THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATIONA TALE
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATIONA TALE
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATIONA TALE
THE DOUBLE TRANSFORMATIONA TALE
Secluded from domestic strife,Jack Book-Worm led a college life;A fellowship at twenty-fiveMade him the happiest man alive;He drank his glass, and crack’d his joke,And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke.Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care,Could any accident impair?Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfixOur swain, arriv’d at thirty-six?Oh! had the Archer ne’er come downTo ravage in a country town;Or Flavia been content to stopAt triumphs in a Fleet Street shop!Oh! had her eyes forgot to blaze!Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze.Oh!—but let exclamation cease;Her presence banish’d all his peace!So, with decorum all things carried,Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was—married.The honey-moon like lightning flew;The second brought its transports, too;A third, a fourth, were not amiss;The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss:But when a twelvemonth pass’d away,Jack found his goddess made ofclay—Found half the charms that deck’d her faceArose from powder, shreds, or lace;But still the worst remain’dbehind—That very face had robb’d her mind.Skill’d in no other arts was she,But dressing, patching, repartee;And, just as humour rose or fell,By turns a slattern or a belle.’Tis true she dress’d with moderngrace—Half naked at a ball or race;But when at home, at board or bed,Five greasy night-caps wrapp’d her head.Could so much beauty condescendTo be a dull domestic friend?Could any curtain-lectures bringTo decency so fine thing?In short—by night, ’twas fits or fretting;By day, ’twas gadding or coquetting.Fond to be seen, she kept a bevyOf powder’d coxcombs at her levee;The ’squire and captain took their stations,And twenty other near relations.Jack suck’d his pipe, and often brokeA sigh in suffocating smoke;While all their hours were pass’d betweenInsulting repartee or spleen.Thus, as her faults each day were known,He thinks her features coarser grown:He fancies every vice she showsOr thins her lip, or points her nose;Whenever rage or envy rise,How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!He knows not how, but so it is,Her face is grown a knowingphiz—And, though her fops are wondrous civil,He thinks her ugly as the devil.Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,As each a different waypursues—While sullen or loquacious strifePromis’d to hold them on forlife—That dire disease, whose ruthless powerWithers the beauty’s transient flower,Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glareLevell’d its terrors at the fair;And, rifling every youthful grace,Left but the remnant of a face.The glass, grown hateful to her sight,Reflected now a—perfect fright.Each former art she vainly tries,To bring back lustre to her eyes;In vain she tries her pastes and creams,To smooth her skin, or hide its seams:Her country beaux and city cousins,Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;The ’squire himself was seen to yield,And even the captain quit the field.Poor madam, now condemn’d to hackThe rest of life with anxious Jack,Perceiving others fairly flown,Attempted pleasing him alone.Jack soon was dazzled to beholdHer present face surpass the old.With modesty her cheeks are dy’d;Humility displaces pride:For tawdry finery is seen,A person ever neatly clean:No more presuming on her sway,She learns good-nature every day:Serenely gay, and strict in duty,Jack finds his wife a—perfect beauty.
Secluded from domestic strife,Jack Book-Worm led a college life;A fellowship at twenty-fiveMade him the happiest man alive;He drank his glass, and crack’d his joke,And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke.Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care,Could any accident impair?Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfixOur swain, arriv’d at thirty-six?Oh! had the Archer ne’er come downTo ravage in a country town;Or Flavia been content to stopAt triumphs in a Fleet Street shop!Oh! had her eyes forgot to blaze!Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze.Oh!—but let exclamation cease;Her presence banish’d all his peace!So, with decorum all things carried,Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was—married.The honey-moon like lightning flew;The second brought its transports, too;A third, a fourth, were not amiss;The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss:But when a twelvemonth pass’d away,Jack found his goddess made ofclay—Found half the charms that deck’d her faceArose from powder, shreds, or lace;But still the worst remain’dbehind—That very face had robb’d her mind.Skill’d in no other arts was she,But dressing, patching, repartee;And, just as humour rose or fell,By turns a slattern or a belle.’Tis true she dress’d with moderngrace—Half naked at a ball or race;But when at home, at board or bed,Five greasy night-caps wrapp’d her head.Could so much beauty condescendTo be a dull domestic friend?Could any curtain-lectures bringTo decency so fine thing?In short—by night, ’twas fits or fretting;By day, ’twas gadding or coquetting.Fond to be seen, she kept a bevyOf powder’d coxcombs at her levee;The ’squire and captain took their stations,And twenty other near relations.Jack suck’d his pipe, and often brokeA sigh in suffocating smoke;While all their hours were pass’d betweenInsulting repartee or spleen.
Secluded from domestic strife,Jack Book-Worm led a college life;A fellowship at twenty-fiveMade him the happiest man alive;He drank his glass, and crack’d his joke,And freshmen wonder’d as he spoke.
Such pleasures, unalloy’d with care,Could any accident impair?Could Cupid’s shaft at length transfixOur swain, arriv’d at thirty-six?Oh! had the Archer ne’er come downTo ravage in a country town;Or Flavia been content to stopAt triumphs in a Fleet Street shop!Oh! had her eyes forgot to blaze!Or Jack had wanted eyes to gaze.Oh!—but let exclamation cease;Her presence banish’d all his peace!So, with decorum all things carried,Miss frown’d, and blush’d, and then was—married.
The honey-moon like lightning flew;The second brought its transports, too;A third, a fourth, were not amiss;The fifth was friendship mix’d with bliss:But when a twelvemonth pass’d away,Jack found his goddess made ofclay—Found half the charms that deck’d her faceArose from powder, shreds, or lace;But still the worst remain’dbehind—That very face had robb’d her mind.
Skill’d in no other arts was she,But dressing, patching, repartee;And, just as humour rose or fell,By turns a slattern or a belle.’Tis true she dress’d with moderngrace—Half naked at a ball or race;But when at home, at board or bed,Five greasy night-caps wrapp’d her head.Could so much beauty condescendTo be a dull domestic friend?Could any curtain-lectures bringTo decency so fine thing?In short—by night, ’twas fits or fretting;By day, ’twas gadding or coquetting.Fond to be seen, she kept a bevyOf powder’d coxcombs at her levee;The ’squire and captain took their stations,And twenty other near relations.Jack suck’d his pipe, and often brokeA sigh in suffocating smoke;While all their hours were pass’d betweenInsulting repartee or spleen.
Thus, as her faults each day were known,He thinks her features coarser grown:He fancies every vice she showsOr thins her lip, or points her nose;Whenever rage or envy rise,How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!He knows not how, but so it is,Her face is grown a knowingphiz—And, though her fops are wondrous civil,He thinks her ugly as the devil.Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,As each a different waypursues—While sullen or loquacious strifePromis’d to hold them on forlife—That dire disease, whose ruthless powerWithers the beauty’s transient flower,Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glareLevell’d its terrors at the fair;And, rifling every youthful grace,Left but the remnant of a face.The glass, grown hateful to her sight,Reflected now a—perfect fright.Each former art she vainly tries,To bring back lustre to her eyes;In vain she tries her pastes and creams,To smooth her skin, or hide its seams:Her country beaux and city cousins,Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;The ’squire himself was seen to yield,And even the captain quit the field.Poor madam, now condemn’d to hackThe rest of life with anxious Jack,Perceiving others fairly flown,Attempted pleasing him alone.Jack soon was dazzled to beholdHer present face surpass the old.With modesty her cheeks are dy’d;Humility displaces pride:For tawdry finery is seen,A person ever neatly clean:No more presuming on her sway,She learns good-nature every day:Serenely gay, and strict in duty,Jack finds his wife a—perfect beauty.
Thus, as her faults each day were known,He thinks her features coarser grown:He fancies every vice she showsOr thins her lip, or points her nose;Whenever rage or envy rise,How wide her mouth, how wild her eyes!He knows not how, but so it is,Her face is grown a knowingphiz—And, though her fops are wondrous civil,He thinks her ugly as the devil.Now, to perplex the ravell’d noose,As each a different waypursues—While sullen or loquacious strifePromis’d to hold them on forlife—That dire disease, whose ruthless powerWithers the beauty’s transient flower,Lo! the small-pox, whose horrid glareLevell’d its terrors at the fair;And, rifling every youthful grace,Left but the remnant of a face.
The glass, grown hateful to her sight,Reflected now a—perfect fright.Each former art she vainly tries,To bring back lustre to her eyes;In vain she tries her pastes and creams,To smooth her skin, or hide its seams:Her country beaux and city cousins,Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;The ’squire himself was seen to yield,And even the captain quit the field.
Poor madam, now condemn’d to hackThe rest of life with anxious Jack,Perceiving others fairly flown,Attempted pleasing him alone.Jack soon was dazzled to beholdHer present face surpass the old.With modesty her cheeks are dy’d;Humility displaces pride:For tawdry finery is seen,A person ever neatly clean:No more presuming on her sway,She learns good-nature every day:Serenely gay, and strict in duty,Jack finds his wife a—perfect beauty.