« 上一頁繼續 »
Sigh'd as he sung, and did in tears indite.
To loose the brogues, the stripling's late delight! And down they drop; appears his dainty skin, Fair as the furry-coat of whitest ermilin.
O ruthful scene! when from a nook obscure,
All playful as she sate, she grows demure;
No longer can she now her shrieks command;
And soon a flood of tears begins to flow;
And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe.
But ah! what pen his piteous plight may trace?
The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain?
The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain ?
Or when from high she levels well her aim, And, through the thatch, his cries each falling stroke proclaim.
The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, Attend, and conn their tasks with mickle care: By turns, astony'd, every twig survey,
And, from their fellow's hateful wounds, beware; Knowing, I wist, how each the same may share; Till fear has taught them a performance meet, And to the well-known chest the dame repair; Whence oft with sugar'd cates she doth them greet,
And gingerbread y-rare; now, certes, doubly sweet.
See to their seats they hye with merry glee,
Abhorreth bench and stool, and fourm, and chair;
His grievous wrong; his dame's unjust behest; And scorns her offer'd love, and shuns to be caress'd.
His eye besprent with liquid crystal shines,
Which how to earth its dropping head declines,
All, all, but she, regret this mournful hour:
If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame.
Behind some door, in melancholy thought, Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff! pines; Ne for his fellows joyance careth aught, But to the wind all merriment resigns; And deems it shame if he to peace inclines; And many a sullen look ascance is sent, Which for his dame's annoyance he designs; And still the more to pleasure him she's bent, The more doth he, perverse, her haviour past
Ah me! how much I fear lest pride it be! But if that pride it be which thus inspires, Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see, Ye quench not too the sparks of nobler fires : Ah! better far than all the Muses' lyres, All coward arts, is valour's generous heat; The firm fixt breast which fit and right requires, Like Vernon's patriot soul; more justly great Than craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false deceit :
Yet, nurs'd with skill, what dazzling fruits appear!
Or bard sublime, if bard may e'er be so,
As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne'er shall die !
Though now he crawl along the ground so low, Nor weeting how the Muse should soar on high, Wisheth, poor starveling elf! his paper kite may fly.
And this perhaps, who, censuring the design, Low lays the house which that of cards doth build, Shall Dennis be! if rigid fate incline,
And many an epic to his rage shall yield; And many a poet quit th' Aonian field: And, sour'd by age, profound he shall appear, As he who now with 'sdainful fury thrill'd, Surveys mine work: and levels many a sneer, And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, "What stuff is here?"
But now Dan Phoebus gains the middle skie,
may freedom erst so dearly won, Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun.
Enjoy, poor imps! enjoy your sportive trade, And chase gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers; For when my bones in grass-green sods are laid; For never may ye taste more careless hours In knightly castles or in ladies bowers. O vain to seek delight in earthly thing! But most in courts where proud ambition towers; Deluded wight! who weens fair peace can spring Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king.
See in each sprite some various bent appear!
Some to the standing lake their courses bend,
In pastry kings and queens th' allotted mite to spend.
Here, as each season yields a different store,