Broad Grins Part 4

Whene'er she greeted him, his gills grew red, While she was quite unconscious of the matter;-- But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her, Out of his bullock-head.

That c.o.xcombs _were_ and _are_, I need not give, Nor take the trouble, now, to prove; Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live, Have thought a Lady's condescension, love.

This happen'd with fat Friar John!-- Monastick c.o.xcomb! amorous, and gummy; Fill'd with conceit up to his very brim!-- He thought his guts and garbage doated on, By a fair Dame, whose Husband was to _him_ Hyperion to a mummy.

Burning with flames the Lady never knew, Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese, He sent her a much warmer _billet-doux_ Than Abelard e'er writ to Elose.

But whether Friar John's fat shape and face, Tho' pleading both together, Were sorry advocates, in such a case;-- Or, whether He marr'd his hopes, by suffering his pen With too much fervour to display 'em;-- As very tender Nurses, now and then, Cuddle their Children, till they overlay 'em;--

'Twas plain, his pray'r to decorate the brows Of good Sir Thomas was so far from granted, That the Dame went, directly, to her spouse, And told him what the filthy Friar wanted.

Think, Reader, think! if thou hast ta'en, for life, A partner to thy bed, for worse or better, Think what Sir Thomas felt, when his chaste wife Brandish'd, before his eyes, the Friar's letter!

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He felt, Sir,--Zounds!-- Yes, Zounds! I say, Sir,--for it makes me swear-- More torture than he suffer'd from the wounds He got among the French, in France;-- Not that I take upon me to advance The knight was ever wounded there.

Think gravely, Sir, I pray:--fancy the Knight-- ('Tis quite a Picture)--with his heart's delight!

Fancy you see his virtuous Lady stand, Holding the Friar's foulness in her hand!--

How should Sir Thomas, Sir, behave?

Why bounce, and sputter, surely, like a squib:-- You would have done the same, Sir, if a knave, A frouzy Friar, meddle'd with your Rib.

His bosom almost burst with ire Against the Friar;

Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue; His cheeks turn'd purple, and his nose turn'd blue; He swore with this mock Saint he'd soon be even;-- He'd have him flay'd, like Saint Bartholomew;-- And, now again, he'd have him stone'd, like Stephen.

But, "_Ira furor brevis est_,"

As Horace, quaintly, has express'd;--

Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and froth Work thro' the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer, Pull'd out the vent-peg of his wrath, To let the stream of his revenge run clear:

Debating, with himself, what mode might suit him, To trounce the rogue who wanted to cornute him.

First, an attack against his Foe he plann'd, Learn'd in the Field, where late he fought so felly; That is--to march up, bravely, sword in hand, And run the Friar thro' his holy belly.

At last, his better judgment did declare-- Seeing his honour would as little shine By sticking Friars, as by killing swine-- To circ.u.mvent him, by a _ruse de guerre_:

And, as the project ripen'd in his head, Thus to his virtuous Wife he said:

"Now sit thee down, my Lady bright!

And list thy Lord's desire; An a.s.signation thou shalt write, Beshrew me! to the Friar.

"Aread him, at the midnight hour, In silent sort to go, And bide thy coming, in the Bower-- For there do Crabsticks grow.

"He shall not tarry long;--for why?

When _Twelve_ have striking done, Then, by the G.o.d of Gardens![7] I Will cudgel him till _One_."

The Lady wrote just what Sir Thomas told her; For, it is no less strange than true, That Wives did, once, what Husbands bid them do;-- Lord! how this World improves, as we grow older!

She name'd the midnight hour;-- Telling the Friar to repair To the sweet, secret Bower;-- But not a word of any crabsticks there.

Thus have I seen a liquorish, black rat, Lure'd by the Cook, to sniff, and smell her bacon; And, when he's eager for a bit of fat, Down goes a trap upon him, and he's taken.

A tiny Page,--for, formerly, a boy Was a mere dunce who did not understand The doctrines of Sir Pandarus, of Troy,-- Slipp'd the Dame's note into the Friar's hand, As he was walking in the cloister; And, then, slipp'd off,--as silent as an oyster.

The Friar read;--the Friar chuckle'd:-- For, now the Farce's unities were right: _Videlicet_--The Argument, a Cuckold; The Scene, a Bow'r; Time, Twelve o'clock, at night.

Blithe was fat John!--and, dreading no mishap, Stole, at the hour appointed, to the _trap_; But, so perfume'd, so musk'd, for the occasion,-- His _tribute_ to the nose so like _invasion_,-- You would have sworn, to smell him, 'twas no rat, But a dead, putrified, old civet-cat.

He reach'd the spot, antic.i.p.ating blisses, Soft murmurs, melting sighs, and burning kisses, Trances of joy, and mingling of the souls; When, whack! Sir Thomas. .h.i.t him on the joles.

Now, on his head it came, now on his face, His neck, and shoulders, arms, legs, breast, and back; In short, on almost every place We read of in the Almanack.

Blows rattle'd on him thick as hail; Making him rue the day that he was born;-- Sir Thomas plied his cudgel like a flail, And thrash'd as if he had been thrashing corn.

At length, a thump,--(painful the facts, alas!

Truth urges us Historians to relate!)-- Took Friar John so smart athwart the pate, It acted like a perfect _coup de grace_.

Whether it was a random shot, Or aim'd maliciously,--tho' Fame says _not_-- Certain his soul (the Knight so crack'd his crown) Fled from his body; but which way it went, Or whether Friars' souls fly up, or down, Remains a matter of nice argument.

Points so abstruse I dare not dwell upon; Enough, for me, his body is not gone;

For I have business, still, in my narration, With the fat carca.s.s of this holy porpus; And Death, tho' sharp in his Administration, Never suspended such an _Habeas Corpus_.

END OF PART I.

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THE KNIGHT AND THE FRIAR.

PART THE SECOND.

READER! if you have Genius, you'll discover, Do what you will to keep it cool, It, now and then, in spite of you, boils over, Upon a fool.

Haven't you (lucky man if _not_) been vex'd, Worn, fretted, and perplex'd, By a pert, busy, would-be-clever knave, A forward, empty, self-sufficient slave?

And haven't you, all christian patience gone, At last, put down the puppy with your wit;-- On whom it seem'd, tho' you had Mines of it, Extravagance to spend a jest upon?--

And haven't you, (I'm sure you have, my friend!) When you have laid the puppy low,-- All little pique, and malice, at an end,-- Been sorry for the blow?

And said, (if witty, so would say your Bard,) "d.a.m.n it! I hit that meddling fool too hard?"

Thus did the brave Sir Thomas say;-- Whose Genius didn't much disturb his pate: It rather, in his bones, and muscles, lay,-- Like many other men's of good estate:

Thus did Sir Thomas say;--and well he might, When pity to resentment did succeed; For, certainly, (tho' not with _wit_) the Knight Had hit the Friar very hard, indeed!

And heads, nineteen in twenty, 'tis confest, Can feel a crab-stick sooner than a jest.