The Poems of Jonathan Swift, D.D Volume I Part 32

But, oh! it turn'd poor Strephon's bowels When he beheld and smelt the towels, Begumm'd, bematter'd, and beslim'd, With dirt, and sweat, and ear-wax grim'd; No object Strephon's eye escapes; Here petticoats in frouzy heaps; Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot, All varnish'd o'er with snuff and snot.

The stockings why should I expose, Stain'd with the moisture of her toes,[2]

Or greasy coifs, and pinners reeking, Which Celia slept at least a week in?

A pair of tweezers next he found, To pluck her brows in arches round; Or hairs that sink the forehead low, Or on her chin like bristles grow.

The virtues we must not let pa.s.s Of Celia's magnifying gla.s.s; When frighted Strephon cast his eye on't, It shew'd the visage of a giant: A gla.s.s that can to sight disclose The smallest worm in Celia's nose, And faithfully direct her nail To squeeze it out from head to tail; For, catch it nicely by the head, It must come out, alive or dead.

Why, Strephon, will you tell the rest?

And must you needs describe the chest?

That careless wench! no creature warn her To move it out from yonder corner!

But leave it standing full in sight, For you to exercise your spight?

In vain the workman shew'd his wit, With rings and hinges counterfeit, To make it seem in this disguise A cabinet to vulgar eyes: Which Strephon ventur'd to look in, Resolved to go thro' thick and thin.

He lifts the lid: there needs no more, He smelt it all the time before.

As, from within Pandora's box, When Epimetheus op'd the locks, A sudden universal crew Of human evils upward flew; He still was comforted to find That hope at last remain'd behind: So Strephon, lifting up the lid, To view what in the chest was hid, The vapours flew from up the vent; But Strephon, cautious, never meant The bottom of the pan to grope, And foul his hands in search of hope.

O! ne'er may such a vile machine Be once in Celia's chamber seen!

O! may she better learn to keep Those "secrets of the h.o.a.ry deep." [3]

As mutton-cutlets, prime of meat, Which, tho' with art you salt and beat, As laws of cookery require, And toast them at the clearest fire; If from upon the hopeful chops The fat upon a cinder drops, To stinking smoke it turns the flame, Pois'ning the flesh from whence it came, And up exhales a greasy stench, For which you curse the careless wench: So things which must not be exprest, When drop'd into the reeking chest, Send up an excremental smell To taint the part from whence they fell: The petticoats and gown perfume, And waft a stink round ev'ry room.

Thus finishing his grand survey, Disgusted Strephon slunk away; Repeating in his amorous fits, "Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh--!"

But Vengeance, G.o.ddess never sleeping, Soon punish'd Strephon for his peeping: His foul imagination links Each dame he sees with all her stinks; And, if unsavoury odours fly, Conceives a lady standing by.

All women his description fits, And both ideas jump like wits; By vicious fancy coupled fast, And still appearing in contrast.

I pity wretched Strephon, blind To all the charms of woman kind.

Should I the Queen of Love refuse, Because she rose from stinking ooze?

To him that looks behind the scene, Statira's but some pocky quean.

When Celia in her glory shews, If Strephon would but stop his nose, (Who now so impiously blasphemes Her ointments, daubs, and paints, and creams, Her washes, slops, and every clout, With which he makes so foul a rout;) He soon would learn to think like me, And bless his ravish'd sight to see Such order from confusion sprung, Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.

[Footnote 1: Var. "The b.i.t.c.h bequeath'd her when she died."--1732.]

[Footnote 2: Var. "marks of stinking toes."--1732.]

[Footnote 3: Milton, "Paradise Lost," ii, 890-1: "Before their eyes in sudden view appear The secrets of the h.o.a.ry deep."--_W. E. B._]

THE POWER OF TIME. 1730

If neither bra.s.s nor marble can withstand The mortal force of Time's destructive hand; If mountains sink to vales, if cities die, And lessening rivers mourn their fountains dry; When my old ca.s.sock (said a Welsh divine) Is out at elbows, why should I repine?

Ca.s.sINUS AND PETER

A TRAGICAL ELEGY

1731

Two college sophs of Cambridge growth, Both special wits and lovers both, Conferring, as they used to meet, On love, and books, in rapture sweet; (Muse, find me names to fit my metre, Ca.s.sinus this, and t'other Peter.) Friend Peter to Ca.s.sinus goes, To chat a while, and warm his nose: But such a sight was never seen, The lad lay swallow'd up in spleen.

He seem'd as just crept out of bed; One greasy stocking round his head, The other he sat down to darn, With threads of different colour'd yarn; His breeches torn, exposing wide A ragged shirt and tawny hide.

Scorch'd were his shins, his legs were bare, But well embrown'd with dirt and hair A rug was o'er his shoulders thrown, (A rug, for nightgown he had none,) His jordan stood in manner fitting Between his legs, to spew or spit in; His ancient pipe, in sable dyed, And half unsmoked, lay by his side.

Him thus accoutred Peter found, With eyes in smoke and weeping drown'd; The leavings of his last night's pot On embers placed, to drink it hot.

Why, Ca.s.sy, thou wilt dose thy pate: What makes thee lie a-bed so late?

The finch, the linnet, and the thrush, Their matins chant in every bush; And I have heard thee oft salute Aurora with thy early flute.

Heaven send thou hast not got the hyps!

How! not a word come from thy lips?

Then gave him some familiar thumps, A college joke to cure the dumps.

The swain at last, with grief opprest, Cried, Celia! thrice, and sigh'd the rest.

Dear Ca.s.sy, though to ask I dread, Yet ask I must--is Celia dead?

How happy I, were that the worst!

But I was fated to be curst!

Come, tell us, has she play'd the wh.o.r.e?

O Peter, would it were no more!

Why, plague confound her sandy locks!

Say, has the small or greater pox Sunk down her nose, or seam'd her face?

Be easy, 'tis a common case.

O Peter! beauty's but a varnish, Which time and accidents will tarnish: But Celia has contrived to blast Those beauties that might ever last.

Nor can imagination guess, Nor eloquence divine express, How that ungrateful charming maid My purest pa.s.sion has betray'd: Conceive the most envenom'd dart To pierce an injured lover's heart.

Why, hang her; though she seem'd so coy, I know she loves the barber's boy.

Friend Peter, this I could excuse, For every nymph has leave to choose; Nor have I reason to complain, She loves a more deserving swain.

But, oh! how ill hast thou divined A crime, that shocks all human kind; A deed unknown to female race, At which the sun should hide his face: Advice in vain you would apply-- Then leave me to despair and die.

Ye kind Arcadians, on my urn These elegies and sonnets burn; And on the marble grave these rhymes, A monument to after-times-- "Here Ca.s.sy lies, by Celia slain, And dying, never told his pain."

Vain empty world, farewell. But hark, The loud Cerberian triple bark; And there--behold Alecto stand, A whip of scorpions in her hand: Lo, Charon from his leaky wherry Beckoning to waft me o'er the ferry: I come! I come! Medusa see, Her serpents hiss direct at me.

Begone; unhand me, h.e.l.lish fry: "Avaunt--ye cannot say 'twas I."[1]

Dear Ca.s.sy, thou must purge and bleed; I fear thou wilt be mad indeed.

But now, by friendship's sacred laws, I here conjure thee, tell the cause; And Celia's horrid fact relate: Thy friend would gladly share thy fate.

To force it out, my heart must rend; Yet when conjured by such a friend-- Think, Peter, how my soul is rack'd!

These eyes, these eyes, beheld the fact.

Now bend thine ear, since out it must; But, when thou seest me laid in dust, The secret thou shalt ne'er impart, Not to the nymph that keeps thy heart; (How would her virgin soul bemoan A crime to all her s.e.x unknown!) Nor whisper to the tattling reeds The blackest of all female deeds; Nor blab it on the lonely rocks, Where Echo sits, and listening mocks; Nor let the Zephyr's treacherous gale Through Cambridge waft the direful tale; Nor to the chattering feather'd race Discover Celia's foul disgrace.

But, if you fail, my spectre dread, Attending nightly round your bed-- And yet I dare confide in you; So take my secret, and adieu: Nor wonder how I lost my wits: Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia sh--!

[Footnote 1: From "Macbeth," in Act III, Sc. iv: "Thou canst not say, I did it:" etc.

"Avaunt, and quit my sight."]

A BEAUTIFUL YOUNG NYMPH GOING TO BED.

WRITTEN FOR THE HONOUR OF THE FAIR s.e.x. 1731

Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane, For whom no shepherd sighs in vain; Never did Covent-Garden boast So bright a batter'd strolling toast!

No drunken rake to pick her up, No cellar where on tick to sup; Returning at the midnight hour, Four stories climbing to her bower; Then, seated on a three-legg'd chair, Takes off her artificial hair; Now picking out a crystal eye, She wipes it clean, and lays it by.

Her eyebrows from a mouse's hide Stuck on with art on either side, Pulls off with care, and first displays 'em, Then in a play-book smoothly lays 'em.

Now dext'rously her plumpers draws, That serve to fill her hollow jaws, Untwists a wire, and from her gums A set of teeth completely comes; Pulls out the rags contrived to prop Her flabby dugs, and down they drop.

Proceeding on, the lovely G.o.ddess Unlaces next her steel-ribb'd bodice, Which, by the operator's skill, Press down the lumps, the hollows fill.

Up goes her hand, and off she slips The bolsters that supply her hips; With gentlest touch she next explores Her chancres, issues, running sores; Effects of many a sad disaster, And then to each applies a plaster: But must, before she goes to bed, Rub off the daubs of white and red, And smooth the furrows in her front With greasy paper stuck upon't.

She takes a bolus ere she sleeps; And then between two blankets creeps.

With pains of love tormented lies; Or, if she chance to close her eyes, Of Bridewell[1] and the Compter[1] dreams, And feels the lash, and faintly screams; Or, by a faithless bully drawn, At some hedge-tavern lies in p.a.w.n; Or to Jamaica[2] seems transported Alone, and by no planter courted; Or, near Fleet-ditch's[3] oozy brinks, Surrounded with a hundred stinks, Belated, seems on watch to lie, And snap some cully pa.s.sing by; Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs On watchmen, constables, and duns, From whom she meets with frequent rubs; But never from religious clubs; Whose favour she is sure to find, Because she pays them all in kind.