Ready my very soul to pawn
Where I have pinn'd my faith, on lawn.
I supplicate you to advise
Your children, changing their disguise,
They put on one that does not show
So very much of dirt below.
One tooth has Mummius; but in sooth
No man has such another tooth:
Such a prodigious tooth would do
To moor the bark of Charon to,
Or, better than the Sinai stone,
To grave the Ten Commandments on.
A little cornet of dragoons,
Immerst in gilded pantaloons,
To kiss consenting Helen aim'd:
He rais'd his head, but 'twas so low,
She cried, (and pusht away her beau,)
"Go, creature! are you not ashamed?"
Does it become a girl so wise,
So exquisite in harmonies,
To ask me when do I intend
To write a sonnet? What? my friend!
A sonnet? Never. Rhyme o'erflows
Italian, which hath scarcely prose;
And I have larded full three-score
With sorte, morte, cuor, amor.
But why should we, altho' we have
Enough for all things, gay or grave,
Say, on your conscience, why should we
Who draw deep seans along the sea,
Cut them in pieces to beset
The shallows with a cabbage-net?
Now if you ever ask again
A thing so troublesome and vain,
By all your charms! before the morn,
To show my anger and my scorn,
First I will write your name a-top,
Then from this very ink shall drop
A score of sonnets; every one
Shall call you star, or moon, or sun,
Till, swallowing such warm-water verse,
Even sonnet-sippers sicken worse.
Snappish and captious, ever prowling
For something to excite thy growling ;
He who can bear thee must be one
Gentle to beasts as Waterton.
To Rose and to Sophy
A column and trophy
Ascend at the summons of viols and flutes,
For adding to-day,
On the coast of Torbay,
To the Army of Martyrs a hundred recruits.
Sighs must be grown less plentiful,
Or else my senses are more dull.
Where are they all? These many years
Only my own have reacht my ears.
Plants the most beauteous love the water's brink,
Opening their bosoms at young Zephyr's sighs.
Maidens, come hither: see with your own eyes
How many are trod down, how many sink.
Time past I thought it worth my while
To hunt all day to catch a smile:
Now ladies do not smile, but laugh,
I like it not so much by half;
And yet perhaps it might be shown
A laugh is but a smile full-blown.
Each year bears something from us as it flies,
We only blow it farther with our sighs.
Idle and light are many things you see
In these my closing pages: blame not me.
However rich and plenteous the repast,
Nuts, almonds, biscuits, wafers, come at last.
In wrath a youth was heard to say,
From girl so false I turn away.
By all that's sacred ice shall burn
And sun shall freeze ere I return."
But as he went, at least one finger
Within her hand was found to linger;
One foot, that should outstrip the wind,
(But only one) drew loads behind.
Siddons. I leave, and unreluctant, the repast: The herb of China is its crown at last.
Maiden hast thou a thimble in thy gear?
Maid. Yes, missus, yes.
Siddons.
Then, maiden, place it here,
With penetrated penetrating eyes.
Maid. Mine? missus! are they?
Siddons.
Of needles', not of woman's, eyes I spake.
Maid. O dear me! missus! what a sad mistake!
Siddons. Now canst thou tell me what was that which led
Athenian Theseus into labyrinth dread?
Maid. He never told me: I can't say, not I,
Unless, mayhap, 'twas curiosity.
Siddons. Fond maiden!
No, upon my conscience, madam!
If I was fond of 'em I might have had 'em.
Siddons. Avoid! avaunt! beshrew me! 'tis in vain That Shakespeare's language germinates again.
Slaves-merchants, scalpers, cannibals, agree.
In Letter-land no brotherhood must be,
If there were living upon earth but twain,
One would be Abel and the other Cain.
I've never seen a book of late
But there is in it palmy state.
To realm or city you apply
The palm, and think it raised thereby.
Yet always does the palmy crown
On every side hang loosely down,
And its lank shade falls chiefly on
Robber or reptile, sand or stone.
Compare it with the Titan groves
Where, east or west, the savage roves,
Its highth and girth before them dwindle
Into the measure of a spindle.
But often you would make it bend
To some young poet, if your friend.
Look at it first, or you may fit
Your poet-friend too well with it.
The head of palm-tree is so-so,
And bare or ragged all below.
If it suits anything, I wist
It suits the archaeologist.
To him apply the palmy state
Whose fruit is nothing but a date.
A MASK ON A RING.
Forster! you who never wore
Any kind of mask before;
Yet, by holy friendship! take
This, and wear it for my sake.
I would give something, O Apollo!
Thy radiant course o'er earth to follow,
And fill it up with light and song,
But rather would be always young.
Since that perhaps thou canst not give,
By me let those who love me live.
Dauber! if thou shouldst ever stray
Along Idalia's mossy way,
Heedless what deities are there,
And whom they view with fondest care,
At thee for this shall Venus pout,
And all three Graces push thee out.
Alas, how soon the hours are over
Counted us out to play the lover!
And how much narrower is the stage
Allotted us to play the sage!
But when we play the fool, how wide
The theatre expands! beside,
How long the audience sits before us!
How many prompters! what a chorus!
Is it not better at an early hour
In its calm cell to rest the weary head,
While birds are singing and while blooms the bower, Than sit the fire out and go starv'd to bed?
TO JULIUS HARE, WITH PERICLES AND ASPASIA."
Julius, of three rare brothers, my fast friends,
The latest known to me! Aspasia comes
With him, high-helmeted and trumpet-tongued,
Who loved her. Well thou knowest all his worth,
Valuing him most for trophies reared to Peace,
For generous friendships, like thy own, for Arts
Ennobled by protection, not debased.
Hence, worthless ones! throne-cushions, puft, inert,
Verminous, who degrade with patronage
Bargain'd for, ere dealt out! The stone that flew
In splinters from the chisel when the hand
Of Phidias wielded it, the chips of stone
Weigh with me more than they do. To thy house Comes Pericles. Receive the friend of him
Whose horses started from the Parthenon
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