The Spleen. in Four Cantos. Canto IV

Say, Muse, from whence such discord sprung. Sing such a tale, as ne'er was sung, By Homer or by Virgil— What was't in ashes laid old Troy? What is't, like woman, can destroy, Whene'er she means to urge ill?

Who was't, to damn mankind so civil, Familiar chatted with the devil; Forgetful of her duty? The first of Helens, Madam Eve; Who, if we Milton may believe, Surpassed them all in beauty.

If so much mischief one could do, Still how much more might Helens two, And still more two and twenty; For, furbish'd up, behind the scenes, The frippery flirts all Trojan Queens; Of Helens he had plenty.

Beroug'd, bepainted and bedress'd, In bibs and tuckers of their best, The trappings of their calling, No wonder that, attracted thus, He after every painted puss, Soon went a cater-wauling.

So have I seen a bantum proud, Strutting about and crowing loud, A feather'd macaroni. Mount this and that and t'other hen, Each pecking him soon off agen, Despising poor Caponi!

And yet a hen, the learned say, Will ev'n indulge in am'rous play A rabbit fondly smitten.— Tell, then ye sages, tell us why, E'en virgin-pullets should be shy Of a castrato kitten.

Yet, hence at home the devil to do! His houshold female jealous grew; And jealousy's the devil. But, luckily, to end the strife, She died; which in a Jealous Wife, It must be own'd, is civil.

Partlet, untrod, so takes the pip, And drooping gives the perch a trip, And leaves poor doodle-doo; The scorn of all the cocker'd race, And with the fair, the foul disgrace Of all the cockrel crew.

By FOLLY now to madness drove, To hate all turn'd our hero's love; Like Quixote, in a rage, In spleenful mood, he curs'd and swore And call'd his puppets rogue and whore, And drove them off the stage.

The scorn of wits, the dread of fools, Despotic now the tyrant rules, Fearless of dire disaster; Like mighty Punch, who in a huff, Gives this a kick, and that a cuff, To shew he's lord and master.

To make his purse-proud actors feel, He stints them of a daily meal Nor spares, (ungrateful sinner!) E'en his old friend the man of Ross, Who, when himself was at a loss, Oft gave him a good dinner.

Snatches old Macklin's bread and butter, Which made him make so damn'd a clutter, And blasted Kenrick's bays; Sharing alone with bards as dull As he himself and Hoole and Hull; The profit and the praise.

Congenial souls! to dullness dear! Smile on, when snarling critics sneer, Or angry judges frown. No matter what the wise ones think, A nod's as good as is a wink To that blind horse, the Town.

The other patentees aghast, Now stand and wonder how at last Will end the mischief, brewing: For lo, with all our hero's wit, The empty benches of the pit Threaten impending ruin!

While sole director of the scene, This son of Folly and of Spleen, Whom once they thought so clever, Grew only more and more perplex'd; Till, play'd the man-of-business next, He damn'd himself for ever.

As mariners, amidst a storm, Make vows, they mean not to perform, So pious and so civil; Would give the saints their sterling gold, Nay consecrated candles hold For safety, to the devil.

In similar distress e'en so, Harris and Leake and Dagge and Co . Each saint and devil implor'd; Tied round the victim's neck a purse. To make him sink, and, with a curse, Threw Jonas overboard.

By vanity awhile upborne, Light as a cork he laugh'd to scorn The hands, he saw the helm in; Supposing that, for want of skill, They'd make the ship soon shew her keel; The wild waves all o'erwhelming.

But, see at once the storm subside; Of public favour turn'd the tide, While, right before the wind, The batter'd bark with swelling sail, Urg'd forward by a prosperous gale, Poor Jonas leaves behind.

At this behold his courage fled, His heart as heavy grows as lead, And soon salt-water drinking, His spirits shrink into his heels Down ducks his head and now he feels His little body sinking.

To Neptune, now, in dire despair, And Venus he prefers his prayer, With terrible devotion; Each Nymph and Triton calls by name, But neither Nymph nor Triton came Nor Venus nor old Ocean.

Attracted by the dismal cry, Around him flock the finny fry; (To each held forth his hand.) "Dolphins and whales," said he, "of yore, "Have half-drown'd bards and prophets bore "Safe to the neighbouring strand.

"For pity's sake, then, lend your aid "A poet I, by birth and trade, "Could once like Orpheus sing; "Tho, cast away without my lyre, "And tho the muses nine inspire, "I now do no such thing!"

Then flow'd his tears, which seem'd to melt To tenderness a soft-roed smelt, Who yet its aid forbore; When now, upon his friendly back, A charitable sprat, alack! Convey'd him to the shore.

Flat as a flounder on the beach, Sometime, he lay, depriv'd of speech, 'Till seen the ship away go; When envy, rage and grief, by turns, Torment him, as he chills and burns, Seiz'd with a quartan ague.

To th' hospital of Drury-Lane Returning, now, in suppliant strain, An object to be pitied! He vow'd that all his future days, He'd Spatter play and puff and praise, If once again admitted.

But ah! his proffer'd puffs too late, His place supplied by parson Bate, That prince of playhouse puffers; Who gives the ton to half the town, Sets actors up and knocks them down, From kings to candle-snuffers.

Garrick, enfeebled and decay'd, And glad, tho poor, to leave off trade, With him is strong and clever; He swears 'tis all a lie that's told, About his growing fat and old; For he'll be young for ever.

The parson swears the play'r will see, When next he comes from Italy, The scheme, last time projected, Of only entering on the scene To entertain the king and queen, With wish'd eclat effected.

Thus puff'd our hero's quondam tutor No more would be his coadjutor, But left poor Epicoene , To shift, as it could best, alone; While trembling, tottering, tumbling down, It dying lay with Spleen .

TO PHOEBUS, Folly now applies; And, on her knees, with streaming eyes, A piteous story tells. Wisdom, she said, had got her owl; And might not she with some such fowl Bedeck her cap and bells.

"Oh! change my fallen foundling's nature "Into some emblematic creature, "Any, except a cat;" A smile Apollo strove to smother, And metamorphos'd, for the mother, Her son into a Bat .

All day, perdu, Lo! now he lies, Domitian like, in wait for flies, That cannot bear the light; Haunting, like ghosts that love to glide Through places where their honour died, The Play-House every night!