Chapter 15

THE supper o'er, our couple left alone, What fairer field could truly have been shown? The belle now wore a smart becoming dress, Designed, in ev'ry view, to prepossess. 'Twas NEGLIGENCE, so requisite to please And fascinate, with airy, careless ease, According to the taste which I pursue, That made her charms so exquisite to view. No gaudy tinsel: all was flowing light; Though not superb, yet pleasing to the sight; A neckerchief, where much should be concealed, Was made so narrow,--beauties half revealed; Beneath is shade--what words can ne'er express; And Reynold saw enough the rest to guess. No more I say; the belle indeed was fair, Possessed of youth and all engaging air; Tall, nicely formed; each grace, that hearts could win; Not much of fat, nor yet appeared too thin. Emotion, at the view, who would not feel? To soft delight what bosom proves of steel? No marble bust, philosopher, nor stone, But similar sensation would have shown.

THE silence first was broken by the dame; Who spoke so freely, Reynold bolder came. He knew not well, howe'er, discourse to find; To help him out the widow was inclined; Said she, you much remind me of a friend, Whose ev'ry wish I sought with mine to blend My husband (rest his soul!) had just those eyes, That look, air, mouth:--the very height and size: You greatly honour me, the spark replied: Your charms howe'er might well have been his pride; I ne'er beheld such soft engaging mien: On earth, like beauty never yet was seen. But, in extremes to be, appears my lot; Just now I felt quite chilled:--at present hot; Pray tell me which is best? The fair looked down, And humbly seemed to wave the proffered crown, That she might still more flattery receive Address not small, if we'll our eyes believe. The swain now praised each charm within his view, And whatsoe'er his wishes could pursue; Where hope was strong, and expectation high, She would not long be cruel and deny. To give the praise, your due, the lover cried, And note the beauties that my heart divide, 'Twould take an age, and I've a single night, Which surely might be passed with more delight. The widow smiled; enough it seems was said; And Reynold shortened--what to nothing led. In war or love, time equally is dear; More happy than our spark none could appear; No point but what he gained; the smiling dame Resistance only showed to raise the flame; Nor more nor less; each belle like art has got, And practises at will, or maid or not.

BUT truly, it was never my intent To count each favour she to Reynold lent; Particulars exact of ev'ry kiss, And all the preludes incident to bliss; Both, doubtless, knew more ways than one to please; And sought, with anxious care, love's charms to seize. On recollection of the wretched state In which our traveller had moved of late, Some favour was bestowed:--there, cried the dame, Is something to repay the road you came; This for the cold; that fear; there thieves disgraced; So, one by one, the whole was soon effaced. In this way to be paid for ills we meet, Who'd not be satisfied with boons so sweet? And we conclude, that Reynold on the spot, Love's am'rous recompense of pleasures got. Now easy conversation was renewed; Then mutual kisses; ev'ry sweet pursued. 'Twas time for bed; howe'er, the widow fair Determined that her own the spark should share; 'Twas prudent, doubtless; like a lady wise; Gallantly done: one room would well suffice.

WHAT further passed betwixt the pair that night; I cannot say, though we'll believe 'twas right; Between the clothes when laid, and unrestrained, Most clearly, Reynold all his wishes gained. There he was recompensed for ev'ry grief; The lady too, received so much relief, That she desired his company again, But still these visits secrets should remain; 'Twas requisite the governor to see; Howe'er the dame delighted seemed to be, And not content with what she had bestowed, A purse well stored with gold to Reynold showed: He took no more, indeed, than what would pay The bare expenses on his homeward way; Then sought the street that to the tavern led, Where still his lazy servant was in bed; The fellow mauled; then changed throughout his dress; Since to the cloak-bag now he had access. His fortune to complete, that day they took The very wretches that he wished to hook. He to the judge repaired with ev'ry haste; In such a case you never time should waste; For, once the things are into court received, 'Tis like the lion's den: naught e'er 's retrieved; Their hands are closed, not 'gainst what may be brought But to secure what from their grasp is sought. Who seeks redress by law, facts oft have shown, May bless his stars if he but keep his own.

THE trial o'er, a gallows treble-faced, Was, for their swinging, in the market placed, ONE of the three harangued the mob around, (His speech was for the others also found) Then, 'bout their necks the halters being tied, Repentant and confessed the culprits died.

WHO, after this, will doubt the pow'r of prayers? These silly knaves had banished all their cares; And when at ease they thought to skip and prance, Were seized and quickly taught another dance. On t'other hand, where dire distress prevailed, And death, in various ways, our spark assailed, A beauty suddenly his senses charmed, Who might a prelate's bosom have alarmed. So truly fortunate, indeed, his lot, Again his money, baggage, horse he got; And, thank Saint Julian, howsoever tossed, He passed a blissful night that nothing cost.

THE COUNTRYMAN WHO SOUGHT HIS CALF

A COUNTRYMAN, one day, his calf had lost, And, seeking it, a neighbouring forest crossed; The tallest tree that in the district grew, He climbed to get a more extensive view. Just then a lady with her lover came; The place was pleasing, both to spark and dame; Their mutual wishes, looks and eyes expressed, And on the grass the lady was caressed. At sights of charms, enchanting to the eyes, The gay gallant exclaimed, with fond surprise:-- Ye gods, what striking beauties now I see! No objects named; but spoke with anxious glee. The clod, who, on the tree had mounted high, And heard at ease the conversation nigh, Now cried:--Good man! who see with such delight; Pray tell me if my calf be in your sight?

HANS CARVEL'S RING

HANS CARVEL took, when weak and late in life; A girl, with youth and beauteous charms to wife; And with her, num'rous troubles, cares and fears; For, scarcely one without the rest appears. Bab (such her name, and daughter of a knight) Was airy, buxom: formed for am'rous fight. Hans, holding jeers and cuckoldom in dread, Would have his precious rib with caution tread, And nothing but the Bible e'er peruse; All other books he daily would abuse; Blamed secret visits; frowned at loose attire; And censured ev'ry thing gallants admire. The dame, howe'er, was deaf to all he said; No preaching pleased but what to pleasure led, Which made the aged husband hold his tongue. And wish for death, since all round went wrong. Some easy moments he perhaps might get; A full detail in hist'ry's page is met. One night, when company he'd had to dine, And pretty well was fill'd with gen'rous wine, Hans dreamed, as near his wife he snoring lay, The devil came his compliments to pay, And having on his finger put a ring, Said he, friend Hans, I know thou feel'st a sting; Thy trouble 's great: I pity much thy case; Let but this ring, howe'er, thy finger grace, And while 'tis there I'll answer with my head, THAT ne'er shall happen which is now thy dread: Hans, quite delighted, forced his finger through; You drunken beast, cried Bab, what would you do? To love's devoirs quite lost, you take no care, And now have thrust your finger God knows where!

THE HERMIT

WHEN Venus and Hypocrisy combine, Oft pranks are played that show a deep design; Men are but men, and friars full as weak: I'm not by Envy moved these truths to speak. Have you a sister, daughter, pretty wife? Beware the monks as you would guard your life; If in their snares a simple belle be caught: The trap succeeds: to ruin she is brought. To show that monks are knaves in Virtue's mask; Pray read my tale:--no other proof I ask.

A HERMIT, full of youth, was thought around, A saint, and worthy of the legend found. The holy man a knotted cincture wore; But, 'neath his garb:--heart-rotten to the core. A chaplet from his twisted girdle hung, Of size extreme, and regularly strung, On t'other side was worn a little bell; The hypocrite in ALL, he acted well; And if a female near his cell appeared, He'd keep within as if the sex he feared, With downcast eyes and looks of woe complete, You'd ne'er suppose that butter he could eat.

NOT far from where the hermit's cell was placed, Within a village dwelled a widow chaste; Her residence was at the further end And all her store--a daughter as a friend, Who candour, youth, and charms supreme possessed; And still a virgin lived, howe'er distressed. Though if the real truth perhaps we name, 'Twas more simplicity than virtuous aim; Not much of industry, but honest heart; No wealth, nor lovers, who might hope impart. In Adam's days, when all with clothes were born, She doubtless might like finery have worn; A house was furnished then without expense; For sheets or mattresses you'd no pretence; Not e'en a bed was necessary thought No blankets, pillowbiers, nor quilts were bought. Those times are o'er; then Hymen came alone; But now a lawyer in his train is shown.

OUR anchorite, in begging through the place; This girl beheld,--but not with eyes of grace. Said he, she'll do, and, if thou manag'st right, Lucius, at times, with her to pass the night. No time he lost, his wishes to secure: The means, we may suppose, not over pure.

QUITE near the open fields they lived, I've said; An humble, boarded cottage o'er their head. One charming night--no, I mistake 'tis plain, Our hermit, favoured much by wind and rain, Pierced in the boarding, where by time 'twas worn; A hole through which he introduced a horn; And loudly bawled:--attend to what I say, Ye women, my commands at once obey. This voice spread terror through the little cot; Both hid their heads and trembled for their lot; But still our monk his horn would sound aloud Awake! cried he; your favour God has vowed; My faithful servant, Lucius, haste to seek; At early dawn go find this hermit meek To no one say a word: 'tis Heav'n ordains; Fear nothing, Lucius ever blessed remains; I'll show the way myself: your daughter place, Good widow, with this holy man of grace; And from their intercourse a pope shall spring, Who back to virtue christendom will bring.

HE spoke to them so very loud and clear, They heard, though 'neath the clothes half dead with fear. Some time howe'er the females lay in dread; At length the daughter ventured out her head, And, pulling hastily her parent's arm, Said she, dear mother, (not suspecting harm) Good Heav'ns! must I obey and thither go? What would the holy man on me bestow? I know not what to say nor how to act; Now cousin Anne would with him be exact, And better recollect his sage advice:-- Fool! said the mother, never be so nice; Go, nothing fear, and do whate'er's desired; Much understanding will not be required; The first or second time thou'lt get thy cue, And cousin Anne will less know what to do. Indeed? the girl replied; well, let's away, And we'll return to bed without delay. But softly, cried the mother with a smile; Not quite so fast, for Satan may beguile; And if 'twere so, hast taken proper care? I think he spoke like one who would ensnare. To be precipitate, in such a case, Perhaps might lead at once to dire disgrace. If thou wert terrified and did'st not hear, Myself I'm sure was quite o'ercome with fear. No, no, rejoined the daughter, I am right: I clearly heard, dear mother, spite of fright. Well then, replied the widow, let us pray, That we by Satan be not led astray.

AT length they both arose when morning came, And through the day the converse was the same. At night howe'er the horn was heard once more, And terrified the females as before. Thou unbelieving woman, cried the voice, For certain purposes of God the choice; No more delay, but to the hermit fly, Or 'tis decreed that thou shalt quickly die. Now, mother, said the girl, I told you well; Come, let us hasten to the hermit's cell; So much I dread your death, I'll nothing shun; And if 'tis requisite, I'll even run. Away then, cried the mother, let us go; Some pains to dress, the daughter would bestow, Without reflecting what might be her fare:-- To PLEASE is ev'ry blooming lass's care.

OUR monk was on the watch you may suppose; A hole he made that would a glimpse disclose; By which, when near his cell the females drew, They might, with whip in hand the hermit view, Who, like a culprit punished for his crimes, Received the lash, and that so many times, It sounded like the discipline of schools, And made more noise than flogging fifty fools.

WHEN first our pilgrims knocked, he would not hear; And, for the moment, whipping would appear; The holy lash severely he applied, Which, through the hole, with pain our females spied; At length the door he ope'd, but from his eyes No satisfaction beamed: he showed surprise. With trembling knees and blushes o'er the face, The widow now explained the mystick case. Six steps behind, the beauteous daughter stood, And waited the decree she thought so good. The hypocrite howe'er the hermit played, And sent these humble pilgrims back dismayed. Said he, the evil spirit much I dread; No female to my cell should e'er be led; Excuse me then: such acts would sorrow bring; From me the HOLY FATHER ne'er spring. What ne'er from you? the widow straight replied: And why should not the blessing, pray, be tried? No other answer howsoe'er she got; So back they trudged once more to gain their cot. Ah! mother, said the girl, 'tis my belief, Our many heavy sins have caused thus grief.

WHEN night arrived and they in sleep were lost, Again the hermit's horn the woodwork crossed; Return, return, cried he with horrid tone; To-morrow you'll have due attention shown; I've changed the hermit's cold fastidious mind, And when you come, he'll act as I've designed.

THE couple left their bed at break of day, And to the cell repaired without delay Our tale to shorten, Lucius kind appeared To rigid rules no longer he adhered. The mother with him let her girl remain, And hastened to her humble roof again. The belle complying looked:--he took her arm, And soon familiar grew with ev'ry charm.

O HYPOCRITES! how oft your wily art Deceives the world and causes poignant smart.

AT matins they so very often met, Some awkward indications caused regret. The fair at length her apron-string perceived Grew daily shorter, which her bosom grieved; But nothing to the hermit she'd unfold, Nor e'en those feelings to her mother told; She dreaded lest she should be sent away, And be deprived at once of Cupid's play. You'll tell me whence so much discernment came? From this same play:--the tree of art by name. For sev'n long months the nymph her visits paid; Her inexperience doubtless wanted aid.

BUT when the mother saw her daughter's case, She made her thank the monk, and leave the place. The hermit blessed the Lord for what was done; A pleasant course his humble slave had run. He told the mother and her daughter fair, The child, by God's permission, gifts would share. Howe'er, be careful, said the wily wight, That with your infant ev'ry thing goes right; To you, from thence, great happiness will spring: You'll reign the parent of what's more than king; Your relatives to noble rank will rise: Some will be princes; others lords comprise; Your nephews cardinals; your cousins too Will dukes become, if they the truth pursue; And places, castles, palaces, there'll be, For you and them of every high degree; You'll nothing want: eternal is the source, Like waters flowing in the river's course. This long prediction o'er: with features grave, His benediction to them both he gave.

WHEN home returned, the girl, each day and night, Amused her mind with prospects of delight; By fancy's aid she saw the future pope, And all prepared to greet her fondest hope; But what arrived the whole at once o'erthrew Hats, dukedoms, castles, vanished from the view: The promised elevation of the NAME Dissolved to air:-a little female came!

THE CONVENT GARDENER OF LAMPORECHIO

WHEN Cupid with his dart, would hearts assail, The rampart most secure is not the VEIL; A husband better will the FAIR protect, Than walls or lattices, I much suspect. Those parents, who in nunneries have got Their daughters (whether willingly or not), Most clearly in a glaring error prove, To fancy God will round their actions move; 'Tis an abuse of what we hold divine; The Devil with them surely must combine. Besides, 'twere folly to suppose that vice Ne'er entered convent walls, and nuns were ice. A very diff'rent sentiment I hold: Girls, who in publick move, however bold, Have greater terrors lest they get a stain; For, honour lost, they never fame regain. Few enemies their modesty attack; The others have but one their minds to rack. TEMPTATION, daughter of the drowsy dame, That hates to move, and IDLENESS we name, Is ever practising each wily art, To spread her snares around the throbbing heart; And fond DESIRE, the child of lorn CONSTRAINT, Is anxious to the soul soft scenes to paint. If I've a worthy daughter made a nun, Is that a reason she's a saint?--Mere fun! Avaunt such folly!--three in four you'll find, Of those who wear the veil--have changed their mind; Their fingers bite, and often do much worse: Those convent vows, full soon, become a curse; Such things at least have sometimes reached my ear (For doubtless I must speak from others here); Of his Boccace a merry tale has told, Which into rhyme I've put, as you'll behold.

WITHIN a nunnery, in days of yore, A good old man supplied the garden-store; The nuns, in general, were smart and gay, And kept their tongues in motion through the day. Religious duties they regarded less, Than for the palour* to be nice in dress Arranging ev'ry article to please, That each might captivate and charm at ease; The changes constantly they rang around, And made the convent-walls with din resound. Eight sisters and an abbess held the place, And strange to say--there DISCORD you might trace. All nine had youth, and many beauty too: Young friars round the place were oft in view, Who reckoned ev'ry step they took so well, That always in the proper road they fell. Th' aged gard'ner, of whom ere now we spoke, Was oft bewildered, they would so provoke; Capricious, whimsical, from day to day, Each would command and try to have her way; And as they ne'er agreed among themselves, He suffered more than if with fifty elves; When one was pleased, another soon complained: At length to quit the nuns he was constrained. He left them, poor and wretched as he came; No cross, pile, money:--e'en his coat the same.

A YOUTH of Lamporechio, gay and bold, One day this gard'ner met as I am told; And after conversation 'bout the place, Said, he should like nun's service to embrace, And that he wished sincerely to be hired: He'd gratis do whatever was required. 'Twas clear indeed his object was not pelf; He thought however he might reward himself; And as the sisters were not over wise, A nun he now and then might make his prize; Proceed from one to more with like address, Till with the whole he'd had complete success. Said Nuto (such we find the gard'ner's name), Believe me, friend, you will be much to blame; Some other service seek, I recommend; These convent-dames will ne'er their whimseys end. I'd rather live without or soup or bread, Than work for them, however nicely fed.