Classic Poem

At Pungoteague a Planter erst
In lucrative Pursuits immersed,
Abstaind from nothing, like Expence,
And held Enjoyment Want of Sense.
But such is Man's frail Nature (let
The Pulpitier, til weary, fret)
That, fence out Pleasure e'er so well,
She will besiege our Citadel,
And, Spite of the Resistance made,
Take by Surrender, or Scalade.
At first we laugh, in Time we weep
Great Caesar once she lull'd to Sleep.
He made Defence, till out of Breath;
Then gave his Rapier to the Sheath.
But what of Caesar? Argus found,
At Pleasure's Voice, his Brain whirl round:
His hundred Eyelids closed at last,
Your Pair of Peepers ne'er so fast.
Ah! Pleasure is invincible,
Let Vertue mutter what she will.
Her conquered Subjects, loyal Souls,
With Ease th' engaging Pow'r controls.
We ne'er forsake her: she, when old,
Expels us weeping from her fold
And virtue conquers but, we find,
That Refuse, Pleasure leaves behind.
Ah! Pleasure is invincible;
Let Virtue mutter, what she will!
Why then against her keep the Field?
God can but damn us; tho we yield.
The honest Man of Pungoteague
With his Maid Servant made a League,
In Substance, that, if in her Bed
She gave to him her Maidenhead,
In Consequence of which good Deed
The quondam Virgin chanced to breed;
He wou'd, t'eschew what might betide,
The kind Assistant make his Bride.
She from her Contract wou'd not flinch:
He scorn'd to be behind an Inch.
The Coupler blest their Tie, one Morn,
Neanthe fair the next was born,
A chopping Lass, as e'er struck Sight,
That cauterwaul'd from Morn to Night.
The Parents, good, industrious Folk,
In Diligence maintaind th' old Stroke:
And (tho they boasted but that Child)
For Opulence still running wild,
By Dint of rigid Industry,
Still more by close Economy —
(Their Drink Persimon Beer, their Food
Crabs, Oysters by the Bay bestowd)
They scraped together an Estate,
That gave them with their Neighbours Weight
And to Neanthe, as a Match,
The just Repute of no small Catch.
With that th'old People, satisfied,
No more, as erst, themselves denied
What Pleasure yellowboys afford;
Content not to decrease their Hoard.
Grown hospitable, all around
They heard their just Applause resound
And own'd, tho not unblest before,
Their Happiness now ten Times more.
Mean Time apace Neanthe grew
And Crouds of warm Adorers drew.
Their Excellence you soon shall read
But stay; the Lady's must precede.
None on the Shoals, like her, cou'd nab
Or, brought to Table, scoop a Crab:
The Cockle none detect, like her,
Or daintier Cockle-Broth prefer:
The bloated Oyster none so well
Extort from the reluctant Shell:
None such delicious Scollops make
Or Drums, in Cream, or Sheepsheads bake
(Things — O most exquisite of Test!)
None like her, what she cook'd digest.
Possess'd of every native Grace,
Round as a Dumpling was her face.
No Turkey's Egg was freckled so:
No Brick's Complexion had her Glow.
Her Hair, whose Color rivall'd Jett,
(With her own Bear's Oil dripping wet)
So matted hung her Face upon,
That, as to Forehead, she had none.
Her Nose was short and thick: you'd swear,
Some short Potato stationd there.
Black Eyebrows, like the Drays rough Mane,
Close Guard upon her Eyes maintain.
Their Lashes, of the same dark Hue,
Seem'd a thick Bush, those Eyes peep'd thro,
Eyes, large as Peas, and fiery red;
Enough to strike a Lover dead.
Her Mouth, from Ear to Ear display'd,
Discovered every Tooth, she had:
And they were polish'd, white and strong,
As Juniper's, and quite as long.
Upon her Lip a reverend Beard,
That claimd the Barber's Aid, appear'd. . . . .
A vast Profusion! but her Chin
A noble Tuft was smother'd in.
That Chin upon two Sacks reclind,
That went and came as she took Wind. . . . .
Sweet Sacks, that on her Belly laid,
Like two fat Twins, upon a Bed.
That Bed projected oer two Knees,
Sustain'd by two such Buttresses,
As were the very Type of Strength. . . . .
Their Thickness greater than their Length.
Three Yards about and four feet high
Was that terrene: Divinity,
Who struck, with Rapture and Surprize,
Whoe'er upon her laid his Eyes,
And made him think, that Shirly House,
One Day perhaps, might get a Spouse.
One Quality Neanthe had,
Which almost ran her Lovers mad.
A most divine and powerful Scent
She scattered round, where e'er she went,
Which, smelt by them, gave such keen Twitches,
They scarce containd them in their Breeches.
Pulsation rapid, Breathing thick,
Complexion flaming, Glances quick —
Who ne'er observed the Case before
Thought, the poor Lovers at Death's Door.
Tho' to relieve, when they complaind,
She, like some moving Gable End,
Would kindly waddle where they chose,
Behind th'impervious Hedge's Rows,
Or under close-wove myrtle Branches,
She Scarcely cou'd compose her Haunches,
Display the Wonders of the Peake
And hasten the — Moment critique ;
Ere th' Odors did forme curious guide,
By whom their Pleasures were descried.
No Junction did the Blowze refuse
But that, allow'd by nuptial Noose.
She wou'd do any thing, but wed;
" If she did that, God strike her dead. "
Yet, so intent, so feazy hot
Were certain Youths to tie the Knot
(Tho freely they such Solace had)
That half a Score ran almost mad.
And two, more furious than the Rest,
Abundantly their friends distress'd.
Euphenor, Dolon, Lads of Worth,
In different Regions had their Birth.
Anancock first heard Dolon squeak:
Euphenor was of Matsapreak.
The Sire of Dolon rich was grown
By selling Bullfrogs to the Town
(Where certain merry Blades of Taste
Grew fat upon the sweet Repast)
Euphenor's was as rich, or more,
By plundering Wrecks, on the Sea Shore.
Thus blest by Fortune in Descent,
In Bloom of Youth and opulent,
They, without Respite of their Pains,
Aspired to give Neanthe Chains.
That Emulation in each Mind
An ancient Friendship had disjoind.
Tho whilom for their Fondness known
(As Thomas now and Harrison)
None greater cou'd attract the View;
They now, in cold Distrust, pursue
Their Object with mysterious Face. . . . .
Each strives t'impede the other's Chace.
Yet not upon such Terms they stood
As Conversation to preclude.
Dolon, an arch designing Knave,
Accosted thus his Fellow-Slave.
Euphenor, far as I can see,
The contest lies 'tween you and me.
Tho soft Devoirs here others urge;
They will but dabble in the Gurge.
Conceiving such to be the Case,
And bent to penetrate the Maze
I did old Scarborough, hoary sage,
To cast a figure late engage.
You know the Man, at least, have heard
Thro Accomack how he was feard.
How th' Indian Warriors by Device
He used to send to Paradise,
Inducing them by Crouds to flock,
For Passport, to the dire Tomauk,
And taking, for their Road, a Ditch,
Which with their Bodies he made rich.
How, in the Night-time, he wou'd ride
By Light, infernal Slaves supplied.
And all that List of wonderous Things,
Loquacious Fame about him sings:
Which prove, that Superstition's Fools
Have always been Imposture's Tools.
I to the Warlock wise applied,
Upon the Case his Art he tried:
At Length he said, with some Alarm,
May Heaven forefend unthought of Harm!
He shook his Locks and, with a Sigh,
Revealed a Secret of the Sky
Whence to discern, without Disguise,
For whom the Gods allot the Prize.
Suppose the Moon (behold it there)
An Emblem of Neanthe fair.
Euph. That Emblem's good, for every Maid
And Matron too: but, as you said. . . . .
Dol. As we that Map of Joy pursue;
So we must move this Emblem too.
In such a Fashion, as may bear
Relation to our Love-Affair.
For tis a Mode, well known of old,
Whoe'er a charm wou'd well unfold
(To quell a foe, or Mistress win)
He must, in Emblem, act the Scene.
To send the first across the Styx,
He, with a Pin, his Image pricks.
To make the last her Thighs relax,
He ravishes the Maid in Wax.
So here, t'unfold what Fate designs,
We th' Emblem move, which yonder shines.
Against that Sister of the Sun
Present the Muzzle of your Gun.
If thence a greater Flame arise
Than from between my shaggy Thighs
(In Turn when I prepare to blaze
Against her with my rival Rays)
Neanthe's yours I will agree;
Mine, otherwise, the Fate decree.
Euphenor smiles, the Firelock takes,
Presents and fierce Explosion makes.
The Zephyrs soon disperse the Smoke;
Yet much he chuckles at the Joke.
Now Dolon rais'd his Buttocks bare. . . .
Good Heaven what a Sight was there!
Aloft he turnd a villous Tail:
That Buttock was not born to fail.
The Cunning Dolon from his Pocket
With Caution drew a huge Sky-Rocket,
Applied it . . . . fah! . . No Matter where. . . .
In Blaze his nether Parts appear;
Not more the fair Charroon's, I trow,
Tho good t'emblaze all Buffalo,
The vivid Nucleus mounts on high,
A thousand Stars around it fly,
Behind it leaves a fiery Trace:
The bashful Phoebe hides her Face.
Euph. Gadzooks! whence cou'd that Flame derive? . . . .
From Dolon's Guts, and he survive!
Foregad, I shall forswear my Sight,
Confused by Darkness and by Light.
And is she lost (for whom I prove
The keenest Stings of dubious Love)
And such Perdition brought to bear
By that Volcano, smoking there!
So strange a Case . . . . What, Friend, a Match !
And — Sir — the Use? . . . . that Fire to catch?
Wherefore that Implement in Hand?
T' abuse my Faith? I understand!
Abominable, shameless Cheat,
Whom Ill chastise for the fine Feat:
Whom, as behoves, I'll soundly teach
(If you must strive to over-reach)
To do't by less preposterous Farce!
Now take that Foottack on your A
Dull Clodpoll (answerd Dolon strait)
I'll make you soon repent, too late,
This Treatment and the Breech of Faith,
You now support with so much Wrath.
Ramscalian, Drazel, draffy Dog,
I'll give you such a Catalogue
Of lusty Wherrets, you shall count,
Till Doomsday, ere you reach th' Amount.
Few Words suffice, for Time and Hour,
Where Anger adds the Will to Power.
What Time the rory Lady stole
From the cold Arms of her old Soul,
And, just departing on his Race,
Apollo smiled in Thetis Face,
Behold the Heroes, in their Buffs,
At fierce Exchange of cursed Cuffs.
Less frequent fall (when Vulcans nine
To make some great Sheet-anchor join)
The short, thick Strokes, than fell their Blows.
The Blood gush'd smoking from each Nose:
Their Cheeks were puff'd, their Eyes bloodshot,
Their Bodies pommell'd: still they fought;
'Til, sickened of that Storm of Blows,
As by Consent, the Wights enclose.
Close, Breast to Breast, they tug and strain
To cast each other on the Plain:
Advantage give, that ta'en, they sway,
(By sudden Yerk) another Way
With all their Weight. Each well employs
His flexile Powers to keep due Poise.
Their Muscles swell, contract, relax
Like Lizards, talent in their Backs,
Their Backs, their Bellies, Arms & Thighs,
As new Positions still arise.
Such Prospect erst inspired those Dreams
Of Bistnoo, with a hundred Limbs.
Their Bodies seemd as glued: the Rest
As Members to some wretched Beast,
Convulsion-wrung: until, at last,
Cross-buttock'd, Dolon down was cast.
Euphenor, at full Length allonged,
An Elbow in his Stomach plunged,
Held stiff, t'uphold his Weight in Fall,
And then, in Thumps, his Rage gave all.
The other, prostrate on his Back,
To aid himself was nothing slack.
Tho worsed by various rugged Knocks,
And most by th' Elbows worst of Shocks
(His Strength each Moment failing fast)
He still persisted to the last.
You English wou'd abhor that Plight,
Who strain no Tackling, gouge, nor bite.
Unknown to Britain are our Modes
Of Fight, or, if she knows, explodes.
Upright, her Bruisers ply their Fists
And all is Peace, when one desists.
Tho we from Britons are descended;
Hibernians have our Manners mended.
When our good Planters fisticuff,
They never think, they hurt enough:
A toute Outrance they Combat wage;
Submissions scarce their Wrath assuage.
While on the Swerd Euphenor prest,
At all Advantage, Dolon's Breast
And levell'd at him some Awhapes
Enough to dislocate his Chaps,
A Hand was seized, by him beneath,
And clench'd the Thumb between his Teeth.
A worse Manoevre Dolon makes
(Which, but to name, a Lady shakes)
He reachd his Hand below to seize
Euphenor's latin Witnesses
And took such Gripe, the piercing Pain
Had well nigh turnd Euphenor's Brain.
His Eyes in Anguish rolld, his Face,
With Sweat bedewd, wore vile Grimace.
He had with Speed the Fray declind,
But Wrath the warmer stung his Mind,
That Rage a quick Revenge supplies
And bids him gouge poor Dolon's Eyes.
His Finger round his Eyeballs play,
Half from their Sockets thrust away.
(The Bard hath heard, from who well knew,
Twill blazing stars, by daylight, shew)
In fine, such mutual Anguish grows,
Each, by Consent, his Hold foregoes.
No sooner loos'd, again on Feet,
Th' Antagonists in Fury meet.
Brave Dolon, tho his Wind is spent,
Has Valor in it's full Extent.
(Dear Rascow, never be too bold)
His Locks inextricable Hold
Afford to both Euphenor's Hands,
Who now, at Will, his Head commands.
Before he used the Pow'r, he had,
He press'd his Foe to beat Chamade.
But Dolon held Submission base
And felt the Tempest in his Face. . . .
The Vigor of Euphenor's Knee,
Uprais'd in horrid Battery...
'Til every feature there was gone
And a black Puddle left alone.
When he no light cou'd longer see,
But groping, seized that fatal Knee;
By — — all Impression of his Strength,
He threw Euphenor at full length.
He quickly prest him, with his Weight;
But that Advantage came too late.
In greater Rage Euphenor rose
And gave his Rival no Repose
From Stamping, Kicking, 'til, obscene!
He saw him retch and, mixd with Green,
And white disgorge red Gore . . . . the Spilth
Laid all the Turf around in Filth.
He stood confounded: prudent Fear
Of Murder rein'd his wild Career.
That Fear, like Colier's, came too late;
Friend Dolon had received his Fate.
Cold on the Turf his Body laid,
His Spirit trod th' Elysian Shade.
So far 'twas with Euphenor well;
But, ah! the Muse has much to tell.
While JUSTICE undertakes to rule,
Let none, with Justice, play the Fool.
Take Life, who will (unless indeed
Th' Attorney general be well fee'd:
And, to decide the Culprit's Doom,
From Surry, the venire come.)
Take Life, who will ; the Vixen rears
Her gorgon Crest and in his Ears
Resounds a Tune, few Men in France,
Or Spain, or Britain, love to dance.
She's so sagacious, active, rude,
'Tis hard to 'scape her, in her Mood.
Yet sometimes (Let, who like it, praise)
She has, I think, unseemly Ways.
When Folks in Concert from her steer;
Why will the Meddler interfere?
Euphenor to Lob's Pound soon got,
In so much just Renown, capot.
Behold, and drop one piteous Tear
He spurns, Favonius up in Air. . . .
Euphenor ... who aspired to join
And, from Neanthe, raise a Line
Of little Pagods, which had been
Adored, transported to Cochin.
Th' above (let others be prolix)
Are but a Sketch of Madam's Tricks!
I cou'd a thousand Tales adduce
Of her Exploits, when she breaks loose —
The Gallows, groaning with a Load
Of Gleeners, on the public Road:
And other mighty pretty Tales;
But, with the Will, my Paper fails.
Ah cou'd I, in harmonious Verse,
(Extorting Tears around), rehearse
Neanthe's Anguish; wretched Maid!
When Fame pronounced her Dolon dead.
And is he gone: Said Echo, gone.
Ah poor Neanthe, thou'rt undone!
Ah what a Gap, unfilled, is left,
Since Dolon is of Life bereft. . . .
O horrid Chasm, tremendous Void!
Why were those Buttocks misemploy'd
That single Time? None, I can tell,
Else-how have managed half so well.
Ah, had he farted less; he might
(For all his Bargain) have got by't.
He might his Wishes have possess'd,
And I, with him , had lived most blest.
But live without him ! I, as soon,
With virgin Lymph cou'd wet the Moon.
This friendly Cable (one lay there)
Can, and shall, cure my just Despair.
First let me view th'abhor'd Remains
Of him, who slew the Pink of Swains,
Enjoy the shocking Spectacle,
He now affords, and then fulfil
This only Business left for me,
Ah Heaven! in such Extremity.
She viewd the gloomy Trunk enchain'd:
His hanging Head, e'en then, complaind.
And cou'dst thou then, o barbarous Man,
She cried (and pointed with a Fan,
That, once, of Paper, now, might pass,
Diaphanous thro Greese, for Glass)
And cou'dst thou, with such brutal Spight,
Destroy my Soul's supreme Delight. . . .
Him , who cou'd only (while you'd strain
Your trembling Nerves and fag in vain)
Appease, when Passion fired my Soul,
The Tempest, and it's Rage control!
Ah cou'd I live; twou'd be to think
How thou dost grin and smell thee stink!
It cannot be; Death I must brave:
Some Cellar will afford a Grave.
These ample Charms will moulder there,
While thou dost stink, in open Air.
Adieu, sweet myrtle Shade, where erst
My Dolon gave me Rapture first!
Adieu the Thicket, with all Might
Where Dolon gave me dear Delight,
When, by that Murderer, we were watched
And (as those were by Vulcan ) catchd!
Adieu the Porch, where Rapture last
My Dolon gave, in too much Haste!
Adieu the World, so lov'd of yore,
Where Rapture I shall taste no more!
She turnd and in Distraction went
To give Effect to dire Intent.
Upon an Oak (seen by the Muse)
Her Maid en fixd a running Noose,
And ... but the Muse, as for the Rest ...
Is dubious, it shou'd be suppress'd.
The piteous Virgin turnd aside
Nor knows how poor Neanthe died.
She thinks, in general, that a Fair,
In all those Horrors of Despair,
Might likely the Design complete:
The Muse, for her Part, made Retreat.
She heard indeed, the Sire and Mother,
About her Exit, made sad Pother:
That much they sorrowd, and (to show it)
T' expand her Fame, employ'd a Poet:
And that the Product of his Brains,
Appear'd to be the following Strains.
A NYMPH at Pungoteague was seen
Of such an Air, of such a Mien,
Of so much Beauty, so much Wit;
Twere hard to find the like of it.
Wheneer she oped her lovely Eyes,
The Wife of Jove look'd from the Skies.
Whene'er she danced upon the Green,
The World beheld the Paphian Queen.
Wheneer she sang, a Syren's Throat
Attuned it's most Melodious Note.
Where'er she gravely spoke, Men hung
Amazed upon Minerva's Tongue.
Whene'er to Mirth she lowr'd her Tone,
They blest the Wit of Maia's Son.
In short, that Maid was such a Maid,
As never Greece, but once, displayd
And then (forsooth, because to Troy
She made Excursion, with a Boy,
And on Scamander chose to dwell)
The Grecians raved, like Devils in Hell.
To make this lovely Maid a Wife
No Wonder then, there rose great Strife.
Tis Beauty's Privilege t'enchant
The Eyes and make the Bosom pant.
Who Pleasure, for their Sight, procure,
It's Opposite, in Breast, endure.
Two blooming Youths, as e'er broke Bread,
Had got the Maggot in their Head,
And much their Hearts went pit a pat. . . .
This Dolon call'd, Euphenor that.
They went to Blows, poor Dolon fell,
Whom fair Neanthe loved too well.
For Him Neanthe pleased had died:
Without Delay, she went and tied
A Knot, around that driven Snow
(Thro which Arabia used to blow
Its sweetest Gales) and gave to Death
The sweetest Soul, that e'er drew Breath.
Ah let her Fate your Pity move:
Ah spare! ah spare the Crime of Love!
So sung the Bard and he sung well.
The Muse has nothing more to tell.