Part 5

The following notice is subjoined to some of these riddles, in the Dublin edition: "About nine or ten years ago, (_i.e._ about 1724,) some ingenious gentlemen, friends to the author, used to entertain themselves with writing riddles, and send them to him and their other acquaintance; copies of which ran about, and some of them were printed, both here and in England. The author, at his leisure hours, fell into the same amusement; although it be said that he thought them of no great merit, entertainment, or use. However, by the advice of some persons, for whom the author hath a great esteem, and who were pleased to send us the copies, we have ventured to print the few following, as we have done two or three before, and which are allowed to be genuine; because we are informed that several good judges have a taste for such kind of compositions."

PETHOX THE GREAT. 1723

FROM Venus born, thy beauty shows; But who thy father, no man knows: Nor can the skilful herald trace The founder of thy ancient race; Whether thy temper, full of fire, Discovers Vulcan for thy sire, The god who made Scamander boil, And round his margin singed the soil: (From whence, philosophers agree, An equal power descends to thee;) Whether from dreadful Mars you claim The high descent from whence you came, And, as a proof, show numerous scars By fierce encounters made in wars, Those honourable wounds you bore From head to foot, and all before, And still the bloody field frequent, Familiar in each leader's tent; Or whether, as the learn'd contend, You from the neighbouring Gaul descend; Or from Parthenope[1] the proud, Where numberless thy votaries crowd; Whether thy great forefathers came From realms that bear Vespuccio's name,[2] For so conjectures would obtrude; And from thy painted skin conclude; Whether, as Epicurus[3] shows, The world from justling seeds arose, Which, mingling with prolific strife In chaos, kindled into life: So your production was the same, And from contending atoms came. Thy fair indulgent mother crown'd Thy head with sparkling rubies round: Beneath thy decent steps the road Is all with precious jewels strew'd, The bird of Pallas,[4] knows his post, Thee to attend, where'er thou goest. Byzantians boast, that on the clod Where once their Sultan's horse hath trod, Grows neither grass, nor shrub, nor tree: The same thy subjects boast of thee. The greatest lord, when you appear, Will deign your livery to wear, In all the various colours seen Of red and yellow, blue and green. With half a word when you require, The man of business must retire. The haughty minister of state, With trembling must thy leisure wait; And, while his fate is in thy hands, The business of the nation stands. Thou darest the greatest prince attack, Canst hourly set him on the rack; And, as an instance of thy power, Enclose him in a wooden tower, With pungent pains on every side: So Regulus[5] in torments died. From thee our youth all virtues learn, Dangers with prudence to discern; And well thy scholars are endued With temperance and with fortitude, With patience, which all ills supports, And secrecy, the art of courts. The glittering beau could hardly tell, Without your aid, to read or spell; But, having long conversed with you, Knows how to scroll a billet-doux. With what delight, methinks, I trace Your blood in every noble race! In whom thy features, shape, and mien, Are to the life distinctly seen! The Britons, once a savage kind, By you were brighten'd and refined, Descendants to the barbarous Huns, With limbs robust, and voice that stuns: But you have moulded them afresh, Removed the tough superfluous flesh, Taught them to modulate their tongues, And speak without the help of lungs. Proteus on you bestow'd the boon To change your visage like the moon; You sometimes half a face produce, Keep t'other half for private use. How famed thy conduct in the fight With Hermes, son of Pleias bright! Outnumber'd, half encompass'd round, You strove for every inch of ground; Then, by a soldierly retreat, Retired to your imperial seat. The victor, when your steps he traced, Found all the realms before him waste: You, o'er the high triumphal arch Pontific, made your glorious march: The wondrous arch behind you fell, And left a chasm profound as hell: You, in your capitol secured, A siege as long as Troy endured.

[Footnote 1: Naples, anciently called Parthenope, from the name of the siren who threw herself into the sea for grief at the departure of Ulysses, and was cast up and buried there.--Ovid, "Met.," xiv, 101.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 2: Americus Vespuccius, the discoverer of America in 1497. See Hakluyts "Navigations, Voyages, etc.," vii, 161; viii, 449.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: See Lucretius, "De Rer. Nat.," lib. i.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 4: Bubo, the owl.--_Dublin Edition_.]

[Footnote 5: Taken prisoner by the Carthaginians in the first Punic war, and ultimately tortured to death. See the story in Cicero, "De Officiis," i, 13; Hor., "Carm.," iii, 5.--_W. E. B._]

ON A PEN. 1724

In youth exalted high in air, Or bathing in the waters fair, Nature to form me took delight, And clad my body all in white. My person tall, and slender waist, On either side with fringes graced; Till me that tyrant man espied, And dragg'd me from my mother's side: No wonder now I look so thin; The tyrant stript me to the skin: My skin he flay'd, my hair he cropt: At head and foot my body lopt: And then, with heart more hard than stone, He pick'd my marrow from the bone. To vex me more, he took a freak To slit my tongue and make me speak: But, that which wonderful appears, I speak to eyes, and not to ears. He oft employs me in disguise, And makes me tell a thousand lies: To me he chiefly gives in trust To please his malice or his lust. From me no secret he can hide; I see his vanity and pride: And my delight is to expose His follies to his greatest foes. All languages I can command, Yet not a word I understand. Without my aid, the best divine In learning would not know a line: The lawyer must forget his pleading; The scholar could not show his reading. Nay; man my master is my slave; I give command to kill or save, Can grant ten thousand pounds a-year, And make a beggar's brat a peer. But, while I thus my life relate, I only hasten on my fate. My tongue is black, my mouth is furr'd, I hardly now can force a word. I die unpitied and forgot, And on some dunghill left to rot.

ON GOLD

All-ruling tyrant of the earth, To vilest slaves I owe my birth, How is the greatest monarch blest, When in my gaudy livery drest! No haughty nymph has power to run From me; or my embraces shun. Stabb'd to the heart, condemn'd to flame, My constancy is still the same. The favourite messenger of Jove, And Lemnian god, consulting strove To make me glorious to the sight Of mortals, and the gods' delight. Soon would their altar's flame expire If I refused to lend them fire.

By fate exalted high in place, Lo, here I stand with double face: Superior none on earth I find; But see below me all mankind Yet, as it oft attends the great, I almost sink with my own weight.

At every motion undertook, The vulgar all consult my look. I sometimes give advice in writing, But never of my own inditing. I am a courtier in my way; For those who raised me, I betray; And some give out that I entice To lust, to luxury, and dice. Who punishments on me inflict, Because they find their pockets pickt. By riding post, I lose my health, And only to get others wealth.

ON THE POSTERIORS

Because I am by nature blind, I wisely choose to walk behind; However, to avoid disgrace, I let no creature see my face. My words are few, but spoke with sense; And yet my speaking gives offence: Or, if to whisper I presume, The company will fly the room. By all the world I am opprest: And my oppression gives them rest. Through me, though sore against my will, Instructors every art instil. By thousands I am sold and bought, Who neither get nor lose a groat; For none, alas! by me can gain, But those who give me greatest pain. Shall man presume to be my master, Who's but my caterer and taster? Yet, though I always have my will, I'm but a mere depender still: An humble hanger-on at best; Of whom all people make a jest. In me detractors seek to find Two vices of a different kind; I'm too profuse, some censurers cry, And all I get, I let it fly; While others give me many a curse, Because too close I hold my purse. But this I know, in either case, They dare not charge me to my face. 'Tis true, indeed, sometimes I save, Sometimes run out of all I have; But, when the year is at an end, Computing what I get and spend, My goings-out, and comings-in, I cannot find I lose or win; And therefore all that know me say, I justly keep the middle way. I'm always by my betters led; I last get up, and first a-bed; Though, if I rise before my time, The learn'd in sciences sublime Consult the stars, and thence foretell Good luck to those with whom I dwell.

ON A HORN

The joy of man, the pride of brutes, Domestic subject for disputes, Of plenty thou the emblem fair, Adorn'd by nymphs with all their care! I saw thee raised to high renown, Supporting half the British crown; And often have I seen thee grace The chaste Diana's infant face; And whensoe'er you please to shine, Less useful is her light than thine: Thy numerous fingers know their way, And oft in Celia's tresses play. To place thee in another view, I'll show the world strange things and true; What lords and dames of high degree May justly claim their birth from thee! The soul of man with spleen you vex; Of spleen you cure the female sex. Thee for a gift the courtier sends With pleasure to his special friends: He gives, and with a generous pride, Contrives all means the gift to hide: Nor oft can the receiver know, Whether he has the gift or no. On airy wings you take your flight, And fly unseen both day and night; Conceal your form with various tricks; And few know how or where you fix: Yet some, who ne'er bestow'd thee, boast That they to others give thee most. Meantime, the wise a question start, If thou a real being art; Or but a creature of the brain, That gives imaginary pain? But the sly giver better knows thee; Who feels true joys when he bestows thee.

ON A CORKSCREW

Though I, alas! a prisoner be, My trade is prisoners to set free. No slave his lord's commands obeys With such insinuating ways. My genius piercing, sharp, and bright, Wherein the men of wit delight. The clergy keep me for their ease, And turn and wind me as they please. A new and wondrous art I show Of raising spirits from below; In scarlet some, and some in white; They rise, walk round, yet never fright. In at each mouth the spirits pass, Distinctly seen as through a glass: O'er head and body make a rout, And drive at last all secrets out; And still, the more I show my art, The more they open every heart. A greater chemist none than I Who, from materials hard and dry, Have taught men to extract with skill More precious juice than from a still. Although I'm often out of case, I'm not ashamed to show my face. Though at the tables of the great I near the sideboard take my seat; Yet the plain 'squire, when dinner's done, Is never pleased till I make one; He kindly bids me near him stand, And often takes me by the hand. I twice a-day a-hunting go; Nor ever fail to seize my foe; And when I have him by the poll, I drag him upwards from his hole; Though some are of so stubborn kind, I'm forced to leave a limb behind. I hourly wait some fatal end; For I can break, but scorn to bend.

THE GULF OF ALL HUMAN POSSESSIONS 1724

Come hither, and behold the fruits, Vain man! of all thy vain pursuits. Take wise advice, and look behind, Bring all past actions to thy mind. Here you may see, as in a glass, How soon all human pleasures pass; How will it mortify thy pride, To turn the true impartial side! How will your eyes contain their tears, When all the sad reverse appears! This cave within its womb confines The last result of all designs: Here lie deposited the spoils Of busy mortals' endless toils: Here, with an easy search, we find The foul corruptions of mankind. The wretched purchase here behold Of traitors, who their country sold. This gulf insatiate imbibes The lawyer's fees, the statesman's bribes. Here, in their proper shape and mien, Fraud, perjury, and guilt are seen. Necessity, the tyrant's law, All human race must hither draw; All prompted by the same desire, The vigorous youth and aged sire. Behold the coward and the brave, The haughty prince, the humble slave, Physician, lawyer, and divine, All make oblations at this shrine. Some enter boldly, some by stealth, And leave behind their fruitless wealth. For, while the bashful sylvan maid, As half-ashamed and half-afraid, Approaching finds it hard to part With that which dwelt so near her heart; The courtly dame, unmoved by fear, Profusely pours her offering here. A treasure here of learning lurks, Huge heaps of never-dying works; Labours of many an ancient sage, And millions of the present age. In at this gulf all offerings pass And lie an undistinguish'd mass. Deucalion,[1] to restore mankind, Was bid to throw the stones behind; So those who here their gifts convey Are forced to look another way; For few, a chosen few, must know The mysteries that lie below. Sad charnel-house! a dismal dome, For which all mortals leave their home! The young, the beautiful, and brave, Here buried in one common grave! Where each supply of dead renews Unwholesome damps, offensive dews: And lo! the writing on the walls Points out where each new victim falls; The food of worms and beasts obscene, Who round the vault luxuriant reign. See where those mangled corpses lie, Condemn'd by female hands to die; A comely dame once clad in white, Lies there consign'd to endless night; By cruel hands her blood was spilt, And yet her wealth was all her guilt. And here six virgins in a tomb, All-beauteous offspring of one womb, Oft in the train of Venus seen, As fair and lovely as their queen; In royal garments each was drest, Each with a gold and purple vest; I saw them of their garments stript, Their throats were cut, their bellies ript, Twice were they buried, twice were born, Twice from their sepulchres were torn; But now dismember'd here are cast, And find a resting-place at last. Here oft the curious traveller finds The combat of opposing winds; And seeks to learn the secret cause, Which alien seems from nature's laws; Why at this cave's tremendous mouth, He feels at once both north and south; Whether the winds, in caverns pent, Through clefts oppugnant force a vent; Or whether, opening all his stores, Fierce Æolus in tempest roars. Yet, from this mingled mass of things, In time a new creation springs. These crude materials once shall rise To fill the earth, and air, and skies; In various forms appear again, Of vegetables, brutes, and men. So Jove pronounced among the gods, Olympus trembling as he nods.

[Footnote 1: Ovid, "Metam.," i, 383.]

LOUISA[1] TO STREPHON. 1724

Ah! Strephon, how can you despise Her, who without thy pity dies! To Strephon I have still been true, And of as noble blood as you; Fair issue of the genial bed, A virgin in thy bosom bred: Embraced thee closer than a wife; When thee I leave, I leave my life. Why should my shepherd take amiss, That oft I wake thee with a kiss? Yet you of every kiss complain; Ah! is not love a pleasing pain? A pain which every happy night You cure with ease and with delight; With pleasure, as the poet sings, Too great for mortals less than kings. Chloe, when on thy breast I lie, Observes me with revengeful eye: If Chloe o'er thy heart prevails, She'll tear me with her desperate nails; And with relentless hands destroy The tender pledges of our joy. Nor have I bred a spurious race; They all were born from thy embrace. Consider, Strephon, what you do; For, should I die for love of you, I'll haunt thy dreams, a bloodless ghost; And all my kin, (a numerous host,) Who down direct our lineage bring From victors o'er the Memphian king; Renown'd in sieges and campaigns, Who never fled the bloody plains: Who in tempestuous seas can sport, And scorn the pleasures of a court; From whom great Sylla[2] found his doom, Who scourged to death that scourge of Rome, Shall on thee take a vengeance dire; Thou like Alcides[3] shalt expire, When his envenom'd shirt he wore, And skin and flesh in pieces tore. Nor less that shirt, my rival's gift, Cut from the piece that made her shift, Shall in thy dearest blood be dyed, And make thee tear thy tainted hide.

[Footnote 1: The solution is, _phtheirhiasis_ morbus pedicularis. With this piece may be read Peter Pindar's epic, "The Lousiad."--W. E. B_.]

[Footnote 2: Plutarch tells how Sylla's body was so corrupted with these vermin, that they streamed from him into every place: _pasan esthêta kai loutron kai aponimma kai sition anapimplasthai tou reumatos ekeinon kai tes phthoras. tosouton exenthei._ "Vita Syllae," xxxvi.--_W. E. B._]

[Footnote 3: Hercules, who died from wearing the shirt (given him by his wife as a charm against his infidelities) stained with the blood of Nessus, the centaur, whom Hercules had slain with a poisoned arrow. Ovid, "Epist. Heroid. Deianira Herculi," and "Metam.," lib. ix, 101.--_W. E. B._]

A MAYPOLE. 1725

Deprived of root, and branch and rind, Yet flowers I bear of every kind: And such is my prolific power, They bloom in less than half an hour; Yet standers-by may plainly see They get no nourishment from me. My head with giddiness goes round, And yet I firmly stand my ground: All over naked I am seen, And painted like an Indian queen. No couple-beggar in the land E'er join'd such numbers hand in hand. I join'd them fairly with a ring; Nor can our parson blame the thing. And though no marriage words are spoke, They part not till the ring is broke; Yet hypocrite fanatics cry, I'm but an idol raised on high; And once a weaver in our town, A damn'd Cromwellian, knock'd me down. I lay a prisoner twenty years, And then the jovial cavaliers To their old post restored all three-- I mean the church, the king, and me.

ON THE MOON

I with borrow'd silver shine What you see is none of mine. First I show you but a quarter, Like the bow that guards the Tartar: Then the half, and then the whole, Ever dancing round the pole.

What will raise your admiration, I am not one of God's creation, But sprung, (and I this truth maintain,) Like Pallas, from my father's brain. And after all, I chiefly owe My beauty to the shades below. Most wondrous forms you see me wear, A man, a woman, lion, bear, A fish, a fowl, a cloud, a field, All figures Heaven or earth can yield; Like Daphne sometimes in a tree; Yet am not one of all you see.

ON A CIRCLE

I'm up and down, and round about, Yet all the world can't find me out; Though hundreds have employ'd their leisure, They never yet could find my measure. I'm found almost in every garden, Nay, in the compass of a farthing. There's neither chariot, coach, nor mill, Can move an inch except I will.

ON INK

I am jet black, as you may see, The son of pitch and gloomy night: Yet all that know me will agree, I'm dead except I live in light.

Sometimes in panegyric high, Like lofty Pindar, I can soar; And raise a virgin to the sky, Or sink her to a pocky whore.

My blood this day is very sweet, To-morrow of a bitter juice; Like milk, 'tis cried about the street, And so applied to different use.

Most wondrous is my magic power: For with one colour I can paint; I'll make the devil a saint this hour, Next make a devil of a saint.

Through distant regions I can fly, Provide me but with paper wings; And fairly show a reason why There should be quarrels among kings:

And, after all, you'll think it odd, When learned doctors will dispute, That I should point the word of God, And show where they can best confute.

Let lawyers bawl and strain their throats: 'Tis I that must the lands convey, And strip their clients to their coats; Nay, give their very souls away.

ON THE FIVE SENSES

All of us in one you'll find, Brethren of a wondrous kind; Yet among us all no brother Knows one tittle of the other; We in frequent councils are, And our marks of things declare, Where, to us unknown, a clerk Sits, and takes them in the dark. He's the register of all In our ken, both great and small; By us forms his laws and rules, He's our master, we his tools; Yet we can with greatest ease Turn and wind him where we please. One of us alone can sleep, Yet no watch the rest will keep, But the moment that he closes, Every brother else reposes. If wine's brought or victuals drest, One enjoys them for the rest. Pierce us all with wounding steel, One for all of us will feel. Though ten thousand cannons roar, Add to them ten thousand more, Yet but one of us is found Who regards the dreadful sound. Do what is not fit to tell, There's but one of us can smell.

FONTINELLA[1] TO FLORINDA

When on my bosom thy bright eyes, Florinda, dart their heavenly beams, I feel not the least love surprise, Yet endless tears flow down in streams; There's nought so beautiful in thee, But you may find the same in me.

The lilies of thy skin compare; In me you see them full as white: The roses of your cheeks, I dare Affirm, can't glow to more delight. Then, since I show as fine a face, Can you refuse a soft embrace?

Ah! lovely nymph, thou'rt in thy prime! And so am I, while thou art here; But soon will come the fatal time, When all we see shall disappear. 'Tis mine to make a just reflection, And yours to follow my direction.

Then catch admirers while you may; Treat not your lovers with disdain; For time with beauty flies away, And there is no return again. To you the sad account I bring, Life's autumn has no second spring.

[Footnote 1: A fountain.]

AN ECHO

Never sleeping, still awake, Pleasing most when most I speak; The delight of old and young, Though I speak without a tongue. Nought but one thing can confound me, Many voices joining round me; Then I fret, and rave, and gabble, Like the labourers of Babel. Now I am a dog, or cow, I can bark, or I can low; I can bleat, or I can sing, Like the warblers of the spring. Let the lovesick bard complain, And I mourn the cruel pain; Let the happy swain rejoice, And I join my helping voice: Both are welcome, grief or joy, I with either sport and toy. Though a lady, I am stout, Drums and trumpets bring me out: Then I clash, and roar, and rattle, Join in all the din of battle. Jove, with all his loudest thunder, When I'm vext, can't keep me under; Yet so tender is my ear, That the lowest voice I fear; Much I dread the courtier's fate, When his merit's out of date, For I hate a silent breath, And a whisper is my death.

ON A SHADOW IN A GLASS;

By something form'd, I nothing am, Yet everything that you can name; In no place have I ever been, Yet everywhere I may be seen; In all things false, yet always true, I'm still the same--but ever new. Lifeless, life's perfect form I wear, Can show a nose, eye, tongue, or ear, Yet neither smell, see, taste, or hear. All shapes and features I can boast, No flesh, no bones, no blood--no ghost: All colours, without paint, put on, And change like the cameleon. Swiftly I come, and enter there, Where not a chink lets in the air; Like thought, I'm in a moment gone, Nor can I ever be alone: All things on earth I imitate Faster than nature can create; Sometimes imperial robes I wear, Anon in beggar's rags appear; A giant now, and straight an elf, I'm every one, but ne'er myself; Ne'er sad I mourn, ne'er glad rejoice, I move my lips, but want a voice; I ne'er was born, nor e'er can die, Then, pr'ythee, tell me what am I?