Broad Grins Part 3

SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM, a gallant knight, When this king Harry went to war, in France, Girded a sword about his middle; Resolving, very l.u.s.tily, to fight, And teach the Frenchmen how to dance, Without a fiddle.

And wond'rous bold Sir Thomas prove'd in battle, Performing prodigies, with spear and shield; His valour, like a murrain among cattle, Was reckon'd very fatal in the field.

Yet, tho' Sir Thomas had an iron fist, He was, at heart, a mild Philanthropist.

Much did he grieve, when making Frenchmen die, To any inconvenience to put 'em: "It quite distress'd his feelings," he would cry, "That he must cut their throats,"--and, then he cut 'em.

Thus, during many a Campaign, He cut, and grieve'd, and cut, and came again;-- Pitying, and killing;-- Lamenting sorely for men's souls, While pretty little eyelet holes, Clean thro' their bodies he kept drilling:

Till palling on his Laurels, grown so thick, (As boys pull blackberries, till they are sick,) Homeward he bent his course, to wreath 'em; And in his Castle, near fair Norwich town, Glutted with glory, he sat down, In perfect solitude, beneath 'em.

Now, sitting under Laurels, Heroes say, Gives grace, and dignity--and so it may-- When men have done campaigning; But, certainly, these gentlemen must own That sitting under Laurels, quite alone, Is much more dignified than entertaining.

Pious aeneas, who, in his narration Of his own prowess, felt so great a charm;-- (For, tho' he feign'd great grief in the relation, He made the story longer than your arm;[4])

Pious aeneas no more pleasure knew Than did our Knight--who could he pious too-- In telling his exploits, and martial brawls: But pious _Thomas_ had no Dido near him-- No Queen--King, Lord, nor Commoner to hear him-- So he was force'd to tell them to the walls:

And to his Castle walls, in solemn guise, The knight, full often, did soliloquize:--

For "Walls have ears," Sir Thomas had been told; Yet thought the tedious hours would seem much shorter, If, now and then, a tale he could unfold To ears of flesh and blood, not stone and mortar.

At length, his old _Castellum_ grew so dull, That legions of Blue Devils seize'd the Knight; Megrim invested his belaurell'd skull; Spleen laid embargoes on his appet.i.te;

Till, thro' the day-time, he was haunted, wholly, By all the imps of "loathed Melancholy!"-- Heaven keep her, and her imps, for ever, from us!-- An Incubus,[5] whene'er he went to bed, Sat on his stomach, like a lump of lead, Making unseemly faces at Sir Thomas.

Plagues such as these might make a Parson swear; Sir Thomas being but a Layman, Swore, very roundly, _a la militaire_, Or, rather, (from vexation) like a Drayman:

d.a.m.ning his Walls, out of all line and level; Sinking his drawbridges and moats; Wishing that he were cutting throats-- And they were at the devil.

"What's to be done," Sir Thomas said one day, "To drive _Ennui_ away?

How is the evil to be parried?

What can remind me of my former life?-- Those happy days I spent in noise and strife!"

The last word struck him;--"Zounds!" says he, "a Wife!"-- And so he married.

Muse! regulate your pace;-- Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling!

Here is a stately Lady in the case: We mustn't, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.

O G.o.d of Love! Urchin of spite, and play!

Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen's quarters; His torch bedimming, as thou runn'st away, Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!

Sly, wandering G.o.d! whose frolick arrows pa.s.s Thro' hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys; Who mark'st with Milkmaids' forms, the tell-tale gra.s.s, And make'st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!

Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing, Young G.o.d of dimples! in thy roguish flight; And let thy Poet catch it, now, to sing The beauty of the Dame who won the Knight!

Her beauty!--but Sir Thomas's own Sonnet Beats all that I can say upon it.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM's[6] SONNET _ON HIS LADY_.

1

SUCH _star-like_ l.u.s.tre lights her _Eyes_, They must have darted from a _Sphere_, Our duller _System_ to surprise, Outshining all the _Planets_ here; And, having wander'd from their wonted place, Fix in the wond'rous _Heaven_ of her _Face_.

2

The modest _Rose_, whose blushes speak The ardent kisses of the Sun, Off'ring a tribute to her _Cheek_, Droops, to perceive its _Tint_ outdone; Then withering with envy and despair, Dies on her _Lips_, and leaves its _Fragrance_ there.

3

Ringlets, that to her _Breast_ descend, _Increase_ the beauties they _invade_; Thus branches in luxuriance bend, To grace the _lovely Hills_ they shade; And thus the glowing _Climate_ did entice Tendrils to curl, unprune'd, o'er _Paradise_.

Sir Thomas having close'd his love-sick strain, Come, buxom Muse! and let us frisk again!

Close to a Chapel, near the Castle-gates, Dwelt certain stickers in the Devil's skirts; Who, with prodigious fervour, shave their pates, And shew a most religious scorn for shirts.

Their House's sole Endowment was our Knight's:-- Thither an Abbot, and twelve Friars, retreating, Conquer'd (sage, pious men!) their appet.i.tes With that infallible specifick--eating.

'Twould seem, since tenanted by holy Friars, That Peace and Harmony reign'd here eternally;-- Whoever told you so were cursed liars;-- The holy Friars quarrell'd most infernally.

Not a day past Without some schism among these heavenly lodgers; But none of their dissensions seem'd to last So long as Friar John's and Friar Roger's.

I have been very accurate in my researches, And find this Convent (truce with _whys_ and _hows_) Kept in a constant ferment with the _rows_ Of these two quarrelsome fat sons of Churches.

But when Sir Thomas went to his devotions, Proceeding thro' their Cloister with his Bride, You never could have dream'd of their commotions, The stiff-rump'd rascals look'd so sanctified:

And it became the custom of the Knight To go to matins every day; He jogg'd his Bride, as soon as it was light, Crying, "my dear, 'tis time for us to pray."--

This custom he establish'd, very soon, After his honey-moon.

Wives of this age might think his zeal surprising; But much his pious lady did it please, To see her Husband, every morning, rising, And going, instantly, upon his knees.

Never, I ween, In any person's recollection, Was such a couple seen, For genuflection!

Making as great a drudgery of prayer As humble Curates are oblige'd to do,-- Whose labour, wo the while! scarce buys them ca.s.socks; And, every morning, whether foul or fair, Sir Thomas and the Dame were in their pew, Craw-thumping, upon ha.s.socks.

It could not otherwise befall (Sir Thomas, and his Wife, this course pursuing,) But that the Lady, affable to all, Should greet the Friars, on her way To matins, as she met them, every day, _Good morninging_, and _how d'ye doing_:

Now nodding to this Friar, now to that, As thro' the Cloister she was wont to trip; Stopping, sometimes, to have a little chat, On casual topicks, with the holy brothers;-- So condescending was her Ladyship, To Roger, John, and all the others.

All this was natural enough To any female of urbanity;-- But holy men are made of as frail stuff As all the lighter sons of Vanity!--

And these her Ladyship's chaste condescensions, In Friar John bred d.a.m.nable desire; Heterodox, unclean intentions;-- Abominable in a Friar!