Classic Poem

Me, dear Ephelia, me in vain you court
With all your powerful influence to resort
To that great town, where Friendship can but have
The few spare hours which meaner pleasures leave.
No! let some shade, or your large palace be
Our place of meeting, love and liberty,
To thoughts and words and all endearments free.
But to those walls excuse my slow repair
Who have no business, or diversion there,
No dazzling beauty to attract the gaze
Of wandering crowds to my applauded face;
Nor to my little wit the ill nature joined
To pass a general censure on mankind:
To call the young and unaffected, fools;
Dull, all the grave, that live by moral rules;
To say the soldier brags, who, asked, declares
The nice escapes and dangers of his wars,
The poet's vain that knows his unmatched worth,
And dares maintain what the best Muse brings forth:
Yet this the humour of the age is grown
And only conversation of the town.
In satire versed and sharp detraction be,
And you're accomplished for all company.
When my last visit I to London made
Me to Almeria wretched chance betrayed;
The fair Almeria, in this art so known,
That she discerns all failings but her own.
With a loud welcome and a strict embrace,
Kisses on kisses, in a public place,
She extorts a promise that next day I dine
With her who for my sight did hourly pine,
And wonders how so far I can remove
From the beau monde, and the dull country love;
Yet vows, if but an afternoon 'twould cost,
To see me there she could resolve almost
To quit the town and for that time be lost.
My word I keep; we dine, then rising late,
Take coach which long had waited at the gate;
About the streets a tedious ramble go
To see this monster, or that waxwork show,
Or anything that may the time bestow.
When by a church we pass, I ask to stay,
Go in, and my devotions humbly pay
To that great Power whom all the wise obey.
Whilst the gay thing, light as her feathered dress,
Flies round the coach, and does each cushion press,
Through every glass her several graces shows;
This does her face, and that her shape expose
To envying beauties and admiring beaux.
One stops, and as expected all extols,
Clings to the door, and on his elbow lolls,
Thrusts in his head, at once to view the fair.
And keeps his curls from discomposing air,
Then thus proceeds:
“My wonder it is grown
To find Almeria here, and here alone.
Where are the nymphs that round you used to crowd,
Of your long courted approbation proud,
Learning from you how to erect their hair,
And in perfection all their habit wear,
To place a patch in some peculiar way
That may an unmarked smile to sight betray
And the vast genius of the sex display?”
“Pity me then,” she cries, “and learn the fate
That makes me porter to a temple gate.
Ardelia came to town some weeks ago
Who does on books her rural hours bestow
And is so rustic with her clothes and mien,
'Tis with her ungenteel but to be seen
Did not a long acquaintance plead excuse;
Besides, she likes no wit that's now in use,
Despises courtly vice, and plainly says
That sense and nature should be found in plays,
And therefore none will e'er be bought to see
But those of Dryden, Etherege and Lee,
And some few authors, old and dull to me.
To her I did engage my coach and day,
And here must wait, while she within does pray.
Ere twelve was struck she calls me from my bed,
Not once observes how well my toilet's spread;
Then drinks the fragrant tea contented up,
Without a compliment upon the cup,
Though to the ships for the first choice I steered
Through such a storm as the stout bargemen feared,
Lest that a praise, which I have long engrossed,
Of the best china equipage be lost.
Of fashions now and colours I discoursed,
Detected shops that would expose the worst,
What silks, what lace, what ribans she must have,
And by my own an ample pattern gave.
To which she cold and unconcerned replied,
I deal with one that does all these provide,
Having of other cares enough beside;
And in a cheap, or an ill-chosen gown,
Can value blood that's nobler than my own,
And therefore hope myself not to be weighed
By gold or silver on my garments laid;
Or that my wit or judgment should be read
By an uncommon colour on my head.’”
“Stupid, and dull,” the shrugging zany cries;
When, service ended, me he moving spies,
Hastes to conduct me out and in my ear
Drops some vile praise too low for her to hear;
Which to avoid more than the begging throng,
I reach the coach, that swiftly rolls along
Lest to Hyde Park we should too late be brought
And lose ere night an hour of finding fault.
Arrived, she cries:
“That awkward creature see,
A fortune born, and would a beauty be
Could others but believe as fast as she.”
Round me I look some monster to descry
Whose wealthy acres must a title buy,
Support my Lord, and be, since his have failed,
With the high shoulder, on his race entailed;
When to my sight a lovely face appears,
Perfect in everything but growing years.
This I defend, to do my judgment right.
“Can you dispraise a skin so smooth, so white,
That blush which o'er such well-turned cheeks does rise,—
That look of youth, and those enliven'd eyes?”
She soon replies:
“That skin which you admire
Is shrunk and sickly, could you view it nigher.
The crimson lining and uncertain light
Reflects that blush, and paints her to the sight.
Trust me, the look which you commend betrays
A want of sense more than the want of days;
And those wild eyes that round the circle stray
Seem as her wits had but mistook their way.”
“As I did mine,” I to myself repeat,
“When by this envious side I took my seat.”
O for my groves, my country walks and bowers!
Trees blast not trees, nor flowers envenom flowers,
As beauty here all beauty's praise devours.
But noble Piso passes.
“He's a wit,
As some (she says) would have it, though as yet
No line he in a lady's fan has writ,
Ne'er on their dress, in verse, soft things would say,
Or with loud clamour overpowered a play
And right or wrong prevented the third day;
To read in public places is not known,
Or in his chariot here appears alone;
Bestows no hasty praise on all that's new.
When first this coach came out to public view,
Met in a visit, he presents his hand
And takes me out. I make a wilful stand,
Expecting, sure this would applause invite,
And often turned that way to guide his sight;
Till, finding him wrapped in a silent thought,
I asked, if that the painter well had wrought?
Who then replied, ‘He has in the fable erred,
Covering Adonis with a monstrous beard;
Made Hercules (who by his club is shown)
A gentler fop than any of the town;
Whilst Venus from a bog is rising seen
And eyes asquint are given to beauty's queen.’
I had no patience longer to attend,
And know 'tis want of wit to discommend.”
Must Piso then be judged by such as these?—
Piso who from the Latin Virgil freed,
Who loosed the bands which old Silenus bound,
And made our Albion rocks repeat the mystic sound,
Whilst all he sung was present to our eyes,
And as he raised his verse, the poplars seemed to rise?
Scarce could I in my breast my thoughts contain,
Or for this folly hide my just disdain.
When “See,” she says, “observe my best of friends!”
And through the window half her length extends,
Exalts her voice that all the ring may hear
How fulsomely she oft repeats “My dear!”
Lets fall some doubtful words that we may know
There still a secret is betwixt them two,
And makes a sign, the small white hand to show;
When, fate be praised, the coachman slacks the reins,
And o'er my lap no longer now she leans,
But how her choice I like does soon inquire.
“Can I dislike,” I cry, “what all admire?
Discreet and witty, civil and refined
Nor in her person fairer than her mind
Is young Alinda, if report be just;
For half her character my eyes I trust.
What! changed Almeria? on a sudden cold?
As if I of your friend some tale had told?”
“No,” she replies. “But when I hear her praise,
A secret failing does my pity raise.
Damon she loves, and 'tis my daily care
To keep the passion from the public ear.”
I ask, amazed, if this she has revealed.
“No, but 'tis true,” she cries, “though much concealed.
I have observed it long, nor would betray
But to yourself what now with grief I say,
Who this to none but confidents must break,
Nor they to others but in whispers speak.
I am her friend and must consult her fame.”
More she was saying when fresh objects came
“Now what's that thing,” she cries. “Ardelia! guess.”
“A woman, sure.”
“Aye, and a poetess!
They say she writes, and 'tis a common jest.”
“Then sure she has publicly the skill professed,”
I soon reply, “or makes that gift her pride,
And all the world but scribblers does deride;
Sets out lampoons where only spite is seen,
Not filled with female wit, but female spleen;
Her flourished name does o'er a song expose,
Which through all ranks down to the carman goes;
Or poetry is on her picture found
In which she sits with painted laurel crowned.
If no such flies, no vanity defile
The Heliconian balm, the sacred oil,
Why should we from that pleasing art be tied,
Or, like state-prisoners, pen and ink denied?
But see, the Sun his chariot home has driven
From the vast shining ring of spacious heaven,
Nor after him celestial beauties stay
But crowd with sparkling wheels the Milky Way.
Shall we not then the great example take
And ours below with equal speed forsake?
When to your favours, adding this one more,
You'll stop, and leave me thankful, at my door.”
“How! Ere you've in the Drawing-room appeared
And all the follies there beheld and heard!
Since you've been absent such intrigues are grown,
Such new coquettes and fops are to be shown,
Without their sight you must not leave the town.”
“Excuse me,” I reply. “My eyes ne'er feast
Upon a fool, though ne'er so nicely drest.
Nor is it music to my burthened ear
The unripe pratings of our sex to hear;
A noisy girl, who's at fifteen talked more
Than grandmother or mother heretofore
In all the cautious, prudent years they bore.”
“Statesmen there are,” she cried, “whom I can show
That bear the kingdom's cares on a bent brow;
Who take the weight of politics by grains
And, to the least, know what each skull contains;
Who's to be coached, who talked to, when abroad,
Who but the smile must have, and who the nod;
And when this is the utmost of their skill,
'Tis not much wonder if affairs go ill.
Then for the Churchmen—”
“Hold, my lodging's here!”
Nor can I longer a reproof forbear
When sacred things nor persons she would spare.
We parted thus, the night in peace I spent,
And the next day with haste and pleasure went
To the best seat of famed and fertile Kent.
Where let me live from all detraction free
Till thus the world is criticized by me;
Till friend and foe I treat with such despite,
May I no scorn, the worst of ills, excite!