Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TEA-TABLE; A TOWN ECLOGUE, by JOHN GAY


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TEA-TABLE; A TOWN ECLOGUE, by                 Poet Analysis     Poet's Biography
First Line: Saint james's noon-day bell for prayers had tolled
Last Line: And all again that night at ombre met.
Subject(s): Cities; Food & Eating; Tea; Urban Life


DORIS and MELANTHE.

SAINT James's noon-day bell for prayers had toll'd,
And coaches to the Patron's Levee roll'd,
When Doris rose. And now through all the room
From flow'ry Tea exhales a fragrant fume.
Cup after cup they sipt, and talk'd by fits,
For Doris here, and there Melanthe sits.
Doris was young, a laughter-loving dame,
Nice of her own alike and others fame;
Melanthe's tongue could well a tale advance,
And sooner gave than sunk a circumstance;
Lock'd in her mem'ry secrets never dy'd;
Doris begun, Melanthe thus reply'd.
DORIS.
Sylvia the vain fantastic Fop admires,
The Rake's loose gallantry her bosom fires;
Sylvia like that is vain, like this she roves,
In liking them she but her self approves.
MELANTHE.
Laura rails on at men, the sex reviles,
Their vice condemns, or at their folly smiles.
Why should her tongue in just resentment fail,
Since men at her with equal freedom rail?
DORIS.
Last Masquerade was Sylvia nymphlike seen,
Her hand a crook sustain'd, her dress was green;
An am'rous shepherd led her through the croud,
The nymph was innocent, the shepherd vow'd;
But nymphs their innocence with shepherds trust;
So both withdrew, as nymph and shepherd must.
MELANTHE.
Name but the licence of the modern stage,
Laura takes fire, and kindles into rage;
The whining Tragic love she scarce can bear,
But nauseous Comedy ne'er shock'd her ear:
Yet in the gall'ry mob'd, she sits secure,
And laughs at jests that turn the Box demure.
DORIS.
Trust not, ye Ladys, to your beauty's pow'r,
For beauty withers, like a shrivell'd flow'r;
Yet those fair flowers that Sylvia's temples bind,
Fade not with sudden blights or winter's wind;
Like those her face defys the rolling years,
For art her roses and her charms repairs.
MELANTHE.
Laura despises ev'ry outward grace,
The wanton sparkling eye, the blooming face
The beauties of the soul are all her pride,
For other beauties Nature has deny'd;
If affectation show a beauteous mind,
Lives there a man to Laura's merits blind?
DORIS.
Sylvia be sure defies the town's reproach,
Whose Deshabille is soil'd in hackney coach;
What though the sash was clos'd? must we conclude,
That she was yielding, when her Fop was rude?
MELANTHE.
Laura learnt caution at too dear a cost.
What Fair could e'er retrieve her honour lost?
Secret she loves; and who the nymph can blame,
Who durst not own a footman's vulgar flame?
DORIS.
Though Laura's homely taste descends so low;
Her footman well may vye with Sylvia's Beau.
MELANTHE.
Yet why should Laura think it a disgrace,
When proud Miranda's groom wears Flanders lace?
DORIS.
What, though for musick Cynthio boasts an ear?
Robin perhaps can hum an Opera air.
Cynthio can bow, takes snuff, and dances well,
Robin talks common sense, can write and spell;
Sylvia's vain fancy dress and shows admires,
But 'tis the man alone who Laura fires.
MELANTHE.
Plato's wise morals Laura's soul improve:
And this no doubt must be Platonic love!
Her soul to gen'rous acts was still inclin'd;
What shows more virtue than an humble mind?
DORIS.
What, though young Sylvia love the Park's cool shade,
And wander in the dusk the secret glade?
Masqu'd and alone (by chance) she met her Spark,
That innocence is weak which shuns the dark.
MELANTHE.
But Laura for her flame has no pretence
Her footman is a footman too in sense.
All Prudes I hate, and those are rightly curst
With scandal's double load, who censure first.
DORIS.
And what if Cynthio Sylvia's garter ty'd!
Who such a foot and such a leg would hide;
When crook-knee'd Phillis can expose to view
Her gold-clock'd stocking, and her tawdry shoe?
MELANTHE.
If pure Devotion center in the face,
If cens'ring others show intrinsick grace,
If guilt to publick freedoms be confin'd,
Prudes (all must own) are of the holy kind!
DORIS.
Sylvia disdains reserve, and flys constraint:
She neither is, nor would be thought a Saint.
MELANTHE.
Love is a trivial passion, Laura crys,
May I be blest with friendship's stricter tyes;
To such a breast all secrets we commend;
Sure the whole Drawing-room is Laura's friend.
DORIS.
At marriage Sylvia rails; who men would trust?
Yet husband's jealousies are sometimes just.
Her favours Sylvia shares among mankind,
Such gen'rous love should never be confin'd.

As thus alternate chat employ'd their tongue,
With thund'ring raps the brazen knocker rung.
Laura with Sylvia came; the nymphs arise:
This unexpected visit, Doris crys,
Is doubly kind! Melanthe Laura led,
Since I was last so blest, my dear, she said,
Sure 'tis an age! they sate; the hour was set
And all again that night at Ombre met.





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