Classic and Contemporary Poetry
PAULO PURGANTI AND HIS WIFE, by MATTHEW PRIOR Poet's Biography First Line: Beyond the fixed and settled rules Last Line: But, to my comfort, I'm prepared. Subject(s): Death; Life; Marriage; Physicians; Dead, The; Weddings; Husbands; Wives; Doctors | ||||||||
BEYOND the fixed and settled rules Of vice and virtue in the schools, Beyond the letter of the law, Which keeps our men and maids in awe, The better sort should set before 'em A grace, a manner, a decorum; Something, that gives their acts a light; Makes them not only just, but bright; And sets them in that open fame, Which witty malice cannot blame. For 'tis in life, as 'tis in painting, Much may be right, yet much be wanting; From lines drawn true, our eye may trace A foot, a knee, a hand, a face; May justly own the picture wrought Exact to rule, exempt from fault: Yet, if the colouring be not there, The Titian stroke, the Guido air; To nicest judgment show the piece; At best 'twill only not displease: It would not gain on Jersey's eye; Bradford would frown, and set it by. Thus in the picture of our mind The action may be well designed; Guided by law, and bound by duty; Yet want this Je ne scai quoi of beauty; And though its error may be such, As Knags and Burgess cannot hit; It yet may feel the nicer touch Of Wycherley's or Congreve's wit. What is this talk, replies a friend, And where will this dry moral end? The truth of what you here lay down By some example should be shown. -- With all my heart, -- for once; read on! An honest, but a simple pair (And twenty other I forbear) May serve to make this thesis clear. A doctor of great skill and fame, Paulo Purganti was his name, Had a good, comely, virtuous wife; No woman led a better life; She to intrigues was even hard-hearted: She chuckled when a bawd was carted; And thought the nation ne'er would thrive, Till all the whores were burned alive. On married men, that dared be bad, She thought no mercy should be had; They should be hanged, or starved, or fleaed, Or served like Romish priests in Swede. In short, all lewdness she defied: And stiff was her parochial pride. Yet, in an honest way, the dame Was a great lover of that same; And could from scripture take her cue, That husbands should give wives their due. Her prudence did so justly steer Between the gay and the severe, That if in some regards she chose To curb poor Paulo in too close; In others she relaxed again, And governed with a looser rein. Thus though she strictly did confine The doctor from excess of wine; With oysters, eggs, and vermicelli, She let him almost burst his belly; Thus drying coffee was denied; But chocolate that loss supplied: And for tobacco (who could bear it), Filthy concomitant of claret! (Blest revolution!) one might see Eringo roots, and bohea tea. She often set the doctor's band, And stroked his beard, and squeezed his hand: Kindly complained, that after noon He went to pore on books too soon. She held it wholesomer by much, To rest a little on the couch; About his waist in bed a-nights She clung so close -- for fear of sprites. The doctor understood the call, But had not always wherewithal. The lion's skin too short, you know (As Plutarch's Morals finely show), Was lengthened by the fox's tail; And art supplies, where strength may fail. Unwilling then, in arms to meet The enemy he could not beat, He strove to lengthen the campaign, And save his forces by chicane. Fabius, the Roman chief, who thus By fair retreat grew Maximus, Shows us, that all the warrior can do With force inferior is CUNCTANDO. One day then, as the foe drew near, With love, and joy, and life, and dear, Our don, who knew this tittle-tattle Did, sure as trumpet, call to battle, Thought it extremely a propos, To ward against the coming blow; To ward: but how? ay, there's the question; Fierce the assault, unarmed the bastion. The doctor feigned a strange surprise: He felt her pulse, he viewed her eyes, That beat too fast, these rolled too quick, She was, he said, or would be sick; He judged it absolutely good, That she should purge and cleanse her blood. Spa waters for that end were got; If they passed easily or not, What matters it; the lady's fever Continued violent as ever. For a distemper of this kind, (Blackmore and Hans are of my mind,) If once it youthful blood infects, And chiefly of the female sex, Is scarce removed by pill or potion; Whate'er might be our doctor's notion. One luckless night then, as in bed The doctor and the dame were laid; Again this cruel fever came, High pulse, short breath, and blood in flame. What measures shall poor Paulo keep With madam in this piteous taking! She, like Macbeth, has murdered sleep, And won't allow him rest though waking. Sad state of matters! when we dare Nor ask for peace, nor offer war; Nor Livy nor Commines have shown, What in this juncture may be done. Grotius might own, that Paulo's case is Harder than any which he places Amongst his Belli and his Pacis. He strove, alas! but strove in vain, By dint of logic to maintain, That all the sex was born to grieve, Down to her ladyship from Eve. He ranged his tropes, and preached up patience; Backed his opinion with quotations, Divines and moralists; and run ye on Quite through from Seneca to Bunyan. As much in vain he bid her try To fold her arms, and close her eye; Telling her, rest would do her good, If anything in nature could: So held the Greeks quite down from Galen, Masters and princes of their calling: So all our modern friends maintain (Though no great Greeks) in Warwick Lane. Reduce, my Muse, the wandering song; A tale should never be too long. The more he talked, the more she burned, And sighed, and tossed, and groaned, and turned; At last, I wish, said she, my dear -- (And whispered something in his ear.) You wish! wish on, the doctor cries: Lord! when will womankind be wise! What, in your waters, are you mad! Why, poison is not half so bad. I'll do it -- but I give you warning, You'll die before to-morrow morning. -- 'Tis kind, my dear, what you advise; The lady with a sigh replies; But life, you know, at best is pain; And death is what we should disdain. So do it, therefore, and adieu: For I will die for love of you. Let wanton wives by death be scared: But, to my comfort, I'm prepared. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE DOCTOR WHO SITS AT THE BEDSIDE OF A RAT by JOSEPHINE MILES EL CURANDERO (THE HEALER) by RAFAEL CAMPO HER FINAL SHOW by RAFAEL CAMPO SONG FOR MY LOVER: 13. TOWARDS CURING AIDS by RAFAEL CAMPO WHAT THE BODY TOLD by RAFAEL CAMPO MEDICINE 2; FOR JOHN MURRAY by CAROLYN KIZER THE NERVE DOCTORS by THOMAS LUX DOMESDAY BOOK: DR. 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