Добавил:
ivanov666
Опубликованный материал нарушает ваши авторские права? Сообщите нам.
Вуз:
Предмет:
Файл:The Poems II
.pdf
THE POEMS • II
He damns the climate, and complains of spleen.
Meanwhile the South, rising with dabbled wings,
A sable cloud athwart the welkin fl ings,
That swill’d more liquor than it could contain,
And, like a drunkard, gives it up again.
Brisk Susan whips her linen from the rope,
While the fi rst drizzling shower is borne aslope;
Such is that sprinkling which some careless quean
Flirts on you from her mop, but not so clean:
You fl y, invoke the gods; then, turning, stop
To rail; she singing, still whirls on her mop.
Not yet the dust had shunn’d the unequal strife,
But, aided by the wind, fought still for life,
And wafted with its foe by violent gust,
‘Twas doubtful which was rain, and which was dust.
Ah! where must needy poet seek for aid,
When dust and rain at once his coat invade?
Sole coat! where dust, cemented by the rain,
Erects the nap, and leaves a cloudy stain!
Now in contiguous drops the fl ood comes down,
Threatening with deluge this devoted town.
To shops in crowds the daggled females fl y,
Pretend to cheapen goods, but nothing buy.
The Templar spruce, while every spout’s abroach,
Stays till ‘tis fair, yet seems to call a coach.
The tuck’d-up sempstress walks with hasty strides,
While streams run down her oil’d umbrella’s sides.
Here various kinds, by various fortunes led,
Commence acquaintance underneath a shed.
Triumphant Tories, and desponding Whigs,
101
JONATHAN SWIFT
Forget their feuds, and join to save their wigs.
Box’d in a chair the beau impatient sits,
While spouts run clattering o’er the roof by fi ts,
And ever and anon with frightful din
The leather sounds; he trembles from within.
So when Troy chairmen bore the wooden steed,
Pregnant with Greeks impatient to be freed,
(Those bully Greeks, who, as the moderns do,
Instead of paying chairmen, ran them through,)
Laocoon struck the outside with his spear,
And each imprison’d hero quaked for fear.
Now from all parts the swelling kennels fl ow,
And bear their trophies with them as they go:
Filth of all hues and odour, seem to tell
What street they sail’d from, by their sight and smell.
They, as each torrent drives with rapid force,
From Smithfi eld to St. Pulchre’s shape their course,
And in huge confl uence join’d at Snowhill ridge,
Fall from the conduit prone to Holborn bridge.
Sweeping from butchers’ stalls, dung, guts, and blood,
Drown’d puppies, stinking sprats, all drench’d in mud,
Dead cats, and turnip-tops, come tumbling down the fl ood.
ON THE LITTLE HOUSE
BY THE CHURCHYARD OF CASTLENOCK
Whoever pleases to inquire
Why yonder steeple wants a spire,
The grey old fellow, Poet Joe,
102
THE POEMS • II
The philosophic cause will show.
Once on a time a western blast,
At least twelve inches overcast,
Reckoning roof, weathercock, and all,
Which came with a prodigious fall;
And, tumbling topsy-turvy round,
Lit with its bottom on the ground:
For, by the laws of gravitation,
It fell into its proper station.
This is the little strutting pile
You see just by the churchyard stile;
The walls in tumbling gave a knock,
And thus the steeple got a shock;
From whence the neighbouring farmer calls
The steeple, Knock; the vicar, Walls.
The vicar once a-week creeps in,
Sits with his knees up to his chin;
Here cons his notes, and takes a whet,
Till the small ragged fl ock is met.
A traveller, who by did pass,
Observed the roof behind the grass;
On tiptoe stood, and rear’d his snout,
And saw the parson creeping out:
Was much surprised to see a crow
Venture to build his nest so low.
A schoolboy ran unto’t, and thought
The crib was down, the blackbird caught.
A third, who lost his way by night,
Was forced for safety to alight,
103
JONATHAN SWIFT
And, stepping o’er the fabric roof,
His horse had like to spoil his hoof.
Warburton took it in his noddle,
This building was design’d a model;
Or of a pigeon-house or oven,
To bake one loaf, or keep one dove in.
Then Mrs. Johnson gave her verdict,
And every one was pleased that heard it;
All that you make this stir about
Is but a still which wants a spout.
The reverend Dr. Raymond guess’d
More probably than all the rest;
He said, but that it wanted room,
It might have been a pigmy’s tomb.
The doctor’s family came by,
And little miss began to cry,
Give me that house in my own hand!
Then madam bade the chariot stand,
Call’d to the clerk, in manner mild,
Pray, reach that thing here to the child:
That thing, I mean, among the kale;
And here’s to buy a pot of ale.
The clerk said to her in a heat,
What! sell my master’s country seat,
Where he comes every week from town!
He would not sell it for a crown.
Poh! fellow, keep not such a pother;
In half an hour thou’lt make another.
Says Nancy, I can make for miss
104
THE POEMS • II
A fi ner house ten times than this;
The dean will give me willow sticks,
And Joe my apron-full of bricks.
A TOWN ECLOGUE
Scene, the Royal Exchange
CORYDON
Now the keen rigour of the winter’s o’er,
No hail descends, and frost can pinch no more,
While other girls confess the genial spring,
And laugh aloud, or amorous ditties sing,
Secure from cold, their lovely necks display,
And throw each useless chafi ng-dish away;
Why sits my Phillis discontented here,
Nor feels the turn of the revolving year?
Why on that brow dwell sorrow and dismay,
Where Loves were wont to sport, and Smiles to play?
PHILLIS
Ah, Corydon! survey the ‘Change around,
Through all the ‘Change no wretch like me is found:
Alas! the day, when I, poor heedless maid,
Was to your rooms in Lincoln’s Inn betray’d;
Then how you swore, how many vows you made!
Ye listening Zephyrs, that o’erheard his love,
Waft the soft accents to the gods above.
105
JONATHAN SWIFT
Alas! the day; for (O, eternal shame!)
I sold you handkerchiefs, and lost my fame.
CORYDON
When I forget the favour you bestow’d,
Red herrings shall be spawn’d in Tyburn Road:
Fleet Street, transform’d, become a fl owery green,
And mass be sung where operas are seen.
The wealthy cit, and the St. James’s beau,
Shall change their quarters, and their joys forego;
Stock-jobbing, this to Jonathan’s shall come,
At the Groom Porter’s, that play off his plum.
PHILLIS
But what to me does all that love avail,
If, while I doze at home o’er porter’s ale,
Each night with wine and wenches you regale?
My livelong hours in anxious cares are past,
And raging hunger lays my beauty waste.
On templars spruce in vain I glances throw,
And with shrill voice invite them as they go.
Exposed in vain my glossy ribbons shine,
And unregarded wave upon the twine.
The week fl ies round, and when my profi t’s known,
I hardly clear enough to change a crown.
CORYDON
Hard fate of virtue, thus to be distrest,
Thou fairest of thy trade, and far the best;
106
THE POEMS • II
As fruitmen’s stalls the summer market grace,
And ruddy peaches them; as fi rst in place
Plumcake is seen o’er smaller pastry ware,
And ice on that: so Phillis does appear
In playhouse and in Park, above the rest
Of belles mechanic, elegantly drest.
PHILLIS
And yet Crepundia, that conceited fair,
Amid her toys, affects a saucy air,
And views me hourly with a scornful eye.
CORYDON
She might as well with bright Cleora vie.
PHILLIS
With this large petticoat I strive in vain
To hide my folly past, and coming pain;
‘Tis now no secret; she, and fi fty more,
Observe the symptoms I had once before:
A second babe at Wapping must be placed,
When I scarce bear the charges of the last.
CORYDON
What I could raise I sent; a pound of plums,
Five shillings, and a coral for his gums;
To-morrow I intend him something more.
107
JONATHAN SWIFT
PHILLIS
I sent a frock and pair of shoes before.
CORYDON
However, you shall home with me to-night,
Forget your cares, and revel in delight,
I have in store a pint or two of wine,
Some cracknels, and the remnant of a chine.
And now on either side, and all around,
The weighty shop-boards fall, and bars resound;
Each ready sempstress slips her pattens on,
And ties her hood, preparing to be gone.
L. B. W. H. J. S. S. T.
A CONFERENCE
BETWEEN SIR HARRY PIERCE’S CHARIOT,
AND MRS. D. STOPFORD’S CHAIR
CHARIOT
My pretty dear Cuz, tho’ I’ve roved the town o’er,
To dispatch in an hour some visits a score;
Though, since fi rst on the wheels, I’ve been every day
At the ‘Change, at a raffl ing, at church, or a play;
And the fops of the town are pleased with the notion
Of calling your slave the perpetual motion; –
108
THE POEMS • II
Though oft at your door I have whinedmy love
As my Knight does grin his at your Lady above;
Yet, ne’er before this, though I used all my care,
I e’er was so happy to meet my dear Chair;
And since we’re so near, like birds of a feather,
Let’s e’en, as they say, set our horses together.
CHAIR
By your awkward address, you’re that thing which
should carry,
With one footman behind, our lover Sir Harry.
By your language, I judge, you think me a wench;
He that makes love to me, must make it in French.
Thou that’s drawn by two beasts, and carry’st a brute,
Canst thou vainly e’er hope, I’ll answer thy suit?
Though sometimes you pretend to appear with your six,
No regard to their colour, their sexes you mix:
Then on the grand-paw you’d look very great,
With your new-fashion’d glasses, and nasty old seat.
Thus a beau I have seen strut with a cock’d hat,
And newly rigg’d out, with a dirty cravat.
You may think that you make a fi gure most shining,
But it’s plain that you have an old cloak for a lining.
Are those double-gilt nails? Where’s the lustre of Kerry,
To set off the Knight, and to fi nish the Jerry?
If you hope I’ll be kind, you must tell me what’s due
In George’s-lane for you, ere I’ll buckle to.
109
JONATHAN SWIFT
CHARIOT
Why, how now, Doll Diamond, you’re very alert;
Is it your French breeding has made you so pert?
Because I was civil, here’s a stir with a pox:
Who is it that values your — or your fox?
Sure ‘tis to her honour, he ever should bed
His bloody red hand to her bloody red head.
You’re proud of your gilding; but I tell you each nail
Is only just tinged with a rub at her tail;
And although it may pass for gold on a ninny,
Sure we know a Bath shilling soon from a guinea.
Nay, her foretop’s a cheat; each morn she does black it,
Yet, ere it be night, it’s the same with her placket.
I’ll ne’er be run down any more with your cant;
Your velvet was wore before in a mant,
On the back of her mother; but now ‘tis much duller, –
The fi re she carries hath changed its colour.
Those creatures that draw me you never would mind,
If you’d but look on your own Pharaoh’s lean kine;
They’re taken for spectres, they’re so meagre and spare,
Drawn damnably low by your sorrel mare.
We know how your lady was on you befriended;
You’re not to be paid for ‘till the lawsuit is ended:
But her bond it is good, he need not to doubt;
She is two or three years above being out.
Could my Knight be advised, he should ne’er spend his
vigour
On one he can’t hope of e’er making bigger.
110
Соседние файлы в предмете [НЕСОРТИРОВАННОЕ]