The amorous eyes thus always go
A-strolling for their friends below;
For, long before the squire and dame
Have tête-à-tête relieved their flame,
Ere visits yet are brought about,
The eye by sympathy looks out,
Knows Florimel, and longs to meet her,
And, if he sees, is sure to greet her,
Though at sash-window, on the stairs,
At court, nay (authors say) at prayers.-
The funeral of some valiant knight
May give this thing its proper light.
View his two gauntlets; these declare
That both his hands were used to war.
And from his two gilt spurs 'tis learned,
His feet were equally concerned.
But have you not with thought beheld
The sword hang dangling o'er the shield;
Which shows the breast, that plate was used to,
Had an ally right arm to trust to.
And, by the peep-holes in his crest,
Is it not virtually confest,
That there his eyes took distant aim,
And glanced respect to that bright dame,
In whose delight his hope was centred,
And for whose glove his life he ventured?
Objections to my general system
May rise perhaps; and I have missed them:
But I can call to my assistance
Proximity (mark that!) and distance;
Can prove, that all things on occasion
Love union, and desire adhesion;
That Alma merely is a scale,
And motives, like the weights, prevail.
If neither side turn down nor up,
With loss or gain, with fear or hope,
The balance always would hang even,
Like Mahomet's tomb, 'twixt earth and Heaven!
This, Richard, is a curious case:
Suppose your eyes sent equal rays
Upon two distant pots of ale,
Not knowing which was mild or stale;
In this sad state your doubtful choice
Would never have the casting voice;
Which best or worst you could not think;
And die you must for want of drink ;
Unless some chance inclines your sight,
Setting one pot in fairer light.
Then you prefer or A, or B,
As lines and angles best agree;
Your sense resolved impels your will;
She guides your hand-so drink your fill.
Have you not seen a baker's maid
Between two equal panniers sway'd?
Her tallies useless lie, and idle,
If placed exactly in the middle:
But, forced from this unactive state
By virtue of some casual weight,
On either side you hear them clatter,
And judge of right and left hand matter.
Now, Richard, this coercive force,
Without your choice, must take its course;
Great kings to wars are pointed forth,
Like loaded needles to the north.
And thou and I, by power unseen,
Are barely passive, and sucked-in
To Henault's vaults or Celia's chamber,
As straw and paper are by amber.
If we sit down to play or set
(Suppose at ombre or basset)
Let people call us cheats or fools;
Our cards and we are equal tools.
We sure in vain the cards condemn;
Ourselves both cut and shuffled them.
In vain on Fortune's aid rely,
She only is a stander-by.
Poor men! poor papers! we and they
Do some impulsive force obey;
And are but played with-do not play.
But space and matter we should blame;
They palmed the trick that lost the
Thus, to save further contradiction,
Against what you my think but fiction,
I for attraction, Dick, declare,
Deny it those bold men that dare.
As well your motion, as your thought,
Is all by hidden impulse wrought;
Even saying that you think or walk,
How like a country squire you talk!
Mark then ;—Where fancy, or desire,
Collects the beams of vital fire;
Into that limb fair Alma slides,
And there, pro tempore, resides.
She dwells in Nicolini's tongue,
When Pyrrhus chants the heavenly song.
When Pedro does the lute command,
She guides the cunning artist's hand;
Through Macer's gullet she runs down,
When the vile glutton dines alone;
And, void of modesty and thought,
She follows Bibo's endless draught.
Through the soft sex again she ranges;
As youth, caprice, or fashion, changes.
Fair Alma, careless and serene,
In Fanny's sprightly eyes is seen;
While they diffuse their infant beams,
Themselves not conscious of their flames.
Again fair Alma sits confessed
On Florimel's experter breast;
When she the rising sigh constrains,
And by concealing speaks her pains.
In Cynthia's neck fair Alma glows,
When the vain thing her jewels shows;
When Jenny's stays are newly laced,
Fair Alma plays about her waist;
And when the swelling hoop sustains
The rich brocade, fair Alma deigns
Into that lower space to enter,
Of the large round herself the centre.
Again, that single limb or feature
(Such is the cogent force of nature)
Which most did Alma's passion move
In the first object of her love,
For ever will be found confessed,
And printed on the amorous breast.
O Abelard, ill-fated youth,
Thy tale will justify this truth:
But well I weet, thy cruel wrong
Adorns a nobler poet's song.
Dan Pope, for thy misfortune grieved,
With kind concern and skill has weaved
A silken web; and ne'er shall fade
Its colours; gently has he laid
The mantle o'er thy sad distress;
And Venus shall the texture bless.
He o'er the weeping nun has drawn
Such artful folds of sacred lawn,
That love, with equal grief and pride,
Shall see the crime he strives to hide;
And, softly drawing back the veil,
The god shall to his votaries tell
Each conscious tear, each blushing grace,
That decked dear Eloisa's face.
Happy the poet, blest the lays,
Which Buckingham has deigned to praise!
Next, Dick, as youth and habit sways,
A hundred gambols Alma plays.
If, whilst a boy, Jack ran from school,
Fond of his hunting-horn and pole;
Though gout and age his speed detain,
Old John halloos his hounds again;
By his fire-side he starts the hare,
And turns her in his wicker chair;
His feet, however lame, you find,
Have got the better of his mind.
If, while the mind was in her leg,
The dance affected nimble Peg;
Old Madge, bewitched at sixty-one,
Calls for Green Sleeves, and Jumping Joan.
In public mask, or private ball,
From Lincoln's-inn to Goldsmith's-hall,
All Christmas long away she trudges,
Trips it with prentices and judges;
In vain her children urge her stay,
And age or palsy bar the way.
But, if those images prevail
Which whilom did affect the tail,
She still renews the ancient scene,
Forgets the forty years between;
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