Today | News | Books | Recipes Adventure | Science Fiction | Ghost stories | Poetry | Children | History Bookne. I hear, old friends, I hear you: "Make all sure: 505 Let spies surround her, and let bolts secure." But who shall KEEP THE KEEPERS? Wives contemn Our poor precautions, and begin with THEM. Lust is the master passion; it inflames, Alike, both high and low; alike, the dames, 510 Who, on tall Syrians' necks, their pomp display, And those who pick, on foot, their miry way. Whene'er Ogulnia to the Circus goes, To emulate the rich, she hires her clothes, Hires followers, friends, and cushions; hires a chair, 515 A nurse, and a trim girl, with golden hair, To slip her billets:--prodigal and poor, She wastes the wreck of her paternal store On smooth-faced wrestlers; wastes her little all, And strips her shivering mansion to the wall! 520 There's many a woman knows distress at home; Not one who feels it, and, ere ruin come, To her small means conforms. Taught by the ant, Men sometimes guard against the extreme of want, And stretch, though late, their providential fears, 525 To food and raiment for their future years: But women never see their wealth decay; With lavish hands they scatter night and day, As if the gold, with vegetative power, Would spring afresh, and bloom from hour to hour; 530 As if the mass its present size would keep, And no expense reduce the eternal heap. Others there are, who centre all their bliss In the soft eunuch, and the beardless kiss: They need not from his chin avert their face, 535 Nor use abortive drugs, for his embrace. But oh! their joys run high, if he be formed, When his full veins the fire of love has warmed; When every part's to full perfection reared, And naught of manhood wanting, but the beard. 540 But should the dame in music take delight, The public singer is disabled quite: In vain the prætor guards him all he can; She slips the buckle, and enjoys her man. Still in her hand his instrument is found, 545 Thick set with gems, that shed a lustre round; Still o'er his lyre the ivory quill she flings, Still runs divisions on the trembling strings, The trembling strings, which the loved Hedymel Was wont to strike--so sweetly, and so well! 550 These still she holds, with these she soothes her woes, And kisses on the dear, dear wire bestows. A noble matron of the Lamian line Inquired of Janus (offering meal and wine) If Pollio, at the Harmonic Games, would speed, 555 And wear the oaken crown, the victor's meed! What could she for a husband, more, have done, What for an only, an expiring son? Yes; for a harper, the besotted dame Approached the altar, reckless of her fame, 560 And veiled her head, and, with a pious air, Followed the Aruspex through the form of prayer; And trembled, and turned pale, as he explored The entrails, breathless for the fatal word! But, tell me, father Janus, if you please, 565 Tell me, most ancient of the deities, Is your attention to such suppliants given? If so--there is not much to do in heaven! For a comedian, this consults your will, For a tragedian, that; kept standing, still, 570 By this eternal route, the wretched priest Feels his legs swell, and dies to be releas'd. But let her rather sing, than roam the streets, And thrust herself in every crowd she meets; Chat with great generals, though her lord be there, 575 With lawless eye, bold front, and bosom bare. She, too, with curiosity o'erflows, And all the news of all the world she knows; Knows what in Scythia, what in Thrace is done; The secrets of the step-dame and the son; 580 Who speeds, and who is jilted: and can swear, } Who made the widow pregnant, when and where, } And what she said, and how she frolicked there.-- } She first espied the star, whose baleful ray, O'er Parthia, and Armenia, shed dismay: 585 She watches at the gates, for news to come, And intercepts it, as it enters Rome; Then, fraught with full intelligence, she flies Through every street, and, mingling truth with lies, Tells how Niphates bore down every mound, 590 And poured his desolating flood around; How earth, convulsed, disclosed its caverns hoar, And cities trembled, and--were seen no more! And yet this itch, though never to be cured, Is easier, than her cruelty, endured. 595 Should a poor neighbor's dog but discompose Her rest a moment, wild with rage she grows; "Ho! whips," she cries, "and flay that brute accurs'd;" "But flay that rascal there, who owns him, first." Dangerous to meet while in these frantic airs, 600 And terrible to look at, she prepares To bathe at night; she issues her commands, And in long ranks forth poor the obedient bands, With tubs, cloths, oils:--for 'tis her dear delight To sweat in clamor, tumult, and affright. 605 When her tired arms refuse the balls to ply, And the lewd bath-keeper has rubbed her dry, She calls to mind each miserable guest, Long since with hunger, and with sleep oppress'd, And hurries home; all glowing, all athirst, 610 For wine, whole flasks of wine! and swallows, first, Two quarts, to clear her stomach, and excite A ravenous, an unbounded appetite! Huisch! up it comes, good heavens! meat, drink, and all, And flows in purple torrents round the hall; 615 Or a gilt ewer receives the foul contents, And poisons all the house with vinous scents. So, dropp'd into a vat, a snake is said To drink and spew:--the husband turns his head, Sick to the soul, from this disgusting scene, 620 And struggles to suppress his rising spleen. But she is more intolerable yet, Who plays the critic when at table set; Calls Virgil charming, and attempts to prove Poor Dido right, in venturing all for love. 625 From Maro, and Mæonides, she quotes The striking passages, and, while she notes Their beauties and defects, adjusts her scales, And accurately weighs which bard prevails. The astonished guests sit mute: grammarians yield, 630 Loud rhetoricians, baffled, quit the field; Even auctioneers and lawyers stand aghast, And not a woman speaks!--So thick, and fast, The wordy shower descends, that you would swear A thousand bells were jangling in your ear, 635 A thousand basins clattering. Vex no more Your trumpets and your timbrels, as of yore, To ease the laboring moon; her single yell Can drown their clangor, and dissolve the spell. She lectures too in Ethics, and declaims 640 On the CHIEF GOOD!--but, surely, she who aims To seem too learn'd, should take the male array; A hog, due offering, to Sylvanus slay, And, with the Stoic's privilege, repair To farthing baths, and strip in public there! 645 Oh, never may the partner of my bed With subtleties of logic stuff her head; Nor whirl her rapid syllogisms around, Nor with imperfect enthymemes confound! Enough for me, if common things she know, 650 And boast the little learning schools bestow. I hate the female pedagogue, who pores O'er her Palæmon hourly; who explores All modes of speech, regardless of the sense, But tremblingly alive to mood and tense: 655 Who p |