Imagini ale paginilor
PDF
ePub

To be by lust polluted * ?

Then other fools their course may run,
For 'mongst the throng, so vile, there's none,
As he who's self cornuted.

L'ENVOY OF THE POET.

Fly from foul infamy, nor thus entice,
Thy weaker half to play the wanton's part;
Murder not others with the damning vice,
That stabs thy reputation to the heart.

THE POET'S CHORUS TO FOOLS.

Come, trim the boat, row on each Rara Avis, Crowds flock to man my Stultifera Navis.

*The Curious Impertinent affords an instance of a different nature, respecting fools of this species, where the hero of the tale, anxious to prove the fidelity of his wife, requests his bosom friend to make love to her, in order to make trial of her constancy; which is accordingly done, and with such success, that the husband has to thank himself for the horns he wears. This is not, however, the worst species of folly, for, however the reader may dispute the veracity of the ensuing statement, it is nevertheless grounded in truth. An individual, who shall be nameless, was in the habit of taking his wife every evening to the piazzas of Covent Garden, where he left her,

in order to procure money, the wages of her own prostitution, and, if it so happened that she returned without such ill acquired gain, he was in the habit of chastising her severely; but with respect to the gratification of venality; through the medium of this degrading vice; how many husbands are there not, who wilfully put their wives in the way of great men, in order that they may gain their ends, heedless of the cries of conscience, and the goading sting of shame. Chi suoi vizii non doma, nelle sue mani la sua vergogna porta.

SECTION XXVI.

OF FOOLS THAT ARE PASSIONATE AT TRIFLES.

Si vis incolumem, si vis te reddere sanum,

Curas tolle graves, irasci crede profanum.

A stone is heavy, and the sand weighty; but a fool's wrath is heavier than them both.

HARK, how the boist'rous fool will dash on,
And prove the slave to's idle passion *;

* Sir John Perrot, the natural son of King Henry VIII. was very much addicted to passion, and was the first person who swore by God's wounds, now vulgarly termed zounds. In one of these fits of rage, he so far incensed Queen Elizabeth, that she ordered him into confinement in the Tower, where he continued for some time, until the queen, on account of their consanguinity, determined on giving him his liberty, and in consequence sent a message to indicate her pleasure, which happened to be at the momentous period of the threatened Invasion of England by the Spaniards; upon which Sir John having recourse to his accustomed oath, vowed that she only accorded this grace in order to command his services, for that he well knew, she would p-s herself through fear;

4

Now execrate, like madman raving,
And stamp as hard as paviers paving;
And all for what?

Why, Nan, his daughter,
Hath brought in pot

Some luke-warm water;

Whereas papa, though long at bristles toiling, Can never shave them clean, unless 'tis boiling.

which insolent reply being delivered to Elizabeth, so incensed her, that she changed her resolution, and in consequence, Sir John Perrot died in the Tower, a prisoner. Various fools have various ways of indulging this pernicious propensity,

-Unus utrique error,

Sed variis illudit partibus;

of whom it may truly be said, according to the opinion of Butler,

The diff'rence was so small, his brain
Outweigh'd his rage but half a grain;

Which made some take him for a tool

That knaves do work with, call'd a Fool.

The splenetic Pyrrhus, King of Epirus, should not be omitted, whose occult science was vested in his toe; whom Pliny saith, Pollicis in dextro pede tactu Lieno medebatur.

Mark how his face, with ire first reddens,
To ashy pale his cheek then deadens;
His inoffensive locks now tearing,
And knuckles too his passion sharing,
Whilst he, with look

Of harden'd sinner,

Blasphemes his cook,

Too late with dinner:

Or, d-n's the stew, 'fore which the maid's been

toiling,

Then raves and swears at rump-steak, scorch'd while broiling.

Now hark the bell's loud peal's resounding,
Dire knell! the servants' minds astounding;
Each runs, appall'd, to hear the volley,
Of dread abuse from passion's folly,
And all for what?

Oh mischief subtle,

John hath forgot,

Coals in the scuttle;

Though at that instant might the grate have

boasted,

A fire 'fore which an ox might have been roasted.

« ÎnapoiContinuă »