.
AN HEROI-COMICAL POEM.
Nolueram,Belinda,tuos violare capillos;Sed juvat,hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.
Nolueram,Belinda,tuos violare capillos;Sed juvat,hoc precibus me tribuisse tuis.
—Mart.,Epigr.xii. 84.
Whatdire offence from amorous causes springs,What mighty contests rise from trivial things,I sing—This verse to Caryl, Muse! is due:This, even Belinda may vouchsafe to view:Slight is the subject, but not so the praise,If she inspire, and he approve my lays.
Say what strange motive, Goddess! could compelA well-bred lord to assault a gentle belle?O say what stranger cause, yet unexplored,Could make a gentle belle reject a lord?In tasks so bold, can little men engage,And in soft bosoms dwells such mighty rage?
Sol through white curtains shot a timorous ray,And oped those eyes that must eclipse the day:Now lap-dogs give themselves the rousing shake,And sleepless lovers, just at twelve, awake:Thrice rung the bell, the slipper knocked the ground,And the pressed watch returned a silver sound.Belinda still her downy pillow pressed,Her guardian Sylph prolonged the balmy rest;’Twas he had summoned to her silent bedThe morning-dream that hovered o’er her head;A youth more glittering than a birth-night beau,(That even in slumber caused her cheek to glow)Seemed to her ear his winning lips to lay,And thus in whispers said, or seemed to say:
“Fairest of mortals, thou distinguished careOf thousand bright inhabitants of air!If e’er one vision touched thy infant thought,Of all the nurse and all the priest have taught;Of airy elves by moonlight shadows seen,The silver token, and the circled green,Or virgins visited by angel-powers,With golden crowns and wreaths of heavenly flowers;Hear and believe! thy own importance know,Nor bound thy narrow views to things below.Some secret truths, from learned pride concealed,To maids alone and children are revealed:What though no credit doubting wits may give?The fair and innocent shall still believe.Know, then, unnumbered spirits round thee fly,The light militia of the lower sky:These, though unseen, are ever on the wing,Hang o’er the box, and hover round the ring.Think what an equipage thou hast in air,And view with scorn two pages and a chair.As now your own, our beings were of old,And once enclosed in woman’s beauteous mould;Thence, by a soft transition, we repairFrom earthly vehicles to these of air.Think not, when woman’s transient breath is fled,That all her vanities at once are dead;Succeeding vanities she still regards,And though she plays no more, o’erlooks the cards.Her joy in gilded chariots, when alive,And love of ombre, after death survive.For when the fair in all their pride expire,To their first elements their souls retire:The sprites of fiery termagants in flameMount up, and take a Salamander’s name.Soft yielding minds to water glide away,And sip, with nymphs, their elemental tea.The graver prude sinks downward to a gnome,In search of mischief still on earth to roam,The light coquettes in sylphs aloft repair,And sport and flutter in the fields of air.
“Know further yet; whoever fair and chasteRejects mankind, is by some sylph embraced:For spirits, freed from mortal laws, with easeAssume what sexes and what shapes they please.What guards the purity of melting maids,In courtly balls and midnight masquerades,Safe from the treacherous friend, the daring spark,The glance by day, the whisper in the dark,When kind occasion prompts their warm desires,When music softens, and when dancing fires?’Tis but their sylph, the wise celestials know,Though honour is the word with men below.
“Some nymphs there are, too conscious of their face,For life predestined to the gnomes’ embrace.These swell their prospects and exalt their pride,When offers are disdained, and love denied:Then gay ideas crowd the vacant brain,While peers, and dukes, and all their sweeping train,And garters, stars, and coronets appear,And in soft sounds, Your Grace salutes their ear.’Tis these that early taint the female soul,Instruct the eyes of young coquettes to roll,Teach infant cheeks a hidden blush to know,And little hearts to flutter at a beau.
“Oft, when the world imagine women stray,The sylphs through mystic mazes guide their way,Through all the giddy circle they pursue,And old impertinence expel by new.What tender maid but must a victim fallTo one man’s treat, but for another’s ball?When Florio speaks what virgin could withstand,If gentle Damon did not squeeze her hand?With varying vanities, from every part,They shift the moving toyshop of their heart;Where wigs with wigs, with sword-knots sword-knots strive,Beaux banish beaux, and coaches coaches drive.This erring mortal’s levity may call;Oh, blind to truth! the sylphs contrive it all.
“Of these am I, who thy protection claim,A watchful sprite, and Ariel is my name.Late, as I ranged the crystal wilds of air,In the clear mirror of thy ruling starI saw, alas! some dread event impend,Ere to the main this morning sun descend,But heaven reveals not what, or how, or where:Warned by the sylph, oh pious maid, beware!This to disclose is all thy guardian can:Beware of all, but most beware of man!”
He said; when Shock, who thought she slept too long,Leaped up, and waked his mistress with his tongue.’Twas then, Belinda, if report say true,Thy eyes first opened on a billet-doux;Wounds, charms, and ardours were no sooner read,But all the vision vanished from thy head.
And now, unveiled, the toilet stands displayed,Each silver vase in mystic order laid.First, robed in white, the nymph intent adores,With head uncovered, the cosmetic powers.A heavenly image in the glass appears,To that she bends, to that her eyes she rears;The inferior priestess, at her altar’s side,Trembling begins the sacred rites of pride.Unnumbered treasures ope at once, and hereThe various offerings of the world appear;From each she nicely culls with curious toil,And decks the goddess with the glittering spoil.This casket India’s glowing gems unlocks,And all Arabia breathes from yonder box.The tortoise here and elephant unite,Transformed to combs, the speckled, and the white.Here files of pins extend their shining rows,Puffs, powders, patches, Bibles, billet-doux.Now awful beauty puts on all its arms;The fair each moment rises in her charms,Repairs her smiles, awakens every grace,And calls forth all the wonders of her face;Sees by degrees a purer blush arise,And keener lightnings quicken in her eyes.The busy sylphs surround their darling care,These set the head, and those divide the hair,Some fold the sleeve, whilst others plait the gown;And Betty’s praised for labours not her own.
Notwith more glories, in the ethereal plain,The sun first rises o’er the purpled main,Than, issuing forth, the rival of his beamsLaunched on the bosom of the silver Thames.Fair nymphs, and well-dressed youths around her shone,But every eye was fixed on her alone.On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,Which Jews might kiss, and Infidels adore.Her lively looks a sprightly mind disclose,Quick as her eyes, and as unfixed as those:Favours to none, to all she smiles extends;Oft she rejects, but never once offends.Bright as the sun, her eyes the gazers strike,And, like the sun, they shine on all alike,Yet graceful ease, and sweetness void of pride,Might hide her faults, if belles had faults to hide:If to her share some female errors fall,Look on her face, and you’ll forget ’em all.
This nymph, to the destruction of mankind,Nourished two locks, which graceful hung behindIn equal curls, and well conspired to deckWith shining ringlets the smooth ivory neck.Love in these labyrinths his slaves detains,And mighty hearts are held in slender chains.With hairy springes we the birds betray,Slight lines of hair surprise the finny prey,Fair tresses man’s imperial race ensnare,And beauty draws us with a single hair.
Th’ adventurous Baron the bright locks admired;He saw, he wished, and to the prize aspired.Resolved to win, he meditates the way,By force to ravish, or by fraud betray;For when success a lover’s toil attends,Few ask, if fraud or force attained his ends.
For this, ere Phœbus rose, he had imploredPropitious heaven, and every power adored,But chiefly Love—to Love an altar built,Of twelve vast French romances, neatly gilt.There lay three garters, half a pair of gloves;And all the trophies of his former loves;With tender billet-doux he lights the pyre,And breathes three amorous sighs to raise the fire,Then prostrate falls, and begs with ardent eyesSoon to obtain, and long possess the prize:The powers gave ear, and granted half his prayer,The rest, the winds dispersed in empty air.
But now secure the painted vessel glides,The sunbeams trembling on the floating tides:While melting music steals upon the sky,And softened sounds along the waters die;Smooth flow the waves, the zephyrs gently play,Belinda smiled, and all the world was gay.All but the Sylph—with careful thoughts oppressed,Th’ impending woe sat heavy on his breast.He summons straight his denizens of air;The lucid squadrons round the sails repair:Soft o’er the shrouds aërial whispers breathe,That seemed but zephyrs to the train beneath.Some to the sun their insect wings unfold,Waft on the breeze, or sink in clouds of gold;Transparent forms, too fine for mortal sight,Their fluid bodies half dissolved in light,Loose to the wind their airy garments flew,Thin glittering textures of the filmy dew,Dipped in the richest tincture of the skies,Where light disports in ever-mingling dyes,While every beam new transient colours flings,Colours that change whene’er they wave their wings.Amid the circle, on the gilded mast,Superior by the head, was Ariel placed;His purple pinions opening to the sun,He raised his azure wand, and thus begun:
“Ye Sylphs and Sylphids, to your chief give ear!Fays, Fairies, Genii, Elves, and Dæmons, hear!Ye know the spheres and various tasks assignedBy laws eternal to th’ aërial kind.Some in the fields of purest æther play,And bask and whiten in the blaze of day.Some guide the course of wandering orbs on high,Or roll the planets through the boundless sky.Some less refined, beneath the moon’s pale lightPursue the stars that shoot athwart the night,Or suck the mists in grosser air below,Or dip their pinions in the painted bow,Or brew fierce tempests on the wintry main,Or o’er the glebe distil the kindly rain.Others on earth o’er human race preside,Watch all their ways, and all their actions guide:Of these the chief the care of nations own,And guard with arms divine the British throne.
“Our humbler province is to tend the fair,Not a less pleasing, though less glorious care;To save the powder from too rude a gale,Nor let the imprisoned essences exhale;To draw fresh colours from the vernal flowers;To steal from rainbows ere they drop in showersA brighter wash; to curl their waving hairs,Assist their blushes, and inspire their airs;Nay oft, in dreams, invention we bestow,To change a flounce or add a furbelow.
“This day black omens threat the brightest fairThat e’er deserved a watchful spirit’s care;Some dire disaster, or by force or slight;But what, or where, the fates have wrapt in night.Whether the nymph shall break Diana’s law,Or some frail china jar receive a flaw;Or stain her honour or her new brocade;Forget her prayers, or miss a masquerade;Or lose her heart, or necklace, at a ball;Or whether Heaven has doomed that Shock must fall,Haste, then, ye spirits! to your charge repair:The fluttering fan be Zephyretta’s care;The drops to thee, Brillante, we consign;And, Momentilla, let the watch be thine;Do thou, Crispissa, tend her favourite lock;Ariel himself shall be the guard of Shock.
“To fifty chosen sylphs, of special note,We trust th’ important charge, the petticoat:Oft have we known that sevenfold fence to fail,Though stiff with hoops, and armed with ribs of whale;Form a strong line about the silver bound,And guard the wide circumference around.
“Whatever spirit, careless of his charge,His post neglects, or leaves the fair at large,Shall feel sharp vengeance soon o’ertake his sins,Be stopped in vials, or transfixed with pins;Or plunged in lakes of bitter washes lie,Or wedged whole ages in a bodkin’s eye:Gums and pomatums shall his flight restrain,While clogged he beats his silken wings in vain;Or alum styptics with contracting powerShrink his thin essence like a rivelled flower;Or, as Ixion fixed, the wretch shall feelThe giddy motion of the whirling mill,In fumes of burning chocolate shall glow,And tremble at the sea that froths below!”
He spoke; the spirits from the sails descend;Some, orb in orb, around the nymph extend;Some thrid the mazy ringlets of her hair;Some hang upon the pendants of her ear:With beating hearts the dire event they wait,Anxious and trembling, for the birth of Fate.
Closeby those meads, for ever crowned with flowers,Where Thames with pride surveys his rising towers,There stands a structure of majestic frame,Which from the neighbouring Hampton takes its name.Here Britain’s statesmen oft the fall foredoomOf foreign tyrants and of nymphs at home;Here thou, great Anna! whom three realms obey,Dost sometimes counsel take—and sometimes tea.
Hither the heroes and the nymphs resort,To taste awhile the pleasures of a court;In various talk the instructive hours they passed,Who gave the ball, or paid the visit last;One speaks the glory of the British Queen,And one describes a charming Indian screen;A third interprets motions, looks, and eyes;At every word a reputation dies.Snuff, or the fan, supply each pause of chat,With singing, laughing, ogling,and all that.
Meanwhile, declining from the noon of day,The sun obliquely shoots his burning ray;The hungry judges soon the sentence sign,And wretches hang that jurymen may dine;The merchant from the Exchange returns in peace,And the long labours of the toilet cease.Belinda now whom thirst of fame invites,Burns to encounter two adventurous knights,At Ombre singly to decide their doom;And swells her breast with conquests yet to come.Straight the three bands prepare in arms to join,Each band the number of the sacred nine.Soon as she spreads her hand, the aerial guardDescend, and sit on each important card:First Ariel, perched upon a Matador,Then each, according to the rank they bore;For sylphs, yet mindful of their ancient race,Are, as when women, wondrous fond of place.
Behold, four Kings in majesty revered,With hoary whiskers and a forky beard;And four fair Queens whose hands sustain a flower,The expressive emblem of their softer power;Four Knaves in garbs succinct, a trusty band,Caps on their heads, and halberts in their hand;And particoloured troops, a shining train,Draw forth to combat on the velvet plain.
The skilful Nymph reviews her force with care:“Let Spades be trumps!” she said, and trumps they were.
Now move to war her sable Matadores,In show like leaders of the swarthy Moors.Spadillio first, unconquerable lord,Led off two captive trumps, and swept the board.As many more Manillio forced to yield,And marched a victor from the verdant field.Him Basto followed, but his fate more hardGained but one trump and one plebeian card.With his broad sabre next, a chief in years,The hoary Majesty of Spades appears,Puts forth one manly leg, to sight revealed,The rest, his many-coloured robe concealed.The rebel Knave, who dares his prince engage,Proves the just victim of his royal rage.Even mighty Pam,[126]that Kings and Queens o’erthrewAnd mowed down armies in the fights of Lu,Sad chance of war! now destitute of aid,Falls undistinguished by the victor Spade!
Thus far both armies to Belinda yield;Now to the Baron fate inclines the field.His warlike Amazon her host invades,Th’ imperial consort of the crown of Spades.The Club’s black tyrant first her victim died,Spite of his haughty mien, and barbarous pride;What boots the regal circle on his head,His giant limbs, in state unwieldy spread;That long behind he trails his pompous robe,And, of all monarchs, only grasps the globe?
The Baron now his Diamonds pours apace;The embroidered King who shows but half his face,And his refulgent Queen, with powers combinedOf broken troops an easy conquest find.Clubs, Diamonds, Hearts, in wild disorder seen,With throngs promiscuous strow the level green.Thus when dispersed a routed army runs,Of Asia’s troops, and Afric’s sable sons,With like confusion different nations fly,Of various habit, and of various dye,The pierced battalions disunited fall,In heaps on heaps; one fate o’erwhelms them all.
The Knave of Diamonds tries his wily arts,And wins (oh shameful chance!) the Queen of Hearts.At this, the blood the virgin’s cheek forsook,A livid paleness spreads o’er all her look;She sees, and trembles at th’ approaching ill,Just in the jaws of ruin, and codille.And now (as oft in some distempered State)On one nice trick depends the general fate.An Ace of Hearts steps forth: the King unseenLurked in her hand, and mourned his captive Queen:He springs to vengeance with an eager pace,And falls like thunder on the prostrate Ace.The nymph exulting fills with shouts the sky;The walls, the woods, and long canals reply.
Oh thoughtless mortals, ever blind to fate,Too soon dejected, and too soon elate!Sudden, these honours shall be snatched away,And cursed for ever this victorious day.
For lo, the board with cups and spoons is crowned,The berries crackle, and the mill turns round;On shining altars of Japan they raiseThe silver lamp; the fiery spirits blaze:From silver spouts the grateful liquors glide,While China’s earth receives the smoking tide:At once they gratify their scent and taste,And frequent cups prolong the rich repast.Straight hover round the Fair her airy band;Some, as she sipped, the fuming liquor fanned,Some o’er her lap their careful plumes displayed,Trembling, and conscious of the rich brocade.Coffee (which makes the politician wise,And see through all things with his half-shut eyes)Sent up in vapours to the Baron’s brainNew stratagems the radiant Lock to gain.Ah cease, rash youth! desist ere ’tis too late,Fear the just Gods, and think of Scylla’s fate!Changed to a bird, and sent to flit in air,She dearly pays for Nisus’ injured hair!
But when to mischief mortals bend their will,How soon they find fit instruments of ill!Just then, Clarissa drew with tempting graceA two-edged weapon from her shining case:So ladies in romance assist their knight,Present the spear, and arm him for the fight.He takes the gift with reverence, and extendsThe little engine on his fingers’ ends;This just behind Belinda’s neck he spread,As o’er the fragrant steams she bends her head.Swift to the lock a thousand sprites repair,A thousand wings, by turns, blow back the hair;And thrice they twitched the diamond in her ear;Thrice she looked back, and thrice the foe drew near.Just in that instant, anxious Ariel soughtThe close recesses of the virgin’s thought;As on the nosegay in her breast reclined,He watched the ideas rising in her mind,Sudden he viewed, in spite of all her art,An earthly lover lurking at her heart.Amazed, confused, he found his power expired,Resigned to fate, and with a sigh retired.
The peer now spreads the glittering forfex wide,To inclose the lock; now joins it, to divide.Even then, before the fatal engine closed,A wretched sylph too fondly interposed;Fate urged the shears, and cut the sylph in twain(But airy substance soon unites again),The meeting points the sacred hair disseverFrom the fair head, for ever, and for ever!
Then flashed the living lightning from her eyes,And screams of horror rend the affrighted skies.Not louder shrieks to pitying heaven are cast,When husbands or when lapdogs breathe their last;Or when rich china vessels fallen from high,In glittering dust and painted fragments lie!
“Let wreaths of triumph now my temples twine,”The victor cried, “the glorious prize is mine!”While fish in streams, or birds delight in air,Or in a coach-and-six the British fair,As long as Atalantis shall be read,[129]Or the small pillow grace a lady’s bed,While visits shall be paid on solemn days,When numerous wax-lights in bright order blaze,While nymphs take treats, or assignations give,So long my honour, name, and praise shall live!What time would spare, from steel receives its date,And monuments, like men, submit to fate!Steel could the labour of the gods destroy,And strike to dust th’ imperial towers of Troy;Steel could the works of mortal pride confound,And hew triumphal arches to the ground.What wonder then, fair nymph! thy hairs should feelThe conquering force of unresisting steel?
Butanxious cares the pensive nymph oppressed,And secret passions laboured in her breast.Not youthful kings in battle seized alive,Not scornful virgins who their charms survive,Not ardent lovers robbed of all their bliss,Not ancient ladies when refused a kiss,Not tyrants fierce that unrepenting die,Not Cynthia when her manteau’s pinned awry,E’er felt such rage, resentment, and despair,As thou, sad virgin! for thy ravished hair.
For that sad moment when the sylphs withdrew.And Ariel weeping from Belinda flew,Umbriel, a dusky, melancholy sprite,As ever sullied the fair face of light,Down to the central earth, his proper scene,Repaired to search the gloomy cave of Spleen.
Swift on his sooty pinions flits the gnome,And in a vapour reached the dismal dome.No cheerful breeze this sullen region knows,The dreaded east is all the wind that blows.Here in a grotto, sheltered close from air,And screened in shades from day’s detested glare,She sighs for ever on her pensive bed,Pain at her side, and Megrim[130]at her head.
Two handmaids wait the throne: alike in place,But differing far in figure and in face.Here stood Ill-nature like an ancient maid,Her wrinkled form in black and white arrayed;With store of prayers, for mornings, nights, and noons,Her hand is filled; her bosom with lampoons.
There Affectation, with a sickly mien,Shows in her cheek the roses of eighteen,Practised to lisp, and hang the head aside,Faints into airs, and languishes with pride,On the rich quilt sinks with becoming woe,Wrapped in a gown, for sickness, and for show.The fair ones feel such maladies as these,When each new night-dress gives a new disease.A constant vapour o’er the palace flies;Strange phantoms rising as the mists arise;Dreadful as hermit’s dreams in haunted shades,Or bright as visions of expiring maids.Now glaring fiends, and snakes on rolling spires,Pale spectres, gaping tombs, and purple fires:Now lakes of liquid gold, Elysian scenes,And crystal domes and angels in machines.
Unnumbered throngs on every side are seen,Of bodies changed to various forms by Spleen.Here living tea-pots stand, one arm held out,One bent; the handle this, and that the spout:A pipkin there, like Homer’s tripod walks;Here sighs a jar, and there a goose-pie talks;Men prove with child, as powerful fancy works,And maids turned bottles call aloud for corks.
Safe past the Gnome, through this fantastic band,A branch of healing spleenwort in his hand.Then thus addressed the power: “Hail, wayward Queen!Who rule the sex to fifty from fifteen:Parent of vapours and of female wit,Who give the hysteric, or poetic fit,On various tempers act by various ways,Make some take physic, others scribble plays;Who cause the proud their visits to delay,And send the godly in a pet to pray.A nymph there is, that all thy power disdains,And thousands more in equal mirth maintains.But oh! if e’er thy gnome could spoil a grace,Or raise a pimple on a beauteous face,Like citron-waters matrons’ cheeks inflame,Or change complexions at a losing game;If e’er with airy horns I planted heads,Or rumpled petticoats, or tumbled beds,Or caused suspicion when no soul was rude,Or discomposed the head-dress of a prude,Or e’er to costive lapdog gave disease,Which not the tears of brightest eyes could ease:Hear me, and touch Belinda with chagrin,That single act gives half the world the spleen.”
The Goddess with a discontented airSeems to reject him, though she grants his prayer.A wondrous bag with both her hands she binds,Like that where once Ulysses held the winds;There she collects the force of female lungs,Sighs, sobs, and passions, and the war of tongues.A vial next she fills with fainting fears,Soft sorrows, melting griefs, and flowing tears.The gnome rejoicing bears her gifts away,Spreads his black wings, and slowly mounts to day.
Sunk in Thalestris’ arms the nymph he found,Her eyes dejected and her hair unbound.Full o’er their heads the swelling bag he rent,And all the Furies issued at the vent.Belinda burns with more than mortal ire,And fierce Thalestris fans the rising fire.“O wretched maid!” she spread her hands, and cried,(While Hampton’s echoes, “Wretched maid!” replied)“Was it for this you took such constant careThe bodkin, comb, and essence to prepare?For this your locks in paper durance bound,For this with torturing irons wreathed around?For this with fillets strained your tender head,And bravely bore the double loads of lead?Gods! shall the ravisher display your hair,While the fops envy, and the ladies stare!Honour forbid! at whose unrivalled shrineEase, pleasure, virtue, all our sex resign.Methinks already I your tears survey,Already hear the horrid things they say,Already see you a degraded toast,And all your honour in a whisper lost!How shall I, then, your helpless fame defend?’Twill then be infamy to seem your friend!And shall this prize, the inestimable prize,Exposed through crystal to the gazing eyes,And heightened by the diamond’s circling rays,On that rapacious hand for ever blaze?Sooner shall grass in Hyde Park Circus grow,And wits take lodgings in the sound of Bow;Sooner let earth, air, sea, to chaos fall,Men, monkeys, lap-dogs, parrots, perish all!”
She said; then raging to Sir Plume repairs,And bids her beau demand the precious hairs:(Sir Plume of amber snuff-box justly vain,And the nice conduct of a clouded cane)With earnest eyes, and round unthinking face,He first the snuff-box opened, then the case,And thus broke out—“My Lord, why what the devil?Zounds! damn the lock! ’fore Gad, you must be civil!Plague on’t! ’tis past a jest—nay prithee, pox!Give her the hair”—he spoke, and rapped his box.
“It grieves me much” (replied the Peer again)“Who speaks so well should ever speak in vain.But by this lock, this sacred lock, I swear,(Which never more shall join its parted hair;Which never more its honours shall renew,Clipped from the lovely head where late it grew)That while my nostrils draw the vital air,This hand, which won it, shall for ever wear.”He spoke, and speaking, in proud triumph spreadThe long-contended honours of her head.
But Umbriel, hateful gnome! forbears not so;He breaks the vial whence the sorrows flow.Then see! the nymph in beauteous grief appears,Her eyes half-languishing, half-drowned in tears;On her heaved bosom hung her drooping head,Which, with a sigh, she raised; and thus she said:
“For ever cursed be this detested day,Which snatched my best, my favourite curl away!Happy! ah, ten times happy had I been,If Hampton Court these eyes had never seen!Yet am not I the first mistaken maid,By love of courts to numerous ills betrayed.Oh had I rather unadmired remainedIn some lone isle, or distant Northern land,Where the gilt chariot never marks the way,Where none learn ombre, none e’er taste Bohea;There kept my charms concealed from mortal eye,Like roses that in deserts bloom and die!What moved my mind with youthful lords to roam?Oh had I stayed, and said my prayers at home!’Twas this, the morning omens seemed to tell,Thrice from my trembling hand the patch-box fell;The tottering china shook without a wind,Nay, Poll sat mute, and Shock was most unkind!A sylph, too, warned me of the threats of fate,In mystic visions, now believed too late!See the poor remnants of these slighted hairs!My hands shall rend what even thy rapine spares:These in two sable ringlets taught to break,Once gave new beauties to the snowy neck;The sister-lock now sits uncouth, alone,And in its fellow’s fate foresees its own;Uncurled it hangs, the fatal shears demands,And tempts once more thy sacrilegious hands.Oh hadst thou, cruel! been content to seizeHairs less in sight, or any hairs but these!”