"What's to be done," Sir Thomas said one day, "To drive _Ennui_ away? How is the evil to be parried? What can remind me of my former life?-- Those happy days I spent in noise and strife!" The last word struck him;--"Zounds!" says he, "a Wife!"-- And so he married.
Muse! regulate your pace;-- Restrain, awhile, your frisking, and your giggling! Here is a stately Lady in the case: We mustn't, now, be fidgetting, and niggling.
O God of Love! Urchin of spite, and play! Deserter, oft, from saffron Hymen's quarters; His torch bedimming, as thou runn'st away, Till half his Votaries become his Martyrs!
Sly, wandering God! whose frolick arrows pass Thro' hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys; Who mark'st with Milkmaids' forms, the tell-tale grass, And make'st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!
Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing, Young God of dimples! in thy roguish flight; And let thy Poet catch it, now, to sing The beauty of the Dame who won the Knight!
Her beauty!--but Sir Thomas's own Sonnet Beats all that I can say upon it.
SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM's[6] SONNET _ON HIS LADY_.
SUCH _star-like_ lustre lights her _Eyes_, They must have darted from a _Sphere_, Our duller _System_ to surprise, Outshining all the _Planets_ here; And, having wander'd from their wonted place, Fix in the wond'rous _Heaven_ of her _Face_.
The modest _Rose_, whose blushes speak The ardent kisses of the Sun, Off'ring a tribute to her _Cheek_, Droops, to perceive its _Tint_ outdone; Then withering with envy and despair, Dies on her _Lips_, and leaves its _Fragrance_ there.
Ringlets, that to her _Breast_ descend, _Increase_ the beauties they _invade_; Thus branches in luxuriance bend, To grace the _lovely Hills_ they shade; And thus the glowing _Climate_ did entice Tendrils to curl, unprune'd, o'er _Paradise_.
Sir Thomas having close'd his love-sick strain, Come, buxom Muse! and let us frisk again!
Close to a Chapel, near the Castle-gates, Dwelt certain stickers in the Devil's skirts; Who, with prodigious fervour, shave their pates, And shew a most religious scorn for shirts.
Their House's sole Endowment was our Knight's:-- Thither an Abbot, and twelve Friars, retreating, Conquer'd (sage, pious men!) their appetites With that infallible specifick--eating.