Classic Poem

CORYDON PHILLARIO

A Portrait of the Artist

PHIL . But who is she that walks from yonder hill,
With studious brows, and nightcap dishabille?
That looks a stranger to the beams of day,
And counts her steps, and mutters all the way?
CORY . 'Tis Mira, daughter to a friend of mine;
'Tis she that makes your what-d'ye-call — your rhyme.
I own the girl is something out o' th' way:
But how d'ye like her, good Phillario, say?
PHIL . Like her! — I'd rather beg the friendly rains
To sweep the nuisance from thy loaded plains;
That — —
CORY . — — Hold, Phillario! She's a neighbour's child:
'Tis true, her linen may be something soiled.
PHIL . Her linen, Corydon! — Herself, you mean.
Are such the dryads of thy smiling plain?
Why I could swear it, if it were no sin,
That yon lean rook can show a fairer skin.
CORY . What though some freckles in her face appear?
That's only owing to the time o' th' year.
Her eyes are dim, you'll say. Why, that is true:
I've heard the reason, and I'll tell it you.
By a rush-candle (as her father says)
She sits whole evenings, reading wicked plays.
PHIL . She read! — She'd better milk her brindled cows:
I wish the candle does not singe her brows,
So like a dry furze-faggot, and beside,
Not quite so even as a mouse's hide.
CORY . Come, come; you view her with malicious eyes:
Her shape — —
PHIL . — — Where mountains upon mountains rise!
And, as they feared some treachery at hand,
Behind her ears her listening shoulders stand.
CORY . But she has teeth — —
PHIL . — — Considering how they grow,
'Tis no great matter if she has or no:
They look decayed with posset and with plums,
And seem prepared to quit her swelling gums.
CORY . No more, my friend! for see the sun grows high,
And I must send the weeders to my rye:
Those spurious plants must from the soil be torn,
Lest the rude brambles overtop the corn.