Classic Poem

AT A CATERWAULING .

IN THE MODERN HEROIC WAY .

I T was about the middle age of night,
When half the earth stood in the other's light,
And Sleep, Death's brother, yet a friend to life,
Gave wearied Nature a restorative;
When Puss, wrapt warm in his own native furs,
Dreamt soundly of as soft and warm amours,
Of making gallantry in gutter-tiles,
And sporting on delightful faggot-piles;
Of bolting out of bushes in the dark,
As ladies use at midnight in the Park;
Or seeking in tall garrets an alcove,
For assignations in the' affairs of love.
At once his passion was both false and true,
And the more false, the more in earnest grew.
He fancied that he heard those amorous charms
That us'd to summon him to soft alarms,
To which he always brought an equal flame,
To fight a rival, or to court a dame:
And as in dreams love's raptures are more taking
Than all their actual enjoyments waking,
His amorous passion grew to that extreme,
His dream itself awak'd him from his dream.
Thought he, " What place is this? or whither art
Thou vanish'd from me, mistress of my heart?
But now I had her in this very place,
Here, fast imprison'd in my glad embrace;
And, while my joys beyond themselves were rapt,
I know not how, nor whither, thou'rt escap'd:
Stay, and I'll follow thee" — With that he leapt
Up from the lazy couch on which he slept,
And wing'd with passion, through his known purlieu,
Swift as an arrow from a bow he flew,
Nor stopp'd, until his fire had him convoy'd
Where many assignation he 'ad enjoy'd;
Where finding, what he sought, a mutual flame,
That long had stay'd and call'd before he came;
Impatient of delay, without one word,
To lose no further time, he fell aboard,
But grip'd so hard, he wounded what he lov'd,
While she, in anger, thus his heat reprov'd: —
C. Forbear, foul ravisher, this rude address;
Canst thou, at once, both injure and caress?
P. Thou hast bewitch'd me with thy powerful charms,
And I, by drawing blood, would cure my harms.
C. He that does love would set his heart a-tilt,
Ere one drop of his lady's should be spilt.
P. Your wounds are but without, and mine within;
You wound my heart, and I but prick your skin;
And while your eyes pierce deeper than my claws,
You blame the' effect, of which you are the cause.
C. How could my guiltless eyes your heart invade,
Had it not first been by your own betray'd?
Hence 'tis my greatest crime has only been
(Not in mine eyes, but your's) in being seen.
P. I hurt to love, but do not love to hurt.
C. That's worse than making cruelty a sport.
P. Pain is the foil of pleasure and delight,
That sets it off to a more noble height.
C. He buys his pleasure at a rate too vain,
That takes it up beforehand of his pain.
P. Pain is more dear than pleasure when 'tis past.
C. But grows intolerable if it last.
P. Love is too full of honour to regard
What it enjoys, but suffers as reward.
What knight durst ever own a lover's name,
That had not been half-murder'd by his flame;
Or lady, that had never lain at stake,
To death, or force of rivals for his sake?
C. When love does meet with injury and pain,
Disdain's the only med'cine for disdain.
P. At once I'm happy, and unhappy too,
In peing pleas'd, and in displeasing you.
C. Preposterous way of pleasure and of love,
That contrary to its own end would move!
'Tis rather hate, that covets to destroy;
Love's business is to love, and to enjoy.
P. Enjoying and destroying are all one,
As flames destroy that which they feed upon.
C. He never lov'd at any generous rate,
That in the' enjoyment found his flame abate;
As wine (the friend of love) is wont to make
The thirst more violent it pretends to slake,
So should fruition do the lover's fire,
Instead of lessening, inflame desire.
P. What greater proof that passion does transport,
When what I would die for, I'm forc'd to hurt?
C. Death among lovers is a thing despis'd,
And far below a sullen humour priz'd,
That is more scorn'd and rail'd at than the gods,
When they are cross'd in love, or fall at odds:
But since you understand not what you do,
I am the judge of what I feel, not you.
P. Passion begins indifferent to prove,
When love considers any thing but love.
C. The darts of love, like lightning, wound within,
And though they pierce it, never hurt the skin;
They leave no marks behind them where they fly,
Though through the tenderest part of all, the eye;
But your sharp claws have left enough to shew
How tender I have been, how cruel you.
P. Pleasure is pain; for when it is enjoy'd,
All it could wish for was but to be' allay'd.
C. Force is a rugged way of making love.
P. What you like best, you always disapprove.
C. He that will wrong his love will not be nice,
To' excuse the wrong he does to wrong her twice.
P. Nothing is wrong but that which is ill meant.
C. Wounds are ill cured with a good intent.
P. When you mistake that for an injury
I never meant, you do the wrong, not I.
C. You do not feel yourself the pain you give;
But 'tis not that alone for which I grieve,
But 'tis your want of passion that I blame,
That can be cruel where you own a flame.
P. 'Tis you are guilty of that cruelty
Which you at once outdo, and blame in me;
For while you stifle and inflame desire,
You burn, and starve me in the self-same fire.
C. It is not I, but you, that do the hurt,
Who wound yourself, and then accuse me for't;
As thieves, that rob themselves 'twixt sun and sun,
Make others pay for what themselves have done.