Canto 2
LE LUTRIN.
17
To this bless'd work, the Height of my desire,
To Raise the Pulpit in the sacred Quire.
Compose these passions strugling in thy Breast,
Dry up those Tears! Come Sweet! Lye down and rest!
He said; but what, the Wench regarded not,
E're half was done, the first she had forgot;
With hollow Cheeks, and staring Eyes she view'd him,
Trembling she lay, and in her heart beshrew'd him;
Long silent, stifled thoughts with pain at last
Broke prison, Raging then she Rail'd as fast.
No, no, Base Varlet! Thy Sire ne're was Baker,
Nor cam'st thou of the blood of a Clock-maker!
Thy Mother never rode in Hackney Coach,
A Bastard-brat rather of some Turn-broch,
Or Caucasus did form thee, of a Pebble,
Or some fell Tigress nurs'd thee with her nibble;
Sure with her Milk thou drew'st in Feritie,
Other I'le ne're believe until I Die:
For to what end should I the Rascal flatter?
Let me sob, roar, or swoon, 'tis all a matter
To marble-hearted John; and all I gain
Is to draw on fresh injuries again!
A Pew! what Mortal throat can ever gulp it,
Thus to compare me with a Rotten Pulpit!
Has all my scolding squeez'd from's Eyes one Tear?
Has he express't the least Remorse for's Dear?
When he came hither first, this paltrey Jack
Had scarce a Shooe to's foot, a Rag to's back;
Nay I can safely swear't, because I know't,
The Villain was not worth a single Groat;
I like a Fool took him to Bed and Board,
And now the Rascal swaggers like a Lord:
But why thus Raving do I beat a Rock,
Only to purchase foam? Base Spirits mock
To Raise the Pulpit in the sacred Quire.
Compose these passions strugling in thy Breast,
Dry up those Tears! Come Sweet! Lye down and rest!
He said; but what, the Wench regarded not,
E're half was done, the first she had forgot;
With hollow Cheeks, and staring Eyes she view'd him,
Trembling she lay, and in her heart beshrew'd him;
Long silent, stifled thoughts with pain at last
Broke prison, Raging then she Rail'd as fast.
No, no, Base Varlet! Thy Sire ne're was Baker,
Nor cam'st thou of the blood of a Clock-maker!
Thy Mother never rode in Hackney Coach,
A Bastard-brat rather of some Turn-broch,
Or Caucasus did form thee, of a Pebble,
Or some fell Tigress nurs'd thee with her nibble;
Sure with her Milk thou drew'st in Feritie,
Other I'le ne're believe until I Die:
For to what end should I the Rascal flatter?
Let me sob, roar, or swoon, 'tis all a matter
To marble-hearted John; and all I gain
Is to draw on fresh injuries again!
A Pew! what Mortal throat can ever gulp it,
Thus to compare me with a Rotten Pulpit!
Has all my scolding squeez'd from's Eyes one Tear?
Has he express't the least Remorse for's Dear?
When he came hither first, this paltrey Jack
Had scarce a Shooe to's foot, a Rag to's back;
Nay I can safely swear't, because I know't,
The Villain was not worth a single Groat;
I like a Fool took him to Bed and Board,
And now the Rascal swaggers like a Lord:
But why thus Raving do I beat a Rock,
Only to purchase foam? Base Spirits mock
Abject
