<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115079" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Canto II</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">ARGUMENT</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Forsaken Nancy in this Canto,<br>Brings 'gainst her John a Quo Warranto,<br>'Cause he had left her in the Lurch,<br>To rear a Pulpit in the Church :<br>And under colour of Religion<br>Courted another pretty Pigeon.<br>Now you must know that all the Blame<br>Was laid upon the Baggage Fame ;<br>Who rais'd between them the sad Squabble,<br>By forging of this Idle Fable !<br>Next you shall see in Sluggish Dress,<br>That Gallant Lady Idleness ;<br>Who has more Suitors waiting on her,<br>Than the most virtuous Maid of Honour ;<br> But here I almost had forgot<br> To won the Error of our Plot,<br> The Poet laid his Scene in France,<br> But I can't tell by what Mischance,<br> He now and then dares venture over,<br> And steps as far as Deal or Dover.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Mean while a Hagg, made up of Mouths and Ears,<br>Who prates both what, and more than what she hears,<br>The Moderns call her Fame : This crafy Jade<br>Of Slandring drives and unknown subtle trade ;<br>For she had got the Faculty to Brew<br>With dubious, Certain ; and with false, things true ;<br>And with such Art she her Ingredients mixed,<br>That where she pleas'd A Calumny she fixed ;<br>This Baggage once in her mad Moods and Tenses<br>Had Lombard read, the Master o'th' Sentences ;<br>Thence she had learn'd to spread a Lie Malicious,<br>And then to serve a Turn, us'd the Officious ;<br>When her light business call'd to the Court<br>Us'd the Jocose, and lewdly ly'd in sport ;<br>Her trade she practiced first in private Letters,<br>Bespatter'd there, and vilifi'd her Betters ;<br>In Coffee-houses then she grew a Prater,<br>Broke off al Trades, she sets up Observator.<br> A Justice once clapt her i'th' Stocks and stript her,<br> Then by a tough-back't Knave feverely Whipt her ;<br>Not warn'd, the Brazen-face would out be flying<br>Against the State with her Opprobrious Lying ;<br>Jockey for Leasing put her to the Horning,<br>In England she was Pillory'd for Stuborning ;<br>A thousand pounds for False News she was fined ;<br>And till she paid the fine to Gaol Confined :<br>Venturing at last on Scandalum Magnatum,<br>Two Thousand more ; yet still the Jade did rate 'um :<br>Thus did the Gypsey flutter up and down<br>Through City, Country, Village, and good Town ;<br>Once at a Barbers Shop she took a Lodging,<br>But fickle in her Humour soon was trudging<br>To th' Cross-keys, Gun, and Ship : still her Head Quarters<br>Where e're she roam'd by day, was the Crack-farters !<br>Forging, and telling Stories, with swift Wings<br>This tale at last to Jealous Nancy brings :<br>She tells ( her tale I'm sure, lost nought i'th' telling, )<br>How Johns misguided zeal, 'gainst Vows rebelling,<br>Under a quaint pretence to set upright<br>A Pew ( forsooth ! ) intends to watch that Night ;<br>But the perfidious wretch, intends ( sayes fame )<br>To Gratifie another kind of Flame !<br>For tyr'd with Lawful Love, and honest Kisses,<br>He elswhere payes the Tribut of Careflies<br>Due to his Spouse alone : Easie Belief<br>Receiv'd the News with Terrour mixt with Grief !<br> With finger in Eye, and Hair about her Shoulders,<br>Poor Nan runs out ; thought Mad by the beholders,<br>Nor caring much whether she wrong or right him,<br>In this rude language straight begins t'Indite hime.<br> Dissembling Traitor ! could not Faith once plighted,<br>Nor those Embraces wherein we delighted,<br>Nor thy Poor Wench ready to run a Madding,<br>Cool thy hot Cod-piece, but thou must be Gadding ?<br>Perfidious Wretch ! didst thou sit up to make<br>A Clock or Watch, some Comfort I might take ;<br>And hope of Lawful gain might slake my Anguish,<br>Whilst in they Absence, I, poor I did Languish :<br>But what wild Phrenzie ? what capricious Folly ?<br>What Whimsey ? what Religious Melancholly ?<br>What strange Conondrum's got into they Head,<br>To leave for Rotten Pulpit thy sweet Bed ?<br>Ah ! whether goest my John ? dost Fly thy Nancy ?<br>Can our delightful Nights forsake thy Fancy ?<br>What ! can'st with dry Eyes view my tear still Dropping ?<br>See how the Stupid Block stands mute, and moping !<br>If my soft Heart easie to thy Desires<br>Hath alwayes met with Equal Flames thy fires ;<br>And if to gratifie thy Itch, ( my Honey, )<br>I stood not on th' nice points of Matrimony ;<br>If in my Arms, thou, thou hast had sole part,<br>Speak not that wounding, killing word, Depart.<br> Thus spoke our Lover whining, plain and round,<br>And clos'd her speech with an half-dying swoon ;<br>Upon a Pallet backwards down she fell,<br>Fortune had plac'd the Couch exceeding well ;<br>Twenty to one she else had broke her Rump,<br>Up starts amazed John, bestirs his Stump,<br>'Twixt Zeal and Love, his heart stood long divided,<br>Till Zeal at last the Question decided ;<br>And thus his smothr'd passion got vent,<br>Smoothing with kind words o're his wild Intent.<br> Dear Spouse, ( said he with voice unkidnly kind )<br>Shall e're thy favours slide out of my mind ?<br>The Rhine shall first his streams mix with the Loire,<br>Ere I forget the fence of my Devoir ;<br>Nay first shall France keep Faith and Oath with Spain,<br>E're I thy love-sick Agonies disdain :<br>But never Dream, that when I gave my Troth,<br>I would become a Slave unto my Oath ;<br>Our Nation knows no such nice Obligation,<br>The Ancient Faith's now quite worn out of fashion ;<br>Had the Fates trusted me with mine own Lot,<br>I ne're had rashly knit the Wedlock Knot ;<br>But from those subtle Rites had still been free<br>To taft the fruit of the forbidden Tree ;<br>But since that matters in this posture stand,<br>Grudge not my Glory, if I lend a hand<br>To this bless'd work, the Height of my desire,<br>To raise the Pulpit in the sacred Quire.<br>Compose these passions strugling in thy Breast,<br>Dry up thos Tears ! Come Sweet ! Lye down and rest !<br> He said ; but what, the Wench regarded not,<br>E're half was done, the first she had forgot ;<br>With hollow Cheeks, and staring Eyes she view'd him,<br>Trembling she lay, and in her heart beshrew'd him ;<br>Long silent, stifled thoughts with pain at last<br>Broke prison, Raging then she Rail'd as fast.<br> No, no, Base Verlet ! Thy Sire ne're was Baker,<br>Nor cam'st thou of the blood of a Clock-maker !<br>Thy Mother never rode in Hackney Coach,<br>A Bastard-brat rather of some Turn-brooch,<br>Or Caucasus did form thee, of a Pebble,<br>Or some fell Tigress nurs'd thee with her nibble ;<br>Sure with her Milk thou drew'st in Feritie,<br>Other I'le ne're believe until I Die :<br>For to what end should I the Rascal flatter ?<br>Let me sob, roar, or swoon, 'tis all a matter<br>To marble-hearted John ; and all I gain<br>Is to draw on fresh injuries again !<br>A Pew ! what Mortal throat can ever gulp it,<br>Thus to compare me with a Rotten Pulpit !<br>Has all my scolding squeez'd from's Eyes one Tear ?<br>Has he express't the least Remorse for's Dear ?<br>When he came hither first, this paltrey Jack<br>Had scarce a Shooe to's foot, a Rag to's back ;<br>Nay I can safely swear't, because I know't.<br>The Villain was not worth a single Groat ;<br>I like a Fool took him to Bed and Board,<br>And now the Rascal swaggers like a Lord :<br>But why thus Raving do I beat a Rock,<br>Only to purchase foam ? Base Spirits mock<br>Abject complaints ; Humble Petitionings,<br>Are sill contemn'd, but in the breasts of Kings.<br> Then study brave Revenge, despised Love,<br>Nor shall Repentance e're my Pity move ;<br>And when thay Ears shall hear my Passing-bell,<br>Then, then expect Another kind of Knell ;<br>My Angry Ghost shall haunt thy Conscious Soul,<br>I'le Ring thee such a Peal, shall make thee Howl ;<br>Hobgoblins shall thy house turn topsey-turvey,<br>Conscience shall then upbraid thee, what a Scurvey<br>Knave thou hast been to thy Deserted Wife,<br>And make thee Pulpits Curse, whil'st thou hast Life !<br>Nay, I'le pursue thee to the Stygian Lake,<br>And ugly Ballads, Boyes of thee shall make.<br> This said, she dropt backwards upon her breech,<br>For raging sorrow quite had stopt her speech ;<br>The noise awaken'd Asse her trusty Maid,<br>Who Hobling soon came in unto her Aid.<br> Now Darkness had exil'd th'expiring Day,<br>Supper to Service had given leave to play ;<br>The fudling Chanters now in Clubs were got,<br>Wetting their Whistles with the good Ale-pot.<br> Brontin, whom Zeal for th'service had made quicker,<br>Bethought himself, A Punch of Nappy Liquor<br>In a Cold Winters Night was no false Latine,<br>To qualifie Devotion for the Matine ;<br>This Cargo, Gilotin's deep providence<br>Laid in ; he was ( say truth ) A man of sence,<br>The smell o'th' Bottle made him eas'ly Jugg;<br>Thus trudg'd he nimble : Whom should he stumble next on,<br>But that tough stick of Wood, Boirude the Sexton ?<br>Now both together warm'd with Zeal were hasting<br>To mmet the Clock-maker, for Time was wasting :<br>Come ! come away ! (cry'd they ) with quick devotion,<br>The Sun's now gone to tipple in the Ocean !<br>The Murky Night which veils the Evenings bravery,<br>Will make a handsome Cloak to hide our Knavery ;<br>What ails thee Man ? where hast of late been mew'd up ?<br>Thou look'st as if first eaten, and then spew'd up :<br>Where is that morning Zeal, that with thee rose ?<br>Chear up, and pluck thy Heart out of thy Hose !<br>Come, fear no Colours ! The end the Act will hallow !<br>Then whether Honour calls thee, bravely follow.<br>The Clock-maker knew not well how to take it,<br>Nor whether Jest or Earnest he should make it,<br>Half Pale, half Red he look't with motley passion,<br>For Shame and Rage had dy'd him in that fashion ;<br>Yet, on my word the Knave had wit in's Anger,<br>And wisely took along his rusty Hanger ;<br>For he resolv'd at a Dead pinch to knock it,<br>And scorn'd to stand, and sneak with hands in Pocket :<br>Nails be a handful took, and on his shoulder<br>A Massie Beetle, frighted the beholders;<br>An Axe, a Saw, a Hammer, and a Mallet<br>The sturdy knave had truss'd in Leathern Wallet ;<br>They march accoutred in Warlike Parade,<br>And John appears at th' Head of the Brigade ;<br>The silent Moon, viewing their stately Port,<br>Withdrew her Beams, she might not spoil the sport.<br> Discord saw all, and set up a loud Laughter,<br>Th' Eccho rebounds and shook Heavens hollow Raster ;<br>The Noise had almost waken'd Idleness<br>As she at Court with Ease held sweet Caress,<br>The frisking Pleasures danced by her side,<br>The Nuns her Votaries, her Deify'd ;<br>One, in a Corner Stufft the Prebends hides,<br>One, pleasantly the Chanons robes Derides ;<br>Luxury to her State devoutly bows,<br>And Sleep drop't Poppy0water on her Brows.<br>This Even the sleepy Dose they had redoubled,<br>In vain! for Discord's cries her sleep had troubled !<br>And envious Night conspiring with that Devil,<br>Buzz'd in her Drowsy Ears the Tragick Evil ;<br>Night tells her how the Prelate did design<br>To make Disturbance in the Sacred Shrine ;<br>How she had seen three Mortal Foes to Quiet,<br>March in Battalia ; and Three will make a Ryot :<br>How Discord threatned, to augment the fray,<br>A Pulpit to erect by Break or Day ;<br>Which would the people raise in Mutinies,<br>Thus, thus the Fates had written in the Skies !<br> At this Report, portending deadly Harm,<br>Idleness rais'd her self up on one Arm,<br>One Languid Eye she opes, and with weak Voice<br>Drop't these soft whispers ; fearing her own Noise.<br> Ah Night ! sad tale thou tell'st ! what envious Fiend,<br>With new Combustions doth my Quiet rend ?<br>Ah ! what's become of those thrice blessed Dayes,<br>When Idle Princes crown'd with wither'd Bayes<br>Slept on their Thrones, and tamely worshipt me,<br>Leaving their Scepters to a Deputy ?<br>All Night the Court did Feast, and slept all Day,<br>Creeping abroad perhaps when verdant May<br>With Gentle breathing Zephyrs sweet approaches<br>Call'd them to th' Park, drawn in six Horse-and-Coaches.<br>That happy Age is fled ; for now a Prince<br>Has got the Throne, and banisht me long since ;<br>Scorning my Pleasures : to my melting Charms<br>He stops his Ears with Thundring Drums Alarms :<br>And breaks my pleasing Dreams with Trumpets Sound,<br>Nor Summers Heat, nor Winters Frost confound<br>His Daring projects ; warlike preparations,<br>Resolv'd to Attack the World with fresh Invasions !<br>Nay all my Subjects ripe for Insurrection<br>Imbibe with eagerness the Dire Infection.<br>'Twice had I hop'd with flatt'ring Peace to cool<br>His martial Ardor; 'twice to shut the School<br>Of Janus : All in Vain ! expect I find<br>More Worlds to satiate his Ambitious Mind !<br>'Twould tire my feeble feet to trace the way<br>Where the hard Stages of his Valour lay ;<br>But yet I pleas'd my self with hopes to meet<br>For my disturbed Soul some safe Retreat :<br>I fancied that A Church might ease afford,<br>Where Church-men sleep in Bed, and wake at Board ;<br>But Oh! these Chanters, Chanons make a Pother,<br>A Dog can't rest, whil'st one worries another :<br>And which provokes me most to Indignation,<br>The whole world's set a gog on Reformation.<br>What Holy Mother Church, Imposing faith,<br>This Age receives not with Implicit Faith ;<br>Nay Blind Obedience now is styl'd A Vice,<br>Sawcy Dissenters will be counted wise ;<br>Men now Plead Conscience, make a heavy Din<br>With Heaven and Hell ; of Duty prate, and Sin :<br>These empty Names have set the Worlds on fire !<br>Now e're they swallow, the will first enquire ;<br>They'l see a Reason given for Church Commands,<br>And use their Eyes, e're they bestir their Hands.<br> Who can Remember, and not sadly grieve,<br>Those easie dayes when on eht Prelates sleeve<br>The supple Laity had pinn'd their Soul,<br>Nor Private durst the Publick Faith Controll ;<br>When Canons, Conscience ; Rubrick, Reason mated,<br>And Souls had learn't to bow, and ne're debate it ?<br>Then Masse's, Ave's Credo's Glory earned,<br>Blind Vot'ries then could rech it unconcerned !<br> But now the Begging Fryars are all for travel,<br>They exercise their Toes in Dust and Gravel ;<br>The preaching Friars such a coil do keep,<br>My aking head can get no wink of Sleep !<br>Yet my Cistercians did a little bless<br>My hopes, in Cloisters pamp'ring Idleness,<br>When a Mischievous Pulpits Curst intent<br>Threatens to force me thence to Banishment!<br> Ah Night ! the Dear Associate of my Sleep,<br>Wilt with these Villains Correspondence keep ?<br>Ah Night ! Sweet Night ! If e're thou didst Essay<br>With me the Joyes concealed from Day,<br>Then suffer not..... Much more she would have spoke,<br>Had not a Qualm crept o're her heart, and broke<br>The Languid purpose : Down she sank in Bed,<br>Sigh'd, stretch'd her Arms, clos'd Eyes, and Slumbered !</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=115079" data-title="Canto II de Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux" data-description="ARGUMENT/Forsaken Nancy in this Canto,/Brings 'gainst her John a Quo Warranto,/'Cause he had left her in the Lurch,/To rear a Pulpit in the Church :/And under colour of Religion/Courted another pretty Pigeon./Now you must know that all the Blame/W..."></div> </div> </div>

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