Complete Works of William Congreve Read online

  Strange Ignorance! That the same Man, who knows

  How far yond’ Mount about this Mole-hill shows,

  Shou’d not perceive a difference as great,

  Between small Incomes and a vast Estate! 55

  From Heav’n, to Mortals, sure, that Rule was sent,

  Of Know thy self and by some God was meant

  To be our never-erring Pilot here,

  Through all the various Courses, which we steer.

  Thersites, tho’ the most presumptuous Greek, 60

  Yet durst not for Achilles Armour speak;

  When scarce Ulysses had a good Pretence,

  With all th’advantage of his Eloquence.

  Who-e’er attempts weak Causes to support,

  Ought to be very sure he’s able for’t; 65

  And not mistake strong Lungs and Impudence,

  For Harmony of Words, and Force of Sense:

  Fools only make Attempts beyond their Skill;

  A Wise Man’s Pow’r’s the Limit of his Will.

  If Fortune has a Nigard been to thee, 70

  Devote thy self to Thrift, not Luxury;

  And wisely make that kind of Food thy Choice,

  To which Necessity confines thy Price.

  Well may they fear some miserable End,

  Whom Gluttony and Want, at once attend; 75

  Whose large voracious Throats have swallow’d All,

  Both Land and Stock, Int’rest and Principal:

  Well may they fear, at length, vile ^Pollio’s Fate,

  Who sold his very Ring, to purchase Meat;

  And tho’ a Knight, ‘mongst common Slaves now stands, 80

  Begging an Alms, with undistinguish’d Hands.

  Sure sudden Death to such shou’d welcome be,

  On whom, each added Year heaps Misery,

  Scorn, Poverty, Reproach and Infamy.

  But there are steps in Villany, which these 85

  Observe to tread and follow, by degrees.

  Mony they borrow, and from all that lend,

  Which, never meaning to restore, they spend;

  But that and their small Stock of Credit gone,

  go Lest Rome should grow too warm, from thence they run:

  For of late Years ’tis no more Scandal grown,

  For Debt and Roguery to quit the Town,

  Than in the midst of Summer’s scorching Heat,

  From Crouds, and Noise, and Business to retreat.

  One only Grief such Fugitives can find: 95

  Reflecting on the Pleasures left behind,

  The Plays and loose Diversions of the Place;

  But not one Blush appears for the Disgrace.

  Ne’er was of Modesty so great a Dearth,

  That out of Count’nance Vertue’s fled from Earth; 100

  Baffled, expos’d to Ridicule and Scorn,

  She’s with Astrea gone, not to return.

  This Day, my Persicus, thou shalt perceive

  Whether, my self I keep those Rules I give,

  Or else, an unsuspected Glutton live; 105

  If mod’rate Fare and Abstinence, I prize

  In publick, yet in private Gormondize.

  Evander’s Feast reviv’d, to Day thou’lt see;

  The poor Evander, I, and thou shalt be

  Alcides and Æneas both to me. 110

  Mean time, I send you now your Bill of Fare;

  Be not surpriz’d, that ’tis all homely Cheer:

  For nothing from the Shambles I provide,

  But from my own small Farm, the tend’rest Kid

  And fattest of my Flock, a Suckling yet, 115

  That ne’er had Nourishment, but from the Teat;

  No bitter Willow-tops have been its Food,

  Scarce Grass; its Veins have more of Milk than Blood.

  Next that, shall Mountain Sparagus be laid,

  Pull’d by some plain, but cleanly Country-Maid. 120

  The largest Eggs, yet warm within the Nest,

  Together with the Hens which laid ’em, drest;

  Clusters of Grapes, preserv’d for half a Year,

  Which, plump and fresh as on the Vines appear;

  Apples, of a ripe Flavour, fresh and fair; 125

  Mixt with the Syrian and the Signian Pear,

  Mellow’d by Winter, from their cruder Juice,

  Light of Digestion now, and fit for use.

  Such Food as this, wou’d have been heretofore

  Accounted Riot, in a Senator: 130

  When the good Curius thought it no Disgrace,

  With his own Hands, a few small Herbs to dress;

  And from his little Garden, cull’d a Feast,

  Which fetter’d Slaves wou’d now disdain to taste;

  For scarce a Slave, but has to Dinner now, 135

  The well-dress’d Paps of a fat pregnant Sow.

  But heretofore ’twas thought a sumptuous Treat,

  On Birth-Days, Festivals, or Days of State;

  A salt, dry Flitch of Bacon to prepare:

  If they had fresh Meat, ’twas delicious Fare! 140

  Which rarely happen’d: And ’twas highly priz’d

  If ought was left of what they sacrific’d.

  To Entertainments of this Kind, wou’d come

  The Worthiest and the Greatest Men in Rome:

  Nay, seldom any at such Treats were seen, 145

  But those who had at least thrice Consuls been;

  Or the Dictator’s Office had discharg’d,

  And now from Honourable Toil enlarg’d,

  Retir’d to Husband and Manure their Land,

  Humbling themselves to those they might Command. 150

  Then might y’have seen the good old Gen’ral haste,

  Before th’appointed Hour, to such a Feast;

  His Spade aloft, as ‘twere in Triumph held,

  Proud of the Conquest of some stubborn Field.

  ’Twas then, when pious Consuls bore the Sway, 155

  And Vice discourag’d, pale and trembling lay.

  Our Censors then were subject to the Law,

  Ev’n Povp’r it self, of Justice stood in awe.

  It was not then, a Roman’s anxious Thought,

  Contentedly he slept, as cheaply, as he din’d. 165

  The Soldier then, in Graecian Arts unskill’d,

  Returning rich with Plunder, from the Field:

  If Cups of Silver, or of Gold he Brought,

  With Jewels set, and exquisitely wrought,

  To glorious Trappings, streight the Plate he turn’d, 170

  And with the glitt’ring Spoil his Horse adorn’d;

  Or else a Helmet for himself he made,

  Where various Warlike Figures were inlaid:

  The Roman Wolf, suckling the Twins was there,

  And Mars himself, arm’d with his Shield and Spear, 175

  Hov’ring above his Crest, did dreadful show,

  As threatning Death, to each resisting Foe.

  No use of Silver, but in Arms was known,

  Splendid they were in War, and there alone.

  No Side-boards then, with gilded Plate were dress’d, 180

  No sweating Slaves, with massive Dishes press’d;

  Expensive Riot was not understood,

  But Earthen Platters held their homely Food.

  Who wou’d not envy them, that Age of Bliss,

  That sees with shame the Luxury of This? 185

  Heav’n unwearied then, did Blessings pour,

  And pitying Jove foretold each dang’rous Hour;

  Mankind were then familiar with the God,

  He snuff d their Incense with a gracious Nod;

  And wou’d have still been bounteous, as of Old, 190

  Had we not left him for that Idol, Gold.

  His Golden Statues, hence the God have driv’n:

  For well he knows, where our Devotion’s giv ‘n,

  ’Tis Gold we Worship, though we pray to Heav ‘n.

  Woods of our own af
forded Tables then, 195

  Tho’ none can please us now but from Japan.

  Invite my Lord to Dine, and let him have

  The nicest Dish his Appetite can crave;

  But let it on an Oaken Board be set,

  His Lordship will grow sick, and cannot eat: 200

  Something’s amiss, he knows not what to think,

  Either your Ven’son’s Rank, or Ointments stink.

  Order some other Table to be brought,

  Something, at great Expence in India bought,

  Beneath whose Orb, large yawning Panthers lie, 205

  Carv’d on rich Pedestals of Ivory:

  He finds no more of that offensive Smell,

  The Meat recovers, and my Lord grows well.

  An Iv’ry Table is a certain whet;

  You would not think how heartily he’ll eat, 210

  As if new Vigour to his Teeth were sent,

  By Sympathy from those o’th’Elephant.

  But such fine Feeders are no Guests for me:

  Riot agrees not with Frugality;

  Then, that unfashionable Man am I, 215

  With me they’d starve, for want of Ivory:

  For not one inch does my whole House afford,

  Not in my very Tables, or Chess-board,

  Of Bone, the Handles of my Knives are made,

  Yet no ill Taste from thence affects the Blade, 220

  Or what I carve; nor is there ever left

  Any unsav’ry Haut-goust from the Haft.

  A hearty Welcome, to plain wholesome Meat,

  You’ll find, but serv’d up in no formal state;

  No Sew ‘rs, nor dextrous Carvers have I got, 225

  Such as by skilful Trypherus are taught:

  In whose fam’d Schools the various Forms appear

  Of Fishes, Beasts, and all the Fowls o’th’ Air;

  And where, with blunted Knives, his Scholars learn

  How to dissect, and the nice Joints discern; 230

  While all the Neighbors are with Noise opprest,

  From the harsh Carving of his wooden Feast.

  On me attends a raw unskilful Lad,

  On Fragments fed, in homely Garments clad,

  At once my Carver, and my Ganymede; 235

  With diligence he’ll serve us while we Dine,

  And in plain Beechen Vessels, fill our Wine.

  No Beauteous Boys I keep, from Phrygia brought,

  No Catamites, by shameful Pandars taught:

  Only to me two home-bred Youths belong, 240

  Unskill’d in any but their Mother-Tongue;

  Alike in Feature both, and Garb appear,

  With honest Faces, though with uncurl’d Hair.

  This Day thou shalt my Rural Pages see,

  For I have drest ’em both to wait on thee. 245

  Of Country Swains they both were born, and one

  My Ploughman’s is, t’other my Shepherd’s Son;

  A chearful Sweetness in his Looks he has,

  And Innocence unartful in his Face:

  Tho’ sometimes Sadness will o’er-cast the Joy, 250

  And gentle Sighs break from the tender Boy;

  His absence from his Mother, oft he’ll mourn,

  And with his Eyes look Wishes to return.

  Longing to see his tender Kids, again,

  And feed his Lambs upon the dowry Plain; 255

  A modest Blush he wears, not form’d by Art,

  Free from Deceit his Face, and full as free his Heart.

  Such Looks, such Bashfulness, might well adorn

  The Cheeks of Youths that are more Nobly born,

  But Noblemen those humble Graces scorn. 260

  This Youth, to Day shall my small Treat attend,

  And only he with Wine shall serve my Friend,

  With Wine from his own Country brought, and made

  From the same Vines, beneath whose fruitful Shade

  He and his wanton Kids have often play’d. 265

  But you, perhaps, expect a modish Feast,

  With am’rous Songs and wanton Dances grac’d;

  Where sprightly Females, to the Middle bare,

  Trip lightly o’er the Ground, and frisk in Air;

  Whose pliant Limbs in various Postures move, 270

  And twine and bound, as in the Feat of Love.

  Such Sights, the languid Nerves to Action stir,

  And jaded Lust springs forward with this Spur.

  Vertue would shrink to hear this Lewdness told,

  Which Husbands, now, do with their Wives behold; 275

  A needful Help, to make ’em both approve

  The dry Embraces of long-wedded Love.

  In Nuptial Cinders, this revives the Fire,

  And turns their mutual Loathing to Desire.

  But she, who by her Sexes Charter, must 280

  Have double Pleasure paid, feels double Lust;

  Apace she warms, with an immod’rate Heat,

  Strongly her Bosom heaves, and Pulses beat;

  With glowing Cheeks, and trembling Lips she lies,

  With Arms expanded, and with naked Thighs, 285

  Sucking in Passion both at Ears and Eyes.

  But this becomes not me, nor my Estate;

  These are the vicious Follies of the Great.

  Let him who does on Iv’ry Tables dine,

  Whose Marble Floors, with drunken Spawlings shine; 290

  Let him lascivious Songs and Dances have,

  Which, or to see, or hear, the lewdest Slave,

  The vilest Prostitute in all the Stews,

  With bashful Indignation wou’d refuse.

  But Fortune, there, extenuates the Crime; 295

  What’s Vice in me, is only Mirth in him:

  The Fruits which Murder, Cards, or Dice afford,

  A Vestal ravish’d, or a Matron whor’d,

  Are laudable Diversions in a Lord.

  But my poor Entertainment is design’d 300

  T’afford you Pleasures of another kind:

  Yet with your Taste your Hearing shall be fed,

  And Homer’s Sacred Lines, and Virgil’s read;

  Either of whom does all Mankind excel,

  Tho’ which exceeds the other, none can tell. 305

  It matters not with what ill Tone they’re Sung,

  Verse so sublimely good, no Voice can wrong.

  Now then be all thy weighty Cares away,

  Thy Jealousies and Fears, and while you may

  To Peace and soft Repose, give all the Day. 310

  From Thoughts of Debt, or any worldly Ill

  Be free, be all uneasie Passions still.

  What tho’ thy Wife do with the Morning Light,

  (When thou in vain has toil’d and drudg’d all Night)

  Steal from thy Bed and House, abroad to roam, 315

  And having quench’d her Flame, come breathless home,

  Fleck’d in her Face, and with disorder’d Hair,

  Her Garments ruffled, and her Bosom bare;

  With Ears still tingling, and her Eyes on fire,

  Half drown’d in Sin, still burning in Desire: 320

  Whilst you are forc’d to wink, and seem content,

  Swelling with Passion, which you dare not vent;

  Nay, if you wou’d be free, from Night-alarms,

  You must seem fond, and doating on her Charms,

  Take her (the last of Twenty) to your Arms. 325

  Let this, and ev’ry other anxious Thought,

  At th’Entrance of my Threshold be forgot;

  All thy Domestick Griefs at home be left,

  The Wife’s Adult’ry, with the Servants Theft;

  And (the most racking Thought, which can intrude) 330

  Forget false Friends and their Ingratitude.

  Let us our peaceful Mirth at home begin,

  While Megalensian Shows are in the Circus seen:

  There (to the Bane of Horses) in high State

  The Praetor sits, on a
Triumphal Seat; 335

  Vainly with Ensigns, and with Robes adorn’d,

  As if with Conquest, from the Wars return’d.

  This Day all Rome, (if I may be allow’d,

  Without Offence to such a num’rous Crowd,

  To say all Rome) will in the Circus sweat; 340

  Echos already do their Shouts repeat:

  Methinks I hear the Cry — Away, away,

  The Green have won the Honour of the Day.

  Oh, should these Sports be but one Year forborn,

  Rome would in Tears her lov’d Diversion mourn; 345

  For that would now a Cause of Sorrow yield,

  Great as the loss of Cannes’s fatal Field.

  Such Shows as these, were not for us design’d,

  But vig’rous Youth to active Sports inclin’d.

  On Beds of Roses laid, let us repose, 350

  While round our Heads refreshing Ointment flows;

  Our aged Limbs we’ll bask in Phoebus Rays,

  And live this Day devoted to our Ease.

  Early to Day we’ll to the Bath repair,

  Nor need we now the common Censure fear: 355

  On Festivals, it is allow’d no Crime

  To Bath, and Eat, before the usual time;

  But that continu’d, wou’d a loathing give,

  Nor could you thus a Week together live:

  For, frequent Use would the Delight exclude: 360

  Pleasure’s a Toil, when constantly pursu’d.

  PROLOGUE TO QUEEN MARY

  UPON Her Majesty’s coming to see the Old Batchelour, after having seen the Double-Dealer.

  BY this repeated Act of Grace, we see

  Wit is again the Care of Majesty;

  And while thus honour’d our proud Stage appears,

  We seem to rival Ancient Theatres.

  Thus flourish’d Wit in our Forefathers Age, 5

  And thus the Roman and Athenian Stage.

  Whose Wit is best, we’ll not presume to tell;

  But this we know, our Audience will excel:

  For never was in Rome, nor Athens, seen

  So fair a Circle, and so bright a Queen. 10

  Long has the Muses Land been over-cast,

  And many rough and stormy Winters past;

  Hid from the World, and thrown in Shades of Night,

  Of Heat depriv’d, and almost void of Light:

  While Wit, a hardy Plant, of Nature bold, 15

  Has struggled strongly with the killing Cold:

  So does it still through Opposition grow,

  As if its Root was warmer kept by Snow:

  But when shot forth, then draws the Danger near,

  On ev’ry side the gath’ring Winds appear, 20

  And Blasts destroy that Fruit, which Frosts wou’d spare.

  But now, new Vigour and new Life it knows,

  And Warmth that from this Royal Presence flows.