Classic Poem

A BEARD is but the vizard of a face,
That Nature orders for no other place;
The fringe and tassel of a countenance,
That hides his person from another man's,
And, like the Roman habits of their youth,
Is never worn until his perfect growth;
A privilege no other creature has,
To wear a natural mask upon his face,
That shifts its likeness every day he wears,
To fit some other persons' characters;
And by its own mythology implies,
That men were born to live in some disguise.
This satisfy'd a reverend man, that clear'd
His disagreeing conscience by his Beard.
He'ad been preferr'd i' th' army, when the church
Was taken with a Why not? in the lurch;
When primate, metropolitan, and prelates,
Were turn'd to officers of horse, and zealots,
From whom he held the most pluralities
Of contributions, donatives, and salaries;
Was held the chiefest of those sp'ritual trumpets,
That sounded charges to their fiercest combats,
But in the desperatest of defeats
Had never blown as opportune retreats;
Until the Synod order'd his departure
To London, from his caterwauling quarter,
To sit among 'em, as he had been chosen,
And pass or null things at his own disposing;
Could clap up souls in limbo with a vote,
And for their fees discharge and let them out;
Which made some grandees bribe him with the place
Of holding-forth upon Thanksgiving-days,
Whither the Members, two and two abreast,
March'd to take in the spoils of all — the feast;
But by the way repeated the oh-hones
Of his wild Irish and chromatic tones;
His frequent and pathetic hums and haws,
He practis'd only t' animate the Cause,
With which the Sisters were so prepossest,
They could remember nothing of the rest.
He thought upon it, and resolv'd to put
His Beard into as wonderful a cut,
And, for the further service of the women,
To' abate the rigidness of his opinion;
And, but a day before, had been to find
The ablest virtuoso of the kind,
With whom he long and seriously conferr'd
On all intrigues that might concern his Beard;
By whose advice he sate for a design
In little drawn, exactly to a line;
That if the creature chance to have occasion
To undergo a thorough reformation,
It might be borne conveniently about,
And by the meanest artist copied out.
This done, he sent a journeyman sectary
He 'ad brought up to retrieve, and fetch, and carry,
To find out one that had the greatest practice,
To prune and bleach the beards of all Fanatics,
And set their most confus'd disorders right,
Not by a new design, but newer light;
Who us'd to shave the grandees of their sticklers,
And crop the worthies of their Conventiclers;
To whom he show'd his new-invented draught,
And told him how 'twas to be copied out.
Quoth he, " 'Tis but a false and counterfeit,
And scandalous device of human wit,
That's abs'lutely for bidden in the Scripture,
To make of any carnal thing the picture."
Quoth t' other saint, " You must leave that to us
To' agree what's lawful, or what scandalous;
For till it is determin'd by our vote,
'Tis either lawful, scandalous, or not;
Which, since we have not yet agreed upon,
Is left indifferent to avoid or own."
Quoth he, " My conscience never shall agree
To do it, till I know what 'tis to be;
For though I use it in a lawful time,
What if it after should be made a crime?
" 'Tis true we fought for liberty of conscience,
'Gainst human constitutions, in our own sense,
Which I'm resolv'd perpetually to' avow,
And make it lawful whatsoe'er we do;
Then do your office with your greatest skill,
And let the' event befal us how it will."
This said, the nice barbarian took his tools
To prune the zealot's tenets and his jowls;
Talk'd on as pertinently, as he snipt,
A hundred times for every hair he clipt;
Until the Beard at length began to' appear,
And reassume its antique character;
Grew more and more itself, that art might strive,
And stand in competition with the life;
For some have doubted if 'twere made of snips
Of sables, glew'd and fitted to his lips,
And set in such an artificial frame,
As if it had been wrought in filograin,
More subtly fill'd and polish'd than the gin
That Vulcan caught himself a cuckold in;
That Lachesis, that spins the threads of Fate,
Could not have drawn it out more delicate.
But b'ing design'd and drawn so regular,
To' a scrupulous punctilio of a hair,
Who could imagine that it should be portal
To selfish, inward-unconforming mortal?
And yet it was, and did abominate
The least compliance in the Church or State;
And from itself did equally dissent,
As from religion and the government.