Classic Poem

Pult'ney, methinks you blame my breach of word
What, cannot Paris one poor page afford?
Yes, I can sagely, when the times are past,
Laugh at those follies which I strove to taste,
And each amusement, which we shared, review,
Pleased with mere talking, since I talk to you.
But how shall I describe in humble prose,
Their balls, assemblies, operas, and beaus?
In prose! you cry: Oh no, the Muse must aid,
And leave Parnassus for the Tuileries' shade;
Shall he (who late Britannia's city trod,
And led the draggled Muse, with pattens shod,
Through dirty lanes, and alley's doubtful ways)
Refuse to write, when Paris asks his lays?

Well then, I'll try. Descend, ye beauteous Nine,
In all the colours of the rainbow shine,
Let sparkling stars your neck and ear adorn,
Lay on the blushes of the crimson morn,
So may ye balls and gay assemblies grace,
And at the Opera claim the foremost place.

Trav'llers should ever fit expression choose,
Nor with low phrase the lofty theme abuse.
When they describe the state of eastern lords,
Pomp and magnificence should swell their words;
And when they paint the serpent's scaly pride,
Their lines should hiss, their numbers smoothly slide:
But they, unmindful of poetic rules,
Describe alike macaws, and Great-Moguls.
Dampier would thus, without ill-meaning satire,
Dress forth in simple style the petit-maître.

In Paris, there's a race of animals
(I've seen them at their operas and balls).
They stand erect, they dance whene'er they walk,
Monkeys in action, perroquets in talk;
They're crowned with feathers, like the cockatoo,
And, like chameleons, daily change their hue;
From patches justly placed they borrow graces,
And with vermilion lacquer o'er their faces;
This custom, as we visibly discern,
They, by frequenting ladies' toilettes, learn.
Thus might the trav'ller easy truth impart.
Into the subject let me nobly start!

How happy lives the man, how sure to charm,
Whose knot embroidered flutters down his arm!
On him the ladies cast the yielding glance,
Sigh in his songs, and languish in his dance;
While wretched is the wit, contemned, forlorn,
Whose gummy hat no scarlet plumes adorn;
No broidered flowers his worsted ankle grace,
Nor cane embossed with gold directs his pace;
No lady's favour on his sword is hung.
What, though Apollo dictate from his tongue,
His wit is spiritless and void of grace,
Who wants th' assurance of brocade and lace.
While the gay fop genteelly talks of weather,
The fair in raptures dote upon his feather;
Like a court lady though he write and spell,
His minuet step was fashioned by Marcell;
He dresses, fences. What avails to know?
For women choose their men, like silks, for show.
Is this the thing, you cry, that Paris boasts?
Is this the thing renowned among our toasts?
For such a flutt'ring sight we need not roam;
Our own assemblies shine with these at home.

Let us into the field of beauty start;
Beauty's a theme that ever warmed my heart.
Think not, ye fair, that I the sex accuse:
How shall I spare you, prompted by the Muse?
(The muses are all prudes) she rails, she frets,
Amidst this sprightly nation of coquettes;
Yet let not us their loose coquetry blame;
Women of ev'ry nation are the same.

You ask me, if Parisian dames, like ours,
With rattling dice profane the Sunday's hours;
If they the gamester's pale-eyed vigils keep,
And stake their honour while their husbands sleep.
Yes, sir; like English toasts, the dames of France
Will risk their income on a single chance.
Nannette last night at tricking pharaon played,
The cards the tailleur's sliding hand obeyed;
Today her neck no brilliant circle wears,
Nor the ray-darting pendant loads her ears.
Why does old Chloris an assembly hold?
Chloris each night divides the sharper's gold.
Corinna's cheek with frequent losses burns,
And no bold "Trente le va' her fortune turns.
Ah, too rash virgin! where's thy virtue flown?
She pawns her person for the sharper's loan.
Yet who with justice can the fair upbraid,
Whose debts of honour are so duly paid?

But let me not forget the toilette's cares,
Where art each morn the languid cheek repairs:
This red's too pale, nor gives a distant grace;
Madame today puts on her Opera face;
From this we scarce extract the milkmaid's bloom;
Bring the deep dye that warms across the room1
Now flames her cheek, so strong her charms prevail,
That on her gown the silken rose looks pale!
Not but that France some native beauty boasts,
Clermont and Charleroi might grace our toasts.

When the sweet-breathing spring unfolds the buds,
Love flies the dusty town for shady woods.
Then Tottenham fields with roving beauty swarm,
And Hampstead balls the city virgin warm;
Then Chelsea's meads o'erhear perfidious vows,
And the pressed grass defrauds the grazing cows.
'Tis here the same; but in a higher sphere,
For ev'n court ladies sin in open air.
What cit with a gallant would trust his spouse
Beneath the tempting shade of Greenwich boughs?
What peer of France would let his duchess rove,
Where Boulogne's closest woods invite to love?
But here no wife can blast her husband's fame,
Cuckold is grown an honourable name.
Stretched on the grass the shepherd sighs his pain,
And on the grass what shepherd sighs in vain?
On Chloe's lap here Damon laid along,
Melts with the languish of her am'rous song;
There Iris flies Palaemon through the glade,
Nor trips by chance--'til in the thickest shade;
Here Celimene defends her lips and breast,
For kisses are by struggling closer pressed;
Alexis there with eager flame grows bold,
Nor can the nymph his wanton fingers hold;
Be wise, Alexis; what, so near the road!
Hark, a coach rolls, and husbands are abroad!
Such were our pleasures in the days of yore,
When am'rous Charles Britannia's sceptre bore;
The nightly scene of joy the Park was made,
And love in couples peopled ev'ry shade.
But since at Court the rural taste is lost,
What mighty sums have velvet couches cost!

Sometimes the Tuileries' gaudy walk I love,
Where I through crowds of rustling manteaus rove;
As here from side to side my eyes I cast,
And gazed on all the glitt'ring train that passed,
Sudden a fop steps forth before the rest;
I knew the bold embroidery of his vest.
He thus accosts me with familiar air,
Parbleu! on a fait cet habit en Angleterre!
Quelle manche! ce galon est grossièrement rangé;
Voilà quelque chose de fort beau et dégagé!
This said, on his red heel he turns, and then
Hums a soft minuet, and proceeds again:
Well; now you've Paris seen, you'll frankly own
Your boasted London seems a country town;
Has Christianity reached your nation?
Are churches built? Are masquerades in fashion?
Do daily soups your dinners introduce?
Are music, snuff, and coaches yet in use?
Pardon me, sir; we know the Paris mode,
And gather politesse from Courts abroad.
Like you, our courtiers keep a num'rous train
To load their coach; and tradesmen dun in vain.
Nor has religion left us in the lurch,
And, as in France, our vulgar crowd the church;
Our ladies too support the masquerade,
The sex by nature love th' intriguing trade.
Straight the vain fop in ign'rant rapture cries,
Paris the barb'rous world will civilize!
Pray, Sir, point out among the passing band
The present Beauties who the town command.
See yonder dame; strict virtue chills her breast,
Mark in her eye demure the prude professed;
That frozen bosom native fire must want,
Which boasts of constancy to one gallant!
This next the spoils of fifty lovers wears,
Rich Dandin's brilliant favours grace her ears;
The necklace Florio's gen'rous flame bestowed,
Clitander's sparkling gems her finger load;
But now, her charms grown cheap by constant use,
She sins for scarves, clocked stockings, knots and shoes.
This next, with sober gait and serious leer,
Wearies her knees with morn and ev'ning prayer;
She scorns th' ignoble love of feeble pages,
But with three Abbots in one night engages.
This with the Cardinal her nights employs,
Where holy sinews consecrate her joys.
Why have I promised things beyond my power!
Five assignations wait me at this hour;
The sprightly Countess first my visit claims,
Tomorrow shall indulge inferior dames.
Pardon me, Sir, that thus I take my leave,
Gay Florimella slyly twitched my sleeve.

Adieu, Monsieur--the Opera hours draws near.
Not see the Opera! all the world is there;
Where on the stage th' embroidered youth of France
In bright array attract the female glance:
This languishes, this struts to show his mien,
And not a gold-clocked stocking moves unseen.

But hark! the full orchestra strike the strings;
The hero struts, and the whole audience sings.

My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound,
Hoarse and confused, like Babel's mingled sound.
Hard chance had placed me near a noisy throat,
That in rough quavers bellowed ev'ry note.
Pray, Sir, says I, suspend awhile your song,
The Opera's drowned; your lungs are wondrous strong;
I wish to hear your Roland's ranting strain,
While he with rooted forests strows the plain.
Sudden he shrugs surprise, and answers quick,
Monsieur apparemment n'aime pas la musique.
Then turning round, he joined th' ungrateful noise;
And the loud chorus thundered with his voice.

O soothe me with some soft Italian air,
Let harmony compose my tortured ear!
When Anastasia's voice commands the strain,
The melting warble thrills through ev'ry vein;
Thought stands suspense, and silence pleased attends,
While in her notes the heav'nly choir descends.

But you'll imagine I'm a Frenchman grown,
Pleased and content with nothing but my own,
So strongly with this prejudice possessed,
He thinks French music and French painting best.
Mention the force of learn'd Corelli's notes,
Some scraping fiddler of their ball he quotes;
Talk of the spirit Raphael's pencil gives,
Yet warm with life whose speaking picture lives;
Yes, Sir, says he, in colour and design,
Rigaud and Raphael are extremely fine!

'Tis true, his country's love transports his breast
With warmer zeal than your old Greeks professed.
Ulysses loved his Ithaca of yore,
Yet that sage trav'ller left his native shore;
What stronger virtue in the Frenchman shines!
He to dear Paris all his life confines.
I'm not so fond. There are, I must confess,
Things which might make me love my country less.
I should not think my Britain had such charms,
If lost to learning, if enslaved by arms;
France has her Richelieus and her Colberts known,
And then, I grant it, France in science shone;
We too, I own, without such aids may chance
In ignorance and pride to rival France.

But let me not forget Corneille, Racine,
Boileau's strong sense, and Molière's hum'rous scene.
Let Cambray's name be sung above the rest,
Whose maxims, Pult'ney, warm thy patriot breast;
In Mentor's precepts wisdom strong and clear
Dictates sublime, and distant nations hear.
Hear all ye princes, who the world control,
What cares, what terrors haunt the tyrant's soul;
His constant train are anger, fear, distrust.
To be a king, is to be good and just;
His people he protects, their rights he saves,
And scorns to rule a wretched race of slaves.

Happy, thrice happy shall the monarch reign,
Where guardian laws despotic power restrain!
There shall the ploughshare break the stubborn land,
And bending harvest tire the peasant's hand:
There liberty her settled mansion boasts,
There commerce plenty brings from foreign coasts.
O Britain, guard thy laws, thy rights defend,
So shall these blessings to thy sons descend!

You'll think 'tis time some other theme to choose,
And not with beaus and fops fatigue the Muse!
Should I let satire loose on English ground,
There fools of various character abound;
But here my verse is to one race confined,
All Frenchmen are of petit-maître kind.