That then the mounts by just degrees
Up to the ancles, legs, and knees:
Next, as the fap of life does rise,
She lends her vigor to the thighs;
And, all these under-regions paft,
She neftles fomewhere near the waist;
Gives pain or pleasure, grief or laughter,
As we shall shew at large hereafter.
Mature, if not improv'd by time,
Up to the heart she loves to climb:
From thence, compell'd by craft and age,
She makes the head her latest stage.
From the feet upward to the head;
Pithy, and short, fays Dick; proceed.
Dick, this is not an idle notion :
Obferve the progress of the motion :
Firft I demonftratively prove,
That feet were only made to move;
And legs defire to come and go :
For they have nothing else to do.
Hence, long before the child can crawl,
He learns to kick, and wince, and fprawl:
To hinder which, your midwife knows
To bind those parts extremely clofe;
Left Alma newly enter'd in,
And stunn'd at her own chrift'ning's din,
Fearful of future grief and pain,
Sould filently fneak out again.
Full piteous feems young Alma's cafe:
As in a luckless gamefter's place,
She would not play, yet must not pass.
Again, as fhe grows fomething stronger,
And mafter's feet are fwath'd no longer,
If in the night too oft he kicks,
Or fhows his Loco-motive tricks ;
These first assaults fat Kate repays him,
When, half asleep, the overlays him.
Now mark, dear Richard, from the age
That children tread this wordly ftage,
Broom-staff or poker they beftride,
And round the parlor love to ride;
Till thoughtful father's pious care
Provides his brood, next Smithfield fair,
With supplemental hobby-horses:
And happy be their infant courses!
Hence for fome years they ne'er ftand ftill:
Their legs, you fee, direct their will ;
From opening morn till fetting fun,
Around the fields and woods they run:
They frisk, and dance, and leap, and play;
Nor heed what Friend or Snape can say.
To her next stage as Alma flies,
And likes, as I have faid, the thighs.
With fympathetic power the warms
Their good allies and friends, the arms;
While Betty dances on the green,
And Sufan is at school-ball feen :
While John for nine-pins does declare;
And Roger loves to pitch the bar;
Both legs and arms fpontaneous move:
Which was the thing I meant to prove.
Another motion now fhe makes:
O need I name the feat fhe takes?
His thought quite chang'd the stripling finds; The sport and race no more he minds ; Neglected Tray and Pointer lie,
And covies unmolested fly.
Sudden the jocund plain he leaves;
And for the nymph in fecret grieves.
In dying accents he complains
Of cruel fires, and raging pains.
The nymph too longs to be alone;
Leaves all the fwains, and fighs for one.
The nymph is warm'd with young defire;
And feels, and dies to quench his fire.
They meet each evening in the grove:
Their parley but augments their love;
So to the priest their case they tell :
He ties the knot; and all goes well.
But, O my Mufe, juft diftance keep;
Thou art a maid, and must not peep.
In nine months time the boddice loose,
And petticoats too short, difclofe
That at this age the active mind
About the waift lies moft confin'd;
And that young life, and quick'ning fenfe
Spring from his influence darted thence.
So from the middle of the world-
'The Sun's prolific rays are hurl'd :
'Tis from that feat he darts thofe beams.
Which quicken earth with genial flames.
Dick, who thus long had paffive sat,
Here ftroak'd his chin, and cock'd his hat;
Then flapp'd his hand upon the board,
And thus the youth put in his word :
Love's advocates, fweet fir, would find him
A higher place than you affign'd him.
Love's advocates, Dick, who are those?
The poets, you may well fuppofe.
I'm forry, fir, you have difcarded
The men, with whom till now you herded.
Profe-men alone for private ends,
I thought forfook their ancient friends.
"In cor ftillavit," cries Lucretius;
If he may be allowed to teach us.
The felf-fame thing foft Ovid fays,
(A proper judge in fuch a cafe.)
Horace, his phrafe is, " torret jecur;"
And happy was that curious speaker.
Here Virgil too has plac'd this paffion :
What fignifies too long quotation ?
In Ode and Epic plain the cafe is,
That love holds one of these two places.
Dick, without paffion or reflection,
I'll ftraight demolish this objection.
First, poets, all the world agrees,
Write half to profit, half to please.
Matter and figure they produce;
For garnish this, and that for ufe ;
. And, in the structure of their feafts,
They feek to feed, and please their guests:
But one may balk this good intent,
And take things otherwife than meant.
Thus, if you dine with my lord-may'r,
Roaft-beef, and ven'fon, is your fare,
Thence you proceed to fwan and bustard,
And perfevere in tart, and cuftard:
But Tulip-leaves, and Lemon-peel,
Help only to adorn the meal:
And painted flags, fuperb and neat,
Proclaim you welcome to the treat.
The man of fenfe his meat devours;
But only fmells the peel and flow'rs;
And he must be an idle dreamer,
Who leaves the pie, and gnaws the fireamer.
That Cupid goes with bow and arrows,
And Venus keeps her coach and sparrows,
Is all but emblem to acquaint one,
The fon is sharp, the mother wanton.
Such images have sometimes shown
A myftic fenfe, but oftner none,
For who conceives, what bards devife,
That Heav'n is plac'd in Celia's eyes,
Or where's the fenfe, direct and moral,
That teeth are pearl, or lips are coral?
Your Horace owns, he various writ,
As wild or fober maggots bit;
And, where too much the poet ranted,
The fage philofopher recanted.
His grave Epiftles may difprove
The wanton Odes he made to love.
|