Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, "THE ART OF WENCHING, SELS.", by ANONYMOUS


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

"THE ART OF WENCHING, SELS.", by                    
First Line: Be punctual then to know / where maids resort
Last Line: For who can say 'misfortunes know not me?'
Subject(s): Violence


BE punctual then to know
Where maids resort, whether at midnight hour
They steal to wakes, where merriment is made
And gambols played, and antic tricks devised
To honour the deceased; or at the fair
Whether they flock and glitter out so fine,
Shaming the pedlar's stall; or at the ball
Where, warmed with dancing and with music charmed,
You lead them out; or on the Sabbath-day,
When between sermons they are much disposed
And softened to the melting tale of love.
And here remember on the Sabbath-day
To treat church-wardens; drams will drown your sins
And wash you white, preventive of the toil
Of a white sheet in church. Fowl, wild or tame,
Must be the parson's due, if you design
To live and sin secure. In trivial things
We must have patience, would our soul arrive
At extreme bliss and taste the sweets of love:
Journeys by day and supper-wanting nights,
And midnight watch when goblins crowd the gloom,
Bruisings of limbs and drainings of the purse,
Rawness of nose and twitchings of the reins,
And legs of straw and eyes all fiery red,
Will whet the appetite, and make us feed,
And give a relish to the joys they bring.
And yet there is one obstacle most dire
To check our progress, by the vulgar called
A mastiff, who with his incessant growl
Blasphemes the moon; by farmers entertained
To guard the daughter and defend the barn.
Him you must lenify and strive to soothe,
And make familiar, lest his evil tongue
Give signal of a foe and, ere you fly,
With his Cerberean jaws indent a wound.
Well I remember an ill-omened hour,
And cross to love, when through the storm and rain
Darkling I travelled, and with tedious toil,
To visit one who wished me nothing ill.
The mastiff I beheld and cautious kept
Between me and the wind, and softly stole
Safe to the door, and flew into the arms
Of my soul's joy; when, through malignant stars,
Scarce were my wearied limbs sunk in repose,
When th' execrable cur began to growl,
At what I know not, but his hellish din
Raised the good man, who, fearful for his sheep,
For thieves were rife and Lent was just expired,
Uprose and struck a light, and sought the room
Where his young daughter lay. But how aghast
Did he behold her folded in these arms:
Just then a dream was rising to my mind,
That sweetly acted our caresses o'er,
When, lo! my shoulders shoot with sudden pain;
I rub my eyes and, yawning from my dreams,
Behold a cudgel brandished o'er my head,
Horrible outrage! Blows on blows descend;
The cruel sire was deaf to human cries,
And strokes repeated; till with sudden rush
I fled before his face, and made the door
All naked as I was, compelled to leave
Whom my soul loved, unmercifully mauled
With grievous stripes, for neither did he spare
Ev'n his own flesh, nor from his daughter cease,
But bruised her tender body. What could I,
Shudd'ring without and feeling for us both?
My clothes were lost: the harsh, relentless wretch
Kept them for damage done unto his child;
And long I toiled, and mainly yet I toil,
To purchase new. But things like these must be;
For who can say 'Misfortunes know not me'?





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