<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115078" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Canto I</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">ARGUMENT</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Argument ? what needs a Proëme<br>To vamp a Three-half-penny Poëme ?<br>No, Reader, No ; ‘twas never writt<br>For thy sake, but for little Chitt.<br>St. George oth’ back-side of the Horn-book,<br>The Dragon kills, to Humour Scorn-book.<br>And thus to wheddle in young Fops,<br>The gilded Sign hangs o’re the Shops :<br>Miss won’t come in to Buy, before<br>She spies the Knick-knack at the Dore.<br>Thus Queasie Madams meat forbear<br>Until they read, The Bill of Fare.<br>Instead a Frontispiece, or Babbie,<br>We plac’t to please some puiney Rabbie,<br>Who hates an Author that enlarges,<br>And cons the Index to save charges.<br> Discord, that Tearing, Hectoring Ranter,<br> Provokes a Dean and his Arch-chanter,<br> Who had liv’d friendly forty years,<br> To fall together by the ears ;<br> A Rotten Pulpit plac’d i’th’ Quire<br> Furnished fewel to the Fire :<br> Three swashing Blades, blind Fates agree<br> Should do the work : but who they bee,<br> Pray ask the Canto, that can tell<br> Better than I : and so Farewell<br>Thus far the Porch, now view the House,<br>Here is the Mountain, there’s the Mouse.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Immortal feuds, and more than Civil Warrs,<br>And Fights thô fierce, disfigur’d with no Scarrs<br>I sing ! And thee Great Prelate, who of late,<br>Maugre the Changer, and Reluctant Fate<br>Didst raise at length a Pulpit in the Quire,<br>Th’ immortal Trophee of thy Mortal Ire.<br> Twice the Pragmatick Chanter, thô in vain,<br> Pesum’d to discompose thy peaceful Reign ;<br> Twice with Schismatick Pride did enterprise<br> To force the Chapter in Rebellion rise ;<br> As oft the Dean him swoln with envious rage,<br> Hurl’d Headlong from high hopes ; and by sage<br> Sexton assisted, terrify’d the People<br> Who durst dispute the Title to his Steeple.<br>Instruct me Muse, for thou canst tell, what Thirst<br>Of sweeet Revenge, thô Dire, engaged first<br>Religious Souls to break the Sacred Tye<br>Of blessed Peace and heaven-born Amitie,<br>To make old Friends new Rivals ; can there rest<br>Such bitter Gall in a Religious Breast ?<br> And thou Great Heroe, whose wise conduct stifled<br>The growing Schisme which else thy Church had rifled<br>With favour influence my Advent’rous Verse,<br>Nor dare to laugh, whilest I thay Acts rehearse.<br> In melting Pleasures of Fraternal Peace<br>An ancient Abbey long had dwelt at case,<br>Whose Scarlet Prebends blear’d poor Mortals eyes,<br>Whose Ermines, Winters Frost, and Snow defies ;<br>Basking in fat, and Wealth, themselves they Bless<br>In sweet Repose of Sacred Idleness :<br>Thus Stretcht at length on downy Featherbeds,<br>To chaunt their Matines ne’re lift up their Heads,<br>But before Dinner wek’d ; for they could smell<br>The Kitchin Steams, though Deaf to th’ Prayer-bell<br>When Eyes and Ears Nights leaden Key composes,<br>Kind Sleep yet open left their subtle Noses ;<br>These alwaies Eat in Person, but did praise<br>Their God by Proxie, in Harmonious Layes,<br>Pawning the Chanters, and Poor Singing-boyes<br>Condemn’d to those inferiour Drudgeries.<br> When Discord dappled o’re with thousand Crimes,<br>The Villanies of our Debauched times<br>Quitting the humble Seat of Parish Churches,<br>On a Magnificent Cathedral Perches,<br>The hideous clang of her hate-bearing wing<br>Peace trembled : whilst the Fiend arm’d with her Sting.<br>Allighting swift before the Pompous Pile<br>Of her proud Pallace, stood and paws’d a while.<br> Thence with observing eye, her Emprire viewing,<br>Fomented Feuds and Warrs thereon ensuing,<br>Hatred, and variance, her self she blesses,<br>Applauds her Wit in these Atchiev’d successe’<br>From Norwich there, and Bristol Coaches, she<br>Legions of Tories dear, arriv’d might see,<br>And could her Vassals boast of all Degrees,<br>Cittizens, Nobles, Clerks, Priests, Dignities ;<br>But above all her Feats renown’d in stories,<br>In this she Prides her self, in this she Glories,<br>That Troops of Barr-gowns rang’d under her Banner<br>Had routed Themes, and now Triumph’t on her ;<br> And yet she saw, and rag’d, and Griev’d to see<br>One Church disturb this rare Felicity,<br>One Church to brave her triumphs ; one Alone<br>Threaten to shake the firmness of her Throne,<br>That amidst all these Horricanes and Scuffles<br>No breath of Stormy Wind it’s Quiet ruffles.<br> Needs must so Odious a sight as this<br>Awake her Rage, make all her Serpents hiss ;<br>With Stygian Aconite her mouth she fills,<br>From glaring eyes she streams of Flame distills :<br> “ What ? (said she with a tone made windows Quiver),<br>“ Have I been able hitherto to Shiver<br>“ The Union ‘twixt Cordeliers, Carmelites,<br>“ Dominicans, Franciscans, Minorites,<br>“ Betwitxt the Molinists, the Celestines,<br>“ Jansenists, Jesuites, and Augustines ?<br>“ Have I by secreet Arts, nourisht the Stickle<br>“ Between the Church-men, and the Contenticle ?<br>“ And shall one Paultry-Chapel dare to Brave me ;<br>“ Nay hope in time to it’s nice Law t’ inslave me ?<br>“ And am I Discord still ? Who any more<br>“ With Incense will my Sacred Shrines Adore ?<br> Thus spoke the Hagg ! And in a trice unseen<br>Of an Old Chanter takes the shape and meen :<br>A corner’d Cap her Snake-wigg’d Head did cover,<br>Her rich Face sparkling Rubies studded over,<br>Her Nose, emboss’d with Carbuncles Divine<br>Before her steps did like a Flamboy shine ;<br>Accoutred tus, with Red-coat Soldiers pace<br>Haughty she march’t to find the Prelates Grace.<br> A Stately Bed, the Posts most richly Gilt,<br>Cover’d with Sumptuous Crimson Damask Quilt<br>Enclos’d with Double Curtains, scorning light<br>Of mid-day Sun, and counterfeiting Night,<br>Stood close in an Appartment like a Cell<br>Where Sweet Repose and Silence chose to Dwell ;<br>The Tester was all fac’d with Looking-Glass,<br>The rare Invention of this Golden Ass,<br>Contriv’d mysteriously that he might peep<br>And see how Blithe he lookt, when fast a-sleep.<br> Here lay the Mitred Head ! in a slumber down’d<br>Whilst gentle fumes his Dreaming Temples Crown’d ;<br>A sprightly Air adorns his Youthful Face,<br>His double Chine hangs down with goodly Grace ;<br>The Claret shin’d through the transparent Skin,<br>A broad conjecture where he late had been ;<br>And his Fat comely Corps, so thick and short<br>Made the soft Pillows groan under his Port :<br>Here, in Sack-posset arm’d, without repining<br>He waits in patience the blest hour of Dining.<br> The Goddess entering, saw the Table spread,<br>And all within doors rarely ordered,<br>Then Softly marching to his lodging, took him<br>Profoundly napping, and thus she bespoke him.<br> “ Sleep’st thou, Great Prelate ? Sleep’st thou then Supine ?<br>“ And to the Chanter mean’st thy Place Resign ?<br>“ Whilst he sings Oremus, makes Grave Processions,<br>“ And hurls about by whole-sale Vows and Blessings ?<br>“ Sleep’st thou securely, till the Chanter come,<br>“ And without Bull, or Brief procur’d from Rome,<br>“ Whilst thou’re wrap in sloath, and free from Fears,<br>“ Rotchet and Surplice shall pluck o’re thy Ears ?<br>“ Sluggard, awake, arise, bestir thee quick,<br>“ Renounce thy Ease, or quit thy Bishoprick !<br> She spoke, and from her Poysonous Mouth did fling<br>Into his Soul the Zeal of Quarrelling.<br> The Dean awakes ; The choler in his breast<br>Formented boils ; yet he the Fury Blest !<br> Have you not seen a Bull by Gad-fly stung,<br>When his tormented pride flownc’d, kick’t, and flund ?<br>The vexed Air, with Ecchoes frighted rings !<br>Whilst he exhales his Rage in Bellowings !<br>So storm’d the Prelate, with his Dream o’re-heated,<br>Poor Page, and Chambermaid were rudely treated ;<br>His mettle mov’d with conceiv’d Indignation,<br>Needs will he go to’ th’ Quire before Collation.<br> When Prudent Gilotin his Almoner<br>With grave Advice stept into stint the Stir ;<br>Shews him the Danger of that Rash Design,<br>How mad to go to Prayers, before he Dine ;<br>“ What rage (quote he) is this ? what head-strong crotchet ?<br>“ Pray Sir, regard the Honour of your Rotchet !<br>“ He that for Chappel lets warm Dinner cool,<br>“ May think himself Devout, I’le think him Fool !<br>“ Does our Church consecrate Prelates to Pray ?<br>“ For shame, this Zeal unseasonable allay !<br>“ Shall all your Learning e’re make me believe,<br>“ That this is Lent, or any Saints dayes Eve ?<br>“ Then Reassume your self, forbear to Doat,<br>“ Meat heated twice, is not worth half a Groat !<br> Thus reseason’d Gilotin, and very loath<br>T’ adjourn a Meal, bed ‘em serve in the broath.<br>The Prelate stood a while in deep suspence,<br>He ey’d the Soupe with Holy Reverence ;<br>O’recome at last with Reason and good Nature<br>He yields, and sits him down to tast the Creature :<br>‘Yet inward Rage did all the while provoke him,<br>Twas fear’d each Morsel would go near to choke him ;<br>Gilotin saw’t, and sigh’d ! in Zeal he rises<br>T’ acquaint his party with these Enterprises ;<br>Tells them with Grief of Heart, what rude Affronters<br>Of Lawn-sleev’d Grandeur were these Sawcy Chanters ;<br>Protests they’d vex’t his Lordship so that day<br>His Meat went down like Orts, or old chopt Hay !<br>Nay I may safely say’t without Presumption<br>This Course must bring him int’ a Deep Consumption!<br> Now might you see whole troops of Chanons, all<br>To Rendevouz in the great Pallace-hall !<br>So have you seen perhaps Legions of Cranes,<br>Marching on Wing o’re Strymons Spacious pains,<br>When the proud Pygmies, must’ring their warlike Nation<br>Design against them an Unjust Invasion !<br> Surpriz’d at sight of this great friendly Rabble,<br>The Sweetned Prelate rises from the Table ;<br>Nodding he Touch’t his Hat, to keep Decorum ;<br>Nor seem’d to slight, nor basely to Adore ‘um !<br>His face no longer shone with Orient Flame,<br>But pleas’d, recalls the good Beer-bowl brimmer<br>Of Racy Claret, and Commends a Swimmer<br>To the good Company ; they with joint consent<br>Follow the Prelates gracious Precedent ;<br>And, whilst their circling Healths and Heads go round,<br>Arnold and all his little Whigs, Confound !<br> With Nectar, killing-thirst they will allay ;<br>The Voider comes, the Cloath is ta’ne away,<br>The Prelate then with words expressing Grief,<br>Unto his Confidents declaims in brief !<br> “ My brave Confederates, in all Intrigues,<br>“ Propping my Interest with our holy Leagues,<br>“ Whose Votes Unanimous once made me Dean,<br>“ What boots this Meagre Title ? Honour Lean ?<br>“ My Name but mention’d ; Ay, and scarcely that,<br>“ Unless perhaps at the Magnificat ;<br>“ How can you bear to see this Rascal Nose me,<br>“ And his Combined mates thus dare t’oppose me ?<br>“ Invading all my Rights and Priviledges,<br>“ My Compeer th’ Impudent, himself Alledges.<br>“ Thus leaping o’re all bounds of Law and Reason,<br>“ I think t’Indite the Rebel of High Treason ;<br>“ For I have by me, or at least can get<br>“ Such Witnesses, be sure shall do the feat !<br>“ This Insolent Upstart e’re I was Dressing<br>“ Stept up into my Throne, and gave the Blessing ;<br>“ And now to cut my Throat, the last of Harms,<br>“ The Villain would usurp my proper Arms. -<br> More would he fain have said, but briny tears<br>Mixt with redoubled sighs and inward fears,<br>Did intercept his speech, cut short his Story,<br>And spoil’d the Tenor of his Oratory.<br> But Zealous Guilotin, who condol’d his Merits,<br> Had one Device yet left to chear his Spirits :<br>For marking how the Prelates speech did vary,<br>He calls for a brisk Glass of old Canary.<br> Mean time cam Sidrac in, whome Age made flow,<br>Limping upon his crutch, the News to know ;<br>Full fourscore years, this Dotard in the Quire<br>Had practis’d ; all the Customs of his Sire,<br>All Ancient usages he could Describe,<br>For he was Dad of all the singing Tribe ;<br>Him time preferr’d, when waving many another,<br>From poor Church-warden to a Vestry-brother ;<br>He by the Prelates pale and fading colour<br>Had quickly ghess’t the nature of his dolour,<br>And sweetly smiling, he Addresses thus :<br> “ And why, my Lord ! So Pusillanimous ?<br>“ Leave to the Chanter fruitless moans and tears,<br>“ Attend the wisdom of now fourscore years,<br>“ Enricht with large experience of affairs ;<br>“ If of thy wrongs thou hopest for Repairs,<br>“ Then lend thy Ear attentive, Sir, be wise,<br>“ And put in practice what the Heavens advise !<br> “ At th’ end o’th’ Quire where now the Haughty Knave<br>“ Enthon’d in borrowed luster dares to Brave<br>“ Thy Soveraingnty, upon that Iron Grate<br>“ Stood once a Pulpit square of Ancient date,<br>“ Behind this Machine, cover’d as with a skreen,<br>“ The Sneaking Chanter scarce could then be seen ;<br>“ Whil’st on the opposite Seat, our Dean did shine<br>“ In Humane eyes with Majesty Divine ;<br>“ How’t came about I know not, but some Devil<br>“ I do conclude the Author of this Evil ;<br>“ Whether some envious hand had pluckt it down<br>“ By Night ; or Time, or rigid Fate had thrown<br>“ The Structure from its Base, yet this is true,<br>“ One Morn we found i’th Floor the Sacred Pew !<br>“ The Chanter I suppose might Plot with Heaven ;<br>“ Be’t so ! we may with both in time be Even :<br>“ But down it came, and for the better Grace,<br>“ That Holy things might rest in Holy Place,<br>“ We lodg’d it in the Vestry straight, and there<br>“ ’T has lyen despis’d in dust, these thirty year<br>“ Fighting with Worms and Spiders, who therein<br>“ Their curious Webbs do weave, and fine thred Spin ;<br>“ And thirty more might lie, for use of Preaching,<br>“ Yet ‘tis a Tool for this Rogues over-reaching.<br> “ Now mark me Sir ! no sooner shall the Night<br>“ His sable Wings spread o’re the vanquisht Light,<br>“ But three out of our Number, without Ryot,<br>“ Will Slip into the Church, while all is quiet,<br>“ And under Covert of the darkness Strive<br>“ Once more the Ruinous Pulpit’s Mass Revive :<br>“ And of next day the Chanter dares o’rethrow it,<br>“ By twenty Actions thou shalt make him know it,<br>“ What ‘tis to rouze a sleeping Prelate ! This<br>“ The Proper Glory of a Prelate is,<br>“ To Vindicate against Malignant People<br>“ The Jus Divinum of his Ancient Steeple ;<br>“ To rescue from base Sacrilegious hands<br>“ His Tithes, his Offerings, Perquisites, and Lands ;<br>“ This makes him Glorious to the present Age,<br>“ This future Immortality Presage :<br>“ What, wilt confine thy Glories to a Quire ?<br>“ To Preach and Pray did Heaven award thy Hire ?<br>“ Such Virtues might Adorn the dayes of Yore,<br>“ When Prelates only Humble, Pious, Poor,<br>“ Boasted in empty Epithetes ; new Times<br>“ Require new Manners, suited to our Crimes ;<br>“ Let Church-men now frequent the Barr and Plead,<br>“ And Cook and Littleton, not Fathers read ;<br>“ The Law, the Law’s thy work ! then shall the Croud<br>“ Pressing thy Throne, with Prayers implore aloud<br>“ Thy Benedictions, which thou may’st Dispense<br>“ By dozens, scores, and Hundreds, and from thence<br>“ To his Regrett, the fretting envious Elf<br>“ Shall see thee thousands Bless ; and hang himself !<br> To see the Mighty Power of Eloquence,<br>How little short ‘tis of Omnipotence !<br>Sidrac’s discourse had charm’d their Ears and Heart,<br>And Planet-strook the Dean stood for his part ;<br>Now on the place before a foot they stirr,<br>The Lot must tell whom Destinies prefer<br>To this important service ; All pretend<br>Both Zeal, and Fitness for this Noble end ;<br>The Prelate then stroaking his Milk-white Beard<br>With Wisdom spoke, with Reverence was Head :<br> The Lot, my Masters ! I ordain your Law ;<br> From Urn Impartial each his Fortune draw ;<br>‘Twas said, ‘twas done ; Now all leave off the Quibling.<br>Each Mothers Son betakes himself to Scribling ;<br>Full thirty Names at least, in Tickets rolled<br>Were reckon’d ; And that none might be cajoled,<br>William, a Novice ‘mongst the singing boyes<br>(Who serv’d in time of Need t make a Noise,)<br>Must draw the Lots ; And now from fatal Bonnet<br>Each man abides his Doom, what e’re comes on it.<br> Thrice had the Dean with hands lift up to Heaven<br>Unto this Pious Work the Blessing given ;<br>His holy Hand thrice shakes the fatal Cap,<br>And happy man be’s Dole who has the Hap !<br>Now William trembling to the Work Addresses,<br>Him too the bounteous Dean All-to-be-Blesses ;<br>The Boy was newly shorn, of ruddy Hew,<br>But when he came to’t, the poor Lad look’t Blew ;<br>And now he draws ! First Brontin’s Name appears,<br>Thrice happy Name to cure the Prelates fears !<br>For wat less could that Thundring Name presage,<br>Than that he’d prove The Terror of the Age ?<br> All’s husht again ; and for the second turn<br>The boy advanc’d his shaking hand to th’ Urn ;<br>When the kind fates gave out th’ Auspicious Name<br>Of John the Clockmaker : A Cock oth’ Game,<br>This John had been, but now a jolly fellow<br>Had yok’d himself to Nan, hi dear Bed-fellow ;<br>This happy pair, (say they) before their Marriage<br>Had guilty been of some unhandsome carriage,<br>But after three years stealing secret pleasure<br>The Priest had joyn’d their hands, at least, together.<br> A third remains ; The Prelate takes the Urn,<br>And to play fair gives it a double turn :<br>Their fligg’ring Souls do now on Tiptoes stand,<br>Twixt fears and hopes for the deciding hand ;<br>How blithe wast thou, how Buxome, and how chicket,<br>When once thy Name proclaimed by the Ticket,<br>Past all the fear of Contingent Disaster,<br>Appear’d before the face of thy great Master,<br>Betrude (I mean) the Sexton ? Some do say,<br>Thy livid Front e’re while as pale as Clay,<br>Glow’d into Sanguine ; and thy Rosy Hew<br>Did the Wan Sallow of thy Hide Subdue !<br>Thy Gouty Legs and Toes benumm’d before,<br>Ventur’d to cut three Capes on the Floor !<br> Now might you hear the Crowd at chearful Rates<br>Applaud the Justice of the Gentle Fates,<br>Who by their peremptory strict commands<br>Dispos’d the work into such able Hands ;<br>Faith with the Court Dissolves, all satisfie’d,<br>And to their Quarters in great Triumph hy’d.<br> The Dean alone, to cool his Zeal enraged,<br> Slumber’d till a soft Supper might asswage it !</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Nicolas+Boileau-Despr%C3%A9aux">Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux</a> from <i>Le Lutrin</i><div class=q> <img src="https://www.citatepedia.ro/g/32share.png" style="float:left" alt="Share"> <script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115078" data-title="Canto I de Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux" data-description="ARGUMENT/The Argument ? what needs a Proëme/To vamp a Three-half-penny Poëme ?/No, Reader, No ; ‘twas never writt/For thy sake, but for little Chitt./St. George oth’ back-side of the Horn-book,/The Dragon kills, to Humour Scorn-book./And thu..."></div> </div> </div>

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