The Thimble, Canto II

No sweetly-flowing Tale I now rehearse, But Scratches, Wounds, and Bloodshed, stain the Verse: Ye vet'ran Band of Milliners, give Ear, And ev'ry Sempstress drop a pitying Tear! O! listen to the Melancholy Lay, While I recount the Horrours of the Day.

O! for his Numbers, that describ'd the Shield Of great Pelides issuing to the Field, Or clad in Arms terrific from afar, Or rushing dreadful through the Ranks of War!

The Virgin sat deep sunk in pensive Thought; Betty, my Work, she cry'd; and Betty brought: Oft have my Morning Labours sooth'd my Grief; What Wretch e'er found in Idleness Relief? How blind are Mortals in this hapless State; We rush to Ruin, and embrace our Fate! Six Needles in tremendous Range appear, Each a dire Emblem of the Warriour's Spear! A while she view'd them all with careful Eyes, Then grasp'd a Jav'lin of enormous Size; Next, as impatient for the Toil she grew, Her shining Scissars from the Sheath she drew, Her Grand-Dame's Gift (as antient Memoirs say) A just Reward for many a well-work'd Day! With active Haste her nimble Fingers move, Curl the gay Vine, and form the mimic Grove; But as her Finger with resistless Force, Through double Plaits pursu'd its rapid Course, The treach'rous Needle broke,—the headless Dart Deep-gor'd her Flesh, and pierc'd her—to the Heart. The purple Blood distain'd her Arm around, And half her Soul came rushing through the Wound; Then, as her Bosom glow'd with sudden Fire, She spurn'd her Lap-Dog in her peevish Ire; Across the Room with furious Speed she flew, And Tables, Chairs, and Cabinets, o'erthrew; Her hideous Cries the vocal Walls resound, Poll chatter'd, scream'd the Kitten, shook the Ground. So when the Greek, that with Immortals strove, Wounded in impious Rage the Queen of Love; To Heav'n's high Roof the Goddess rais'd her Cries, And the harsh Shriek run thrilling through the Skies. Here lay the Ruins of an ample Bowl, The Pride and Comfort of her Grandsire's Soul; This oft inspir'd the loudly-sounding Jest, And crown'd with Jollity the Nuptial Feast; Unhurt by Midnight Broils, uncrack'd by Age, It fell the Wreck of Fannia's heedless Rage.

At length, fatigu'd with Anger, she survey'd The fatal Massacre herself had made; Then, as she sat all pensive and alone, In secret Grief she made her piteous Moan: So shuns a wounded Bird the feather'd Race, And mournful in some solitary Place, To Woods and Rocks he tunes the plaintive Lay, And Echoes waft the gentle Sounds away.

And oh! she cried, Is this the dreadful Stroke, Which Omens threaten'd, and which Visions spoke? Ah! how have I incens'd the Pow'rs above, What Crime provokes the Wrath of angry Jove? Yearly my loaded Altars blaze in vain, With plenteous Fat of purring Victims slain, Doom'd as I am to Pangs of endless Pain; Pale, meagre, ghostlike, how shall I appear, In bright Assemblies of the Gay and Fair? Old Maids will triumph with insulting Voice, And o'er their flowing Cups the Belles rejoice! A sad Recluse, no longer must I roam, But spin a tedious Length of Days at Home! Ev'n Cynthio, cruel Cynthio, spreads my Shame! Adieu to Love, to Conquest, and to Fame! Did I for this my blooming Beauties grace, And heighten all the Lustre of my Face? For this before my Glass whole Hours beguile, And heave my Breast, and force the killing Smile? Or bid my Cheeks with artful Blushes glow? Or teach the wanton Tresses where to flow? Could I not Tasks less dang'rous undertake? Refine the Jelly, or compose the Cake? Or mould the pliant Paste with nicest Art, And with high Ramparts fortify the Tart? O blast that Day, ye Pow'rs, with Plagues severe, When first my Fingers pois'd the pointed Spear; Then may no joyful Sounds invade the Skies, But ravish'd Maids Complaints, and Widows Cries; Then be untun'd the Music of the Spheres; Then may no Fiddle glad the Dancers Ears; No Ballad then be sung with screaming Note, Nor soft Airs warbl'd in the Eunuch's Throat; Then may the Sun withdraw his chearful Light, Nor pendent Lustres gild the Face of Night! This said, with Silk her bleeding Flesh she bound, While ev'ry Thought hung brooding o'er the Wound; On Poll she cast a sad, desponding Look, And patted Daphne with a feeble Stroke.

But now bright Lamps began the Midnight Day, And blazing Flambeaux drove the Stars away; The Fair expects her Beau with anxious Fears, When at his wonted Hour the Fop appears. With conscious Shame her Finger she withdrew, Nor durst expose the fatal Wound to View: Long he survey'd (for Love takes all Alarms) With deep Surprize her disconcerted Charms; Then, sweet and tuneful as the dying Swan, In soft, condoling Words he thus began: What sad Mischance, what unfear'd Danger nigh, Flushes that Cheek, and dims that sparkling Eye? Lies some near Friend upon his dying Bed? Or has the Light'ning struck thy Monkey dead? Has the fell Mercer just produc'd his Score, And having trusted long, will trust no more? Or didst thou mark last Ev'ning at the Play, A richer Virgin, or a Nymph more gay? Say, does my Fair for brighter Gems repine? Each India's choicest Diamonds shall be thine: For thee the East its Treasures shall unfold, And Earth unbosom all her Hoards of Gold: O name thy Wants, and tell me thy Distress, Care shall remove, or Pity make it less.

This said, (and sure his Lordship said enough) With Elegance he took a Pinch of Snuff.

Then she: No Language can my Grief remove, Nor all the Pow'rs of Hartshorn, and of Jove; Cynthio, thy Truth alone can give me Aid, And skreen from sad Reproach a wretched Maid! If in each deep-fetch'd Sigh, each falling Tear, Each solemn Vow thy Heart has been sincere, By Secrecy thy fair Affection prove; For Silence is the noblest Mark of Love. Ev'n Fannia sues this Favour to obtain, Fannia that never su'd to Man in vain.

She said, and fix'd her Eyes upon the Ground, And with a Blush disclos'd the reeking Wound.

Shock'd at the Sight of Blood, replied the Peer, 'Tis done, and this was Cynthio's greatest Fear; Oft have I seen thy bright Embroid'ry shine, Oft have I curst the perilous Design: Thou, born to flourish in the Pride of State, Idly secure, and indolently great, Had'st nought to do with dang'rous Feats of Arms; Such Conflicts suit not with a Lady's Charms: Domestic Toils the servile female grace, Enough for thee to glory in a Face! How rash was she, that grasp'd the Needle first? Pernicious Weapon, Instrument accurst! 'Twas this, that once destroy'd a British Maid, Her Needle's Point to ling'ring Death betray'd; In those sad Vaults, where Horrour spreads her Wings, Where rest the Bones of Poets, and of Kings, The hapless Fair in Marble Record stands, The Victim of her own industrious Hands! O call to Mind her Life, and Beauty lost, Dread all edg'd Tools, but dread the Needle most! Why down thy Cheek descends the pearly Rill? Fannia is wounded, but is Fannia still: The sad Disgrace with patient Heart endure, Nor Cynthio shall divulge, but wait the Cure: This Night my Soul shall breathe a fervent Pray'r, And deprecate the Horrours of the Scar; Thy wounded Finger Venus shall restore, But, vent'rous Beauty, trust to Steel no more.

So spoke the Peer, to sooth the drooping Maid, And his vast Stores of Eloquence display'd: Lull'd by his melting Words her Terrours cease, And the soft Sounds restor'd her wonted Peace: At length, the mighty Theme exhausts his Art, And empty'd all the Nonsense of his Heart.

But now the Tea remov'd, the Prattle o'er, And all the Scandal of the Day before, The Baron took his Leave, and left the Fair, And his gilt Chariot rattled o'er the Square. Fannia, at length, in Slumbers clos'd her Eyes, And Men and Monkies in Delusion rise.