Chapter 11

Then how two wives their lords' destruction prove, Through hatred one, and one through too much love; That for her husband mix'd a poisonous draught, And this for lust an amorous philtre bought: The nimble juice soon seized his giddy head, Frantic at night, and in the morning dead.

How some with swords their sleeping lords have slain, And some have hammer'd nails into their brain, And some have drench'd them with a deadly potion: All this he read, and read with great devotion. 410

Long time I heard, and swell'd, and blush'd, and frown'd; But when no end of these vile tales I found, When still he read, and laugh'd, and read again, And half the night was thus consumed in vain, Provoked to vengeance, three large leaves I tore, And with one buffet fell'd him on the floor. With that my husband in a fury rose, And down he settled me with hearty blows. I groan'd, and lay extended on my side; 'Oh! thou hast slain me for my wealth!' I cried, 420 'Yet I forgive thee--take my last embrace--' He wept, kind soul! and stoop'd to kiss my face: I took him such a box as turn'd him blue, Then sigh'd, and cried, 'Adieu, my dear, adieu!'

But after many a hearty struggle past, I condescended to be pleased at last. Soon as he said, 'My mistress and my wife! Do what you list the term of all your life,' I took to heart the merits of the cause, And stood content to rule by wholesome laws; 430 Received the reins of absolute command, With all the government of house and land, And empire o'er his tongue and o'er his hand. As for the volume that reviled the dames, 'Twas torn to fragments, and condemn'd to flames.

Now, Heaven, on all my husbands gone bestow Pleasures above for tortures felt below: That rest they wish'd for, grant them in the grave, And bless those souls my conduct help'd to save!

PROLOGUE AND EPILOGUES

A PROLOGUE

TO A PLAY FOR MR DENNIS'S BENEFIT, IN 1733, WHEN HE WAS OLD, BLIND, AND IN GREAT DISTRESS, A LITTLE BEFORE HIS DEATH.

As when that hero, who, in each campaign, Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain, Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe! Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe: Was there a generous, a reflecting mind, But pitied Belisarius, old and blind? Was there a chief but melted at the sight? A common soldier, but who clubb'd his mite? Such, such emotions should in Britons rise, When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies; 10 Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns, Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns; A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce, Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse: How changed from him who made the boxes groan, And shook the stage with thunders all his own! Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope, Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the Pope! If there's a Briton then, true bred and born, Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn; 20 If there's a critic of distinguished rage; If there's a senior who contemns this age: Let him to night his just assistance lend, And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend.

PROLOGUE TO MR ADDISON'S 'CATO.'

To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the tragic Muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream through every age; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; 10 In pitying love, we but our weakness show, And wild ambition well deserves its woe. Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause, Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws: He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was: No common object to your sight displays, But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys, 20 A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state. While Cato gives his little senate laws, What bosom beats not in his country's cause? Who sees him act, but envies every deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? E'en when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal cars, The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Ignobly vain, and impotently great, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; 30 As her dead father's reverend image pass'd, The pomp was darkened, and the day o'ercast; The triumph ceased, tears gush'd from every eye; The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by; Her last good man dejected Rome adored, And honour'd Caesar's less than Cato's sword.

Britons, attend: be worth like this approved, And show you have the virtue to be moved. With honest scorn the first famed Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued: 40 Your scene precariously subsists too long On French translation and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage, Be justly warm'd with your own native rage: Such plays alone should win a British ear, As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

PROLOGUE TO THOMSON'S 'SOPHONISBA.'[59]

When Learning, after the long Gothic night, Fair, o'er the western world, renew'd its light, With arts arising, Sophonisba rose; The tragic Muse, returning, wept her woes. With her th' Italian scene first learn'd to glow, And the first tears for her were taught to flow: Her charms the Gallic Muses next inspired; Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fired.

What foreign theatres with pride have shown, Britain, by juster title, makes her own. 10 When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight, And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write. For this a British author bids again The heroine rise, to grace the British scene: Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame, She asks, What bosom has not felt the same? Asks of the British youth--is silence there? She dares to ask it of the British fair. To-night our homespun author would be true, At once to nature, history, and you. 20 Well pleased to give our neighbours due applause, He owns their learning, but disdains their laws; Not to his patient touch, or happy flame, 'Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame. If France excel him in one freeborn thought, The man, as well as poet, is in fault. Nature! informer of the poet's art, Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart, Thou art his guide; each passion, every line, Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine. 30 Be thou his judge: in every candid breast Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.

PROLOGUE, DESIGNED FOR MR D'URFEY'S LAST PLAY.

Grown old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard Your persevering, unexhausted bard; Damnation follows death in other men, But your damn'd poet lives and writes again. The adventurous lover is successful still, Who strives to please the fair against her will: Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy, Who in your own despite has strove to please ye. He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore, But ever writ, as none e'er writ before. 10 You modern wits, should each man bring his claim, Have desperate debentures on your fame; And little would be left you, I'm afraid, If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid. From this deep fund our author largely draws, Nor sinks his credit lower than it was. Though plays for honour in old time he made, 'Tis now for better reasons--to be paid. Believe him, he has known the world too long, And seen the death of much immortal song. 20 He says, poor poets lost, while players won, As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone. Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure, The comic Tom abounds in other treasure. Fame is at best an unperforming cheat; But 'tis substantial happiness to eat. Let ease, his last request, be of your giving, Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.

PROLOGUE TO 'THE THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE'

Authors are judged by strange capricious rules; The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools: Yet sure the best are most severely fated; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated. Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor; But fool 'gainst fool, is barbarous civil war. Why on all authors, then, should critics fall? Since some have writ, and shown no wit at all. Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it; Cry, 'Damn not us, but damn the French, who made it.' 10 By running goods these graceless owlers gain; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain; But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, And teach dull harlequins to grin in vain.

How shall our author hope a gentler fate, Who dares most impudently not translate? It had been civil, in these ticklish times, To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes; 20 Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end, But spare old England, lest you hurt a friend. If any fool is by our satire bit, Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit. Poets make characters, as salesmen clothes; We take no measure of your fops and beaux; But here all sizes and all shapes you meet, And fit yourselves, like chaps in Monmouth Street.

Gallants, look here! this fool's cap[60] has an air, 30 Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar. Let no one fool engross it, or confine A common blessing: now 'tis yours, now mine. But poets in all ages had the care To keep this cap for such as will, to wear. Our author has it now (for every wit Of course resign'd it to the next that writ) And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown;[61] Let him that takes it wear it as his own.

EPILOGUE TO MR ROWE'S 'JANE SHORE.'

DESIGNED FOR MRS OLDFIELD.

Prodigious this! the frail one of our play From her own sex should mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head aside, Peep'd in your fans, been serious thus, and cried-- 'The play may pass--but that strange creature, Shore, I can't--indeed now--I so hate a whore--' Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, And thanks his stars he was not born a fool; So from a sister sinner you shall hear, 'How strangely you expose yourself, my dear!' 10 But let me die, all raillery apart, Our sex are still forgiving at their heart; And, did not wicked custom so contrive, We'd be the best good-natured things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale, That virtuous ladies envy while they rail; Such rage without, betrays the fire within; In some close corner of the soul they sin; Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice, Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice. 20 The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns, Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams. Would you enjoy soft nights and solid dinners? Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with sinners,

Well, if our author in the wife offends, He has a husband that will make amends; He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving; And sure such kind good creatures may be living. In days of old, they pardon'd breach of vows, Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse: 30 Plu--Plutarch, what's his name that writes his life? Tells us, that Cato dearly loved his wife: Yet if a friend, a night or so, should need her, He'd recommend her as a special breeder. To lend a wife, few here would scruple make; But, pray, which of you all would take her back? Though with the Stoic chief our stage may ring, The Stoic husband was the glorious thing. The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true, And loved his country--but what's that to you? 40 Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye, But the kind cuckold might instruct the city: There, many an honest man may copy Cato, Who ne'er saw naked sword, or look'd in Plato.

If, after all, you think it a disgrace, That Edward's miss thus perks it in your face; To see a piece of failing flesh and blood, In all the rest so impudently good; Faith, let the modest matrons of the town Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down. 50

MISCELLANIES

THE BASSET-TABLE.[62]

AN ECLOGUE.

CARDELIA.

The basset-table spread, the tallier come; Why stays Smilinda in the dressing-room? Rise, pensive nymph, the tallier waits for you!

SMILINDA.

Ah, madam, since my Sharper is untrue, I joyless make my once adored Alpeu. I saw him stand behind Ombrelia's chair, And whisper with that soft, deluding air, And those feign'd sighs which cheat the listening fair.

CARDELIA.

Is this the cause of your romantic strains? A mightier grief my heavy heart sustains. 10 As you by love, so I by fortune cross'd, One, one bad deal, three Septlevas have lost.

SMILINDA.

Is that the grief, which you compare with mine? With ease, the smiles of Fortune I resign: Would all my gold in one bad deal were gone! Were lovely Sharper mine, and mine alone.

CARDELIA.

A lover lost, is but a common care; And prudent nymphs against that change prepare: The Knave of Clubs thrice lost! Oh! who could guess This fatal stroke, this unforeseen distress? 20

SMILINDA.

See Betty Lovet! very _apropos_ She all the cares of love and play does know: Dear Betty shall th' important point decide; Betty, who oft the pain of each has tried; Impartial, she shall say who suffers most, By cards' ill usage, or by lovers lost.

LOVET.

Tell, tell your griefs; attentive will I stay, Though time is precious, and I want some tea.

CARDELIA.

Behold this equipage, by Mathers wrought, With fifty guineas (a great pen'orth) bought. 30 See, on the tooth-pick, Mars and Cupid strive; And both the struggling figures seem alive. Upon the bottom shines the queen's bright face; A myrtle foliage round the thimble-case. Jove, Jove himself, does on the scissors shine; The metal, and the workmanship, divine!

SMILINDA.

This snuff-box,--once the pledge of Sharper's love, When rival beauties for the present strove; At Corticelli's he the raffle won; Then first his passion was in public shown: 40 Hazardia blush'd, and turn'd her head aside, A rival's envy (all in vain) to hide. This snuff-box,--on the hinge see brilliants shine: This snuff-box will I stake; the prize is mine.

CARDELIA.

Alas! far lesser losses than I bear, Have made a soldier sigh, a lover swear. And oh! what makes the disappointment hard, 'Twas my own lord that drew the fatal card. In complaisance, I took the Queen he gave; Though my own secret wish was for the Knave. 50 The Knave won Sonica, which I had chose; And the next pull, my Septleva I lose.

SMILINDA.

But ah! what aggravates the killing smart, The cruel thought, that stabs me to the heart; This cursed Ombrelia, this undoing fair, By whose vile arts this heavy grief I bear; She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears, She owes to me the very charms she wears. An awkward thing, when first she came to town; Her shape unfashion'd, and her face unknown: 60 She was my friend; I taught her first to spread Upon her sallow cheeks enlivening red: I introduced her to the park and plays; And, by my interest, Cozens made her stays. Ungrateful wretch! with mimic airs grown pert, She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart.

CARDELIA.

Wretch that I was, how often have I swore, When Winnall tallied, I would punt no more? I know the bite, yet to my ruin run; And see the folly, which I cannot shun. 70

SMILINDA.

How many maids have Sharper's vows deceived? How many cursed the moment they believed? Yet his known falsehood could no warning prove: Ah! what is warning to a maid in love?

CARDELIA.

But of what marble must that breast be form'd, To gaze on basset, and remain unwarm'd? When Kings, Queens, Knaves, are set in decent rank; Exposed in glorious heaps the tempting bank, Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train; The winner's pleasure, and the loser's pain: 80 In bright confusion open rouleaus lie, They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye. Fired by the sight, all reason I disdain; My passions rise, and will not bear the rein. Look upon basset, you who reason boast, And see if reason must not there be lost.

SMILINDA.

What more than marble must that heart compose, Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows? Then, when he trembles, when his blushes rise, When awful love seems melting in his eyes! 90 With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves: He loves!--I whisper to myself--he loves! Such unfeign'd passion in his looks appears, I lose all memory of my former fears; My panting heart confesses all his charms, I yield at once, and sink into his arms: Think of that moment, you who prudence boast; For such a moment, prudence well were lost.

CARDELIA.

At the groom-porter's, batter'd bullies play, Some dukes at Mary-bone bowl time away. 100 But who the bowl or rattling dice compares To basset's heavenly joys, and pleasing cares?

SMILINDA.

Soft Simplicetta dotes upon a beau; Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show. Their several graces in my Sharper meet; Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.

LOVET.

Cease your contention, which has been too long; I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong. Attend, and yield to what I now decide; The equipage shall grace Smilinda's side: 110 The snuff-box to Cardelia I decree. Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.

LINES

ON RECEIVING FROM THE EIGHT HON. THE LADY FRANCES SHIRLEY[63] A STANDISH AND TWO PENS.

1 Yes, I beheld the Athenian queen Descend in all her sober charms; 'And take,' she said, and smiled serene, 'Take at this hand celestial arms:

2 'Secure the radiant weapons wield; This golden lance shall guard desert; And if a vice dares keep the field, This steel shall stab it to the heart.'

3 Awed, on my bended knees I fell, Received the weapons of the sky; And dipp'd them in the sable well, The fount of fame or infamy.

4 'What well? what weapon?' Flavia cries-- 'A standish, steel, and golden pen! It came from Bertrand's,[64] not the skies; I gave it you to write again.

5 'But, friend, take heed whom you attack; You'll bring a house (I mean of peers) Red, blue, and green, nay, white and black, L---- and all about your ears.

6 'You'd write as smooth again on glass, And run, on ivory, so glib, As not to stick at fool or ass,[65] Nor stop at flattery or fib.[66]

7 'Athenian queen! and sober charms! I tell ye, fool, there's nothing in't: 'Tis Venus, Venus gives these arms;[67] In Dryden's Virgil see the print.[68]

8 'Come, if you'll be a quiet soul, That dares tell neither truth nor lies,[69] I'll list you in the harmless roll Of those that sing of these poor eyes.'

VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.

UN JOUR DIT UN AUTEUR, ETC.

Once (says an author--where I need not say) Two travellers found an oyster in their way; Both fierce, both hungry; the dispute grew strong, While, scale in hand, Dame Justice pass'd along. Before her each with clamour pleads the laws, Explain'd the matter and would win the cause. Dame Justice, weighing long the doubtful right, Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight. The cause of strife removed so rarely well, 'There,--take' (says Justice) 'take ye each a shell. We thrive at Westminster on fools like you: 'Twas a fat oyster--live in peace--adieu.'

ANSWER TO THE FOLLOWING QUESTION OF MRS HOWE.

What is prudery?

'Tis a bledam, Seen with wit and beauty seldom. 'Tis a fear that starts at shadows. Tis, (no, 'tisn't) like Miss Meadows. 'Tis a virgin hard of feature, Old, and void of all good-nature; Lean and fretful; would seem wise; Yet plays the fool before she dies. 'Tis an ugly, envious shrew, That rails at dear Lepell and you.

OCCASIONED BY SOME VERSES OF HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

Muse, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends, And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends, Let crowds of critics now my verse assail, Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail: This more than pays whole years of thankless pain; Time, health, and fortune are not lost in vain, Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends, And I and Malice from this hour are friends.

MACER: A CHARACTER.

When simple Macer, now of high renown, First sought a poet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all the ambition his high soul could feel, To wear red stockings, and to dine with Steele. Some ends of verse his betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set up with these, he ventured on the town, And with a borrow'd play, out-did poor Crowne. There he stopp'd short, nor since has writ a tittle, But has the wit to make the most of little: 10 Like stunted, hide-bound trees that just have got Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot. Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits, his foes, but fools, his friends.

So some coarse country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid; Awkward and supple, each devoir to pay, She flatters her good lady twice a-day; Thought wondrous honest, though of mean degree, And strangely liked for her simplicity: In a translated suit, then tries the town, With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own: But just endured the winter she began, And in four months a batter'd harridan. Now nothing left, but wither'd, pale, and shrunk, To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.

SONG,

BY A PERSON OF QUALITY, WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1733.

1 Fluttering, spread thy purple pinions, Gentle Cupid, o'er my heart, I a slave in thy dominions; Nature must give way to art.

2 Mild Arcadians, ever blooming, Nightly nodding o'er your flocks, See my weary days consuming, All beneath yon flowery rocks.

3 Thus the Cyprian goddess, weeping, Mourn'd Adonis, darling youth: Him the boar, in silence creeping, Gored with unrelenting tooth.

4 Cynthia, tune harmonious numbers; Fair Discretion, string the lyre; Soothe my ever-waking slumbers: Bright Apollo, lend thy choir.

5 Gloomy Pluto, king of terrors, Arm'd in adamantine chains, Lead me to the crystal mirrors, Watering soft Elysian plains.

6 Mournful cypress, verdant willow, Gilding my Aurelia's brows, Morpheus hovering o'er my pillow, Hear me pay my dying vows.

7 Melancholy smooth Maeander, Swiftly purling in a round, On thy margin lovers wander, With thy flowery chaplets crown'd.

8 Thus when Philomela, drooping, Softly seeks her silent mate, See the bird of Juno stooping; Melody resigns to fate.

ON A CERTAIN LADY AT COURT.

1 I know the thing that's most uncommon; (Envy be silent, and attend!) I know a reasonable woman, Handsome and witty, yet a friend.

2 Not warp'd by passion, awed by rumour, Not grave through pride, or gay through folly, An equal mixture of good humour, And sensible soft melancholy.

3 'Has she no faults, then (Envy says), sir?' Yes, she has one, I must aver: When all the world conspires to praise her, The woman's deaf, and does not hear.

ON HIS GROTTO AT TWICKENHAM,

COMPOSED OF MARBLES, SPARS, GEMS, ORES, AND MINERALS.

Thou who shalt stop, where Thames' translucent wave Shines a broad mirror through the shadowy cave; Where lingering drops from mineral roofs distil, And pointed crystals break the sparkling rill, Unpolish'd gems no ray on pride bestow, And latent metals innocently glow: Approach! Great Nature studiously behold! And eye the mine without a wish for gold. Approach: but awful! lo! the Aegerian grot,[70] Where, nobly-pensive, St John sate and thought; Where British sighs from dying Wyndham stole, And the bright flame was shot through Marchmont's soul. Let such, such only, tread this sacred floor, Who dare to love their country, and be poor!

VARIATIONS.

After VER. 6, in the MS.--

Yon see that island's wealth, where, only free, Earth to her entrails feels not tyranny.