<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=115081" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Canto IV</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">THE ARGUMENT</div><div style="margin:10px 0">Alas ! The Poëms curious Model<br>Is Alter’d quite i'th’ Poets Noddle !<br>So Nature oft, for want of Tools,<br>Decrees Wise men, produces Fools :<br>To tell you True, my Muse and I<br>Design’d at first, the Victory<br>To Master Dean ; how’t came about<br>I cannot tell ; but now the Rout<br>Is His : yet so, The Fancy’s righer<br>To end in Pot, commence in Pitcher !<br>Such was the Project ! such th’ Event !<br>But listen to the Argument !<br> The Chanter’s Dream : A Chapter called ;<br> Fine Speeches made ; The Pulpit mawled ;<br> This Counter-Scuffle, I dare stand in’t,<br> The Goddess Discord had a hand in’t :<br> The Prelates foes ; The Changers friends ;<br> The Canto, and the Poëme ends.</div><div style="margin:10px 0">The Pulpit now lifting its lofty Head<br>With carved Canopy stands Covered ;<br>When the Church-clocks with their melodious chime,<br>Summon’d the Singing-boyes to rise : ‘Tis time<br>To Rise to Matins ! Thus the Bells did Chink !<br>Thus did at least the dreaming Sluggard think.<br> Drown’d in sweet Sleep th’Arch-changer roll’d at case,<br>( A Soveraign Medicine ‘gainst the twinging Fleas, )<br>Whose roving Fancy traverst may a Theme,<br>Startled at last with terror of a Dream ;<br>He cry’d out, waken’d at his own fierce crying,<br>And parboil’d in his mellow Sweat lay frying.<br>His Pages starting at the sudden Noyse,<br>Began to bussle, rubbing their gum-glew’d Eyes ;<br>One frighted runs, but poor fool, knew not whither,<br>And from the dore leaps back, e’re well got thither :<br>Girot, ( a trustier Slave ne’re waited on him, )<br>Runs to his Master, ne’re a Rag upon him ;<br> What the Rope ails you ? (cry’d the testy Lacquey,)<br>Does th’ Night-mare ride you, or the Old Witch make you<br>Roar at this rate ? What a mad coil you keep here,<br>That people cannot steal a nap, or sleep here ?<br>Compose your self for shame ! The wiser Sun<br>His race Nocturnal has but half-way run ;<br>Is this a time for Prayers ? Let Singing-boyes<br>Whose Pension’s pay for’t, do those Drudgeries !<br> Ah friend ! ( reply’d the quaking Chanter ) friend !<br>Insult not o’re my juster Passion ; lend<br>Thy patient Ear to my sad Fate, and joyn<br>Thy secret sorrowes to these tears of mine !<br>Attend I say! ( I tremble whil’st I’m speaking, )<br>The weighty Reasons of my poor heart breaking !<br> God Morpheus long before the peep of day,<br>Had lockt my Senses up with leaden Key<br>In second sleep ; when dulcid fumes and vapours,<br>In Fancies Cell, disport in frolick Capers ;<br> Methought I fat enthroned in the Quire,<br>Where crowds of Choristers my Grace admire ;<br>There blest the gawping throng ; there Incense sweet,<br>Stolne from the Saints, my pleased Senses meer,<br>When from the bottom of the Vestry came<br>A Prodigy too terrible to name ;<br>From Dusky Clouds ( methought ) of wreathed Smoak<br>Wide opening, A Hideous Monster broke,<br>Whose Mouth, Eyes, Nostrils, vomit flame, fume, fire,<br>How pale look’d all the Choristers i'th’ Quire !<br>Him the proud Prelate dragg’d along in Chains,<br>Tame like a broken Colt, with Bit and Reins ;<br>But, that which struck us all more than half dead,<br>A Pulpit issued from the Dragons Head.<br>Horripilation seiz’d me ! my flesh quiver’d !<br>My loins relax’d with dismal horror shiver’d !<br>We all conclude from the Sulphureous smell,<br>Dragon and Pulpit both must come from Hell ;<br>Led by his Guide, the Monster doth aspire<br>Unto my Seat, there plac’d himself i'th’ Quire.<br>Think ! think, my Ganymede, how was I appaled<br>To see the Horrid Fiend thus high installed ;<br>I scriecht in vain, in vain I fled the Fury !<br>This I’le depose, is Truth before a Jury !<br> But here the Chaunter paws’d : he judg’d it best<br>To let his Eyes and Looks speak out the rest.<br> Girot essay’d to comfort him in vain ;<br>This Vission, Sir ! perhaps might rise from pain<br>In your disturb’d Head ; Melancholly Vapours<br>Careering in the Brain beget these Capers :<br> The Chaunter cross’d, storms, rages, and in choler<br>Leaps out of bed to mitigate his dolour ;<br>Scorning with sorry Page to brawl, and quarrell,<br>He calls in hast for’s Holy day Apparell !<br> A fair silk Cassolk, rich lin’d with Plush<br>Tho’ dusty ( Girot could not find the Brush, )<br>He first put on ; next a silk Mohair Grown<br>Which to his heels with dragling train hung down ;<br>A pair of Purple Gloves his proper badges,<br>A Rotchet wichi the Dean once gave as wages ;<br>Yet jealous left his Tail the ground should sweep,<br>The Shears had dockt it short, three Inches deep.<br>His corner’d Cap ( for fear of cold ) on’s Head,<br>His Hood in’s hand for hast, he hurried ;<br>Away he speeds thus gorgrously equipped,<br>Never did seventy years so nimbly trip it !<br>He curst and old Sciatica that Stop’d him,<br>But yet his wooden Crutch most stoutly prop’t him ;<br>Rage added wings ; inspir’d with Zealous Fire<br>( Whil’st other lagg’d ) he first arriv’d i’th’ Quire.<br> O Thou, who in a Rapture, tranc’d in Boggs,<br>Describ’st the Battel of the Mice and Froggs !<br>And Thou ! whose curious Pencil drew to th’ Life<br>All Italy for Goats-wooll fallen at strife ;<br>Or rather thou, whose Muse did Pen the Stories<br>Of the sad Contrasts ‘tween the Whiggs and Tories !<br>Lend me a Tongue that may express a Passion,<br>Of mixed Envy, Spight, Rage, Emulation,<br>Fisrt pale and dumb he stood, like one counfounded ;<br>As if ten thousand Furies him surrounded ;<br>His Mass of Blood boils, all his Humurous bubble ;<br>Such power have Pulpits to create our trouble !<br> His belly swell’d like Sybils raptur’d Priest,<br> With hollow sounding moise like Pythonist,<br> Strugling he stood under this inward load,<br> Releas’d at last he thus shook off the God !<br>See ! Girot fee ! the True Interpretation<br>Of my late Phantasme, which thy foolish Passion<br>Call’d a Delusion ! thus the Dream I conster,<br>This Pulpit is the Hideous Hell-born Monster !<br>This ! this the fata, the Malignant screen<br>Will never more let me, poor me, beseen !<br>Ah Prelate ! treble Vengeance now indeed<br>Thy plotting pate has heap’d upon my Head !<br>Could not thy Malice hug it self in bed,<br>Between two Nappy blanckets covered ?<br>To force my cold Seat, thy warm Couch resign ?<br>Put out thy right Eye, to put out both mine ?<br>O Heavens ! O Hell ! see how this Hateful Mass<br>Has made a Tomb of my once glorious Place ?<br>Where I may sleep Inglorious, Sans Regard,<br>Nor more than Powers Unseen, be seen, or heard !<br>Nay rather than endure this fowl disgrace,<br>A thousand times I’le quite this loathed Place :<br>Ne’re sing Te Deum more ! Renounce the Alter !<br>And end my days at Tyburn in a Halter !<br>I ought not, cannot, will not live a Minute<br>I’ th’ Church, whilst hateful Pulpit triumphs in it :<br>Come Girot ! lend thy friendly helping hand,<br>If I have breath and strength, it shall not stand !<br> He spoke ! his Arm waited upon his words,<br>Strength fill’d his Arm, and Fury strength affords :<br>Arrests the Pulpit ; and with haughty frown,<br>Come down thou Ideol ! or I’le pluck thee down !<br> Just in the juncture of this flaming hate,<br>As the wise Destinies ordain’d, and Fate,<br>Who should come in, but Girard the Bell-ringer ?<br>And at his heels amain, Ribout the Singer ?<br>No couple greater Bigots of the Chanters,<br>Against the Prelate none more desperate Ranters ;<br>At the Dire sight though both did Sympathize,<br>Yet they advis’d his Worship to be wise !<br>Pray Sir ! said they, for once be rul’d by Fools !<br>‘Tis dangerous medling naked, with edg’d Tools !<br>‘Tis ten to one the Prelate will Alledge<br>This fact of yours guilty of Sacriledge !<br>Nay who can tell but at the General Dyer<br>We may be Question’d, and Condemn’d of Ryot ?<br> Call then a Chapter ; put it to the Vote,<br>Let faithful tellers take the Poll, and note<br>The Ay’s and Noe’s ; And if we carry’t, then Sir !<br>Down goes the Innovation, once agen Sir !<br> The sage Advice repriev’d some little while<br>The trembling Pulpit : The Chanter feigns a smile !<br> Call then a Chapter ! Run ! Make hast ! Away !<br>Summon the Drowzy Drones ! Nay Pray you stay,<br>Quoth Honest Ribout the fam’d Chorister ;<br>No more hast than good speed, beseech you Sir !<br>Rash actions often bring too late Repentance !<br>Girard was hugely taken with the sentence,<br>And seconds him : Great Sir ! this weighty Business,<br>This Nice point will not bear Haste, or Remisness !<br>Perhaps the Chanters and the Monks may be<br>Awak’d, but did your Reverence ever see<br>Prebends and Canons before break of Day<br>Frequent the Chappel, there to sing, or say<br>Surfum Corda ! Believe me, Sir ! believe me,<br>I speak’d with troubled Heart, the ting does grieve me,<br>When six bells jangling, for these thirty Years<br>Could never pierce their Barricado’d Ears,<br>What hope two sniveling Chanters cryes should wake ‘em,<br>And to Cold Prayers from their warm Beds betake ‘em ?<br>Could you send Jove with his loud Thunder-claps,<br>Your Plot perhaps might take, and but perhaps :<br>With what Charms then, hope you here to prevail ?<br>These Adders stop their Ears with their own Tail.<br> The Chanter netled heard in fustian fume<br>Rejoyning Girard thus sawcily presume,<br>And thus ! Nay now false heart, I plainly see<br>What leg thou halt’st ! ‘Tis the Prelate, he<br>That mortifies thy base enfeebled Spirits,<br>Vile Venal Soul ! what know’st thou not my Merits ?<br>I oft have seen thee cringe with supple Hams,<br>To wow his blessings ; Alas ! mere flim-flams !<br>Well ! go, and basely bend thy Oyled knees,<br>I have enow without thee, to make ‘em rise.<br> Come Girot ! Come, my trusty steel-edg’d friend,<br>Thee on this desp’rate Errand I dare send,<br>Nor fear success : Take me the Thund’ring Hammer,<br>On Holy Thursday us’d to rais a Clamour ;<br>And trust me friend, The Rising Sun shall see<br>The Chapter met in it’s Formality !<br>‘Twas said, ‘twas done ! forth from the sacred Chest<br>Where it did lie from year to year at rest,<br>The Mawl is brought : Away they March, and cry<br>The Chapter waits you ; waits you instantly !<br> Discord would not be wanting in the Brawl,<br>She enters straight the Prelates Palace-Hall.<br>Augments the Din ; the Neighbour-hood she scares<br>With rising Scare-fires, sudden Massacres ;<br>The Chanons now Awake ! Strange tale to tell,<br>Such wonder in an Age had scarce befell !<br>One swears the Lightnings did invest the Town,<br>That Thunder-bolts had beat the Houses down,<br>And one cryes, Fire ! Fire ! Fire ! the Church doth burn<br>A second time ; A third hopes a new turn,<br>For Holy Thursday ! some whose guts chim’d Noon<br>Bless’t the Occasion that call’d them so soon<br>From Bed to Board; for all Agree, no Knell<br>Could more concern them than the Dinner-bell !<br> But yet the Noise that had unglew’d their eyes<br>Could not perswade the Sluggish Chanons rise,<br>Nor leave the Pleasure of th’ enchanted Bed,<br>Till wily Girot got this trick in’s Head ;<br>With Stentors Voice he makes loud Proclamation,<br>O yez ! I’th’ Chapter House, A rare Collation<br>Stands ready dress’t to meet you Appetite !<br>He needed to say no more : O blessed sight<br>To see the Prebends hast in Numerous throngs !<br>What Rhetorick has Soup ! how little Songs !<br>Deaf Bellies now found Ears ; one Chanon ran<br>With one hose off, the other scarcely on ;<br>Another durst not stay to tye his shooes,<br>But slip-sho’d hobbl’d, lest he Breakfast looks.<br>A third, whose appetite severely itches<br>Had not due time to hook his dropping Breeches !<br>Fallacious Hopes ! here was nor bread, nor Wine !<br>The cheated Fools must with Duke Humphrey dine !<br>Yet mute they sate, expecting when at last<br>The Servitors bring in the hope’d Repast ?<br>Nor was it Reason that the gutled Fops<br>Should spend their Tongues, who could not use their Chops.<br> The Chanter though he saw his plot succeed,<br>Yet fear’d Delay might unseen Danger breed ;<br>Rising with blubber’d eyes brim full of Tears.<br>Unbosoms to them all his Griefs and Fears.<br> But Chanon Everard, whose barking May<br>All Hungry Guests, but yet no Victuals saw,<br>Impatient of delay, as he was able,<br>Cry’d out aloud ; Pray Sirs, bring in the Table ;<br>What mean you thus to frustrate our rais’d Hopes ?<br>Must we sit alwayes pining in our Copes ?<br> The Chanter conscious of his cheat, gave way<br>To his Just Indignation ; nor durst say<br>Ought in Reply ; till Father Allain broke<br>The Horrid silence, and most gravely spoke :<br> This Allain you must know, was a learn’d Rabbin,<br>Who spent his days at study in his Cabbin ;<br>Twice twenty times had he turn’d o’rs the Summs<br>Of Father Bauny, had pick’t up the Crums<br>Of Thomas à Kempis ; he knew the Lattin,<br>Although his Gown was neither Silk nor Sattin ;<br>He gravely cought, and coughing gravely Rose,<br>Discharg’d his mind in Ciceronian Prose ;<br>Which cause the sence was Great, the language terse,<br>The Poet has Immortaliz’d in Verse.<br>I’le pawn my Life on’t (said the Canonist)<br>This in the Knavery of some Jansenist !<br>I dare believe my own eyes Information !<br>Our Prelate’s pleas’d with Gurniers Conversation :<br>Arnold that Heretick waits our Destruction,<br>And this Tools uses for the Deans seduction :<br>No doubt but he can from St. Austin prove<br>That one St. Lewis sent from Heaven above,<br>In after Ages rising in our France,<br>A Pulpit in this Chappel should advance :<br>Now to confute him there lies all the skill,<br>Hee’d plague us with the Torrent of his Quill ;<br>One Argument we’ve yet left to confute him,<br>Let’s burn him in Effigie, that will rout him !<br>Let others turn o’re each Voluminous Father,<br>That’s not my Province ; To be short, I’de rather<br>Consult with Father Bauny ; he alone<br>With me is twenty Austins, all in Once :<br>Go then and Rumage all Antiquity,<br>If any footsteps there, of Pulpits be ;<br>We’ve time enough e’re day ! fall to your task,<br>No longer space than till day-break we ask :<br>So many Heads, and hands I doubt not, can<br>Before Sun-rise peruse the Vatican !<br>This uncouth motion startled all that heard it,<br>Till fat-guts Everard open’d, and quite marr’d it :</div><div style="margin:10px 0"> A wise device ! (quote he) And pray, what Gains<br>Shall answer all this Cumber, all these pains ?<br>For one poor lowzy Pew, to break our Brains :<br>‘Tis more Ingenious to Study Meat,<br>Let his Thin Chops his Musty Authors Eat !<br>We’ve other Fish to fry ! I am a man<br>That Read alike Bible and Alchoran !<br>If I can learn what Rents my Tenants owe :<br>When Mortgag’d Vineyards forfeited to grow ;<br>Can I precisely learn the Quarters day,<br>When wooden Shooes trudge up their dues to pay ;<br>There lies my Talent ! I no learning lack,<br>But what is enter’d in my Almanack.<br>Imprimis, fifty Marks a year in Ground-Rents ;<br>Item, twice fifty more Per-ann in Pound-Rents !<br>When Wheat, and Mault in crowded Garners lie,<br>I boast me of a well-store’d Library !<br>Why vex we then Dead Fathers, Greeks and Lattins ?<br>Our Mother Tongue will serve to Mumble Mattins ;<br>I’le ask no help of Scotus to pull down<br>A Pulpit ! This great Arm the Work shall Crown.<br>All’s one to me, let Arnold judge or quit me,<br>I’le hit him home agen, whoe’re dares hit me :<br>Fie on these long Harangues ! Let’s live, and Drink !<br>And let censorious Whigs think what they think !<br> Thus Everard spoke ! A heavy Abbey Lubber !<br> Whose Head was alwayes nuzling in the Cubber’d !<br>Ribout the Chorister then demurely rose,<br>And these Impertinencies stiffly oppose.<br> I never lik’d tedious Circumlocutions,<br>And shall advise to more concise conclusions !<br>Let Trombaut make but the great Organs roar,<br>They’l blow the Pulpit quickly out o’th’ dore !<br> Needs must the Chanter own each man his friend,<br>Though diff’ring in the Means, they jumpt i’th’ Eend !<br>The General cry went still, Ay ! one and all !<br>Let the Proud Pulpit, Let the Pulpit fall !<br>Thus all Unanimous held the Conclusion,<br>But in the Premises was great Confusion :<br>Just so at Trent, when Concord in a Bag<br>Came Post from Rome, they hit it to a Tag !<br> The least he lik’d was he that last had spoke,<br>His Patience that a little did provoke :<br>I ne’re Approv’d ( quoth he ) this moal work !<br>Who knows what fallacy may under’t lurk ?<br>Who can assure me but the Pulpits blast<br>May puff the Organs out of Doors at last ?<br>We sometimes saw the sad experiment,<br>Away with that Dubious Expedient ;<br>Come, Come ! Lets make ( said he ) a Quick dispatch !<br>Whils’t we prate here, we fast in pain, and watch !<br>Down with the Idol ! As I am a sinner,<br>My eager stomach crockes, and calls for Dinner !<br>There will we sit, Chat Eat, Drink, Laugh, grow fat,<br>Exiling fretting Care, that kills a Cat !<br> He rose in hasty Zeal ; The faighful Troop,<br>Arm’d with the Pregnant hopes of Sacred Soup,<br>Follow their Leader : to the Quire they go,<br>There view the Object of then Rage, and Wo ;<br>There on the Common Enemy they lay<br>United hands ; and at the first essay<br>Pluck down the Provocation of their Spleen ;<br>So in the Woods of Ardenn have I seen<br>Sacred to Jove, an Ancient spreading Oak<br>Fall at the Axes oft redoubled stroke !<br> The Boards they rend in Pieces ; and the Quarry<br> In Triumph to the Chanters Kitchin carry !<br> So Arduous was the work ! of such Renown !<br> To set a Pulpit up, to pluck a Pulpit down !</div><div style="margin:10px 0">FINIS</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=115081" data-title="Canto IV de Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux" data-description="THE ARGUMENT/Alas ! The Poëms curious Model/Is Alter’d quite i'th’ Poets Noddle !/So Nature oft, for want of Tools,/Decrees Wise men, produces Fools :/To tell you True, my Muse and I/Design’d at first, the Victory/To Master Dean ; how’t c..."></div> </div> </div>

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