Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, THE TRUE EFFIGIES OF A CERTAIN SQUIRE: INSCRIBED TO CLEMENA, by ELIZABETH THOMAS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE TRUE EFFIGIES OF A CERTAIN SQUIRE: INSCRIBED TO CLEMENA, by                    
First Line: Some generous painter now assist my pen
Last Line: And own this folly worse than when 'twas acted o'er.
Subject(s): Hate


SOME generous painter now assist my pen,
And help to draw the most despised of men:
Or else, oh Muse! do thou that charge supply,
Thou that art injured too as well as I;
Revenge thyself, with satire arm thy quill,
Display the man, yet own a justice still.

First, paint a large, two-handed, surly clown,
In silver waistcoat, stockings sliding down,
Shoes (let me see) a foot and half in length,
And stoutly armed with sparables for strength.
Ascend! and let a silver string appear,
Which seems to cry 'A golden watch is here';
O'er all a doily stuff, to which belongs
One pocket charged with citron peel and songs;
T' other contains, more necessary far,
A snuffbox, comb, a glass, and handkercher,
Three parts of which hangs dangling by his side,
The fourth is wisely to a button tied:
Just as it was in former days a rule
To tie young children's muckenders at school.
Forget not, Muse, gold buttons at the wrist,
Nor Mechlin lace to shade the clumsy fist;
Two diamond rings thy pencil next must show,
Always in sight like Prim's, the formal beau;
But if rude company their notice spare,
Then draw that hand elated to his ear,
And at one view let diamond ring and golden bob appear.
A steenkirk next, of paltry needle stuff,
Which cost eleven guineas (cheap enough).
Next draw the giant-wig of shape profuse,
Larger than Foppington's or Overdo's.
The greasy front pressed down with essence lies,
The spreading elf-locks cover half his eyes;
But when he coughs or bows, what clouds of powder rise!

Enough, O Muse! thou hast described him right,
Th' emetic's strong, I sicken at the sight:
A fop is nauseating, howe'er he's dressed,
But this too fulsome is to be expressed.
Such hideous medley would thy work debase,
Where rake and clown, where ape and knave, appear with open face.

Yet stay, proceed and paint his awkward bow,
And if thou hast forgot, I'll tell thee how:
Set one leg forward, draw his other back,
Nor let the lump a booby wallow lack;
His head bend downward, with obsequious quake,
Then quickly raise it, with a spaniel shake.
His honours thus performed, a speech begin
May show th' obliging principles within:
Thy memory to his sense I now confine,
His be the substance, but th' expression thine.

'Madam,' he cries, 'Lord, how my soul is moved
To see such silly toys by you approved!
A closet stuffed with books: pray, what's your crime,
To superannuate before your time,
And make yourself look old and ugly in your prime?
Our modern pedants contradict the schools,
For learned ladies are but learned fools.
With every blockhead's whim ye load your brains,
And for a shadow take a world of pains.
What is't to you what numbers Caesar slew?
Or who at Marathon beat the de'il knows who?
Defend me, Fortune! from the wife I hate,
And let not bookish woman be my fate.
For when with rural sports fatigued I come,
And think to rest my wearied limbs at home,
No sooner shall I be retired to bed
Than she, for one poor word, shall break poor Priscian's head.
Perhaps you'll say in books you virtue learn,
And, by right reason, good from ill discern:
Ha, ha! believe me, virtue's but pretence
To cloak hypocrisy and insolence;
Let woman mind her economic care,
And let the man what he thinks fit prepare
(What he thinks fit, I say, or please to spend,
For those are fools that on their wives depend).
Nor need they musty books to pass their time,
There's twenty recreations more sublime.
When tired with work, then let them to the play;
If fair, go visit; if a rainy day,
In cards and chat drive lazy time away.
No, hang me if I speak not as I mean:
If on my nuptial day there is not seen
Of all my spouse's books a stately pyre,
Which she herself obediently shall fire;
And oh! might Europe's learning in that blaze expire.
Now, Madam, pray, the mighty difference show:
I eat, I drink, I sleep as well as you;
I know by custom two and two is four;
My man is honest, then what need I more?
And truly speak it to my joy and praise,
I never read six books in all my days.
Nor should my son; for could my wish prevail,
Blest ignorance I'd on my race entail.
Unthinking and unlearned, in plenteous ease,
My happy heir each appetite should please;
And when chance strikes the last unlucky blow,
Glutted with life, I'd have him boldly go
To try that somewhat or that naught below.'

How is't, my friend? Can you your spleen contain
At this ignoble wretch, this less than man?
Trust me, I'm weary, can repeat no more,
And own this folly worse than when 'twas acted o'er.





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