Delphi Complete Poetical Works of John Gay (Illustrated) E-Book

John Gay

• Herausgeber: Delphi Classics Ltd
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: Delphi Poets Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 1188

Beschreibung

An eighteenth century poet and dramatist, John Gay is best remembered for ‘The Beggar's Opera’ (1728), a ballad opera featuring the characters Captain Macheath and Polly Peachum, who swiftly became household names. Gay’s refined and satirical poetry was much influenced by his close friend Alexander Pope. His first important poem, ‘Rural Sports’, is a descriptive and didactic work in two short books dealing with hunting and fishing, as well as meditations on the Horatian theme of retirement. Gay’s finest poem, ‘Trivia: or, The Art of Walking the Streets of London’ (1716), displays an assured craftsmanship in which rhythm and diction portrays the many experiences he describes. Other notable poems include ‘The Shepherd’s Week’ (1714), a series of mock classical poems in a pastoral setting and the ‘Fables’ (1727), structured as octosyllabic illustrations of moral themes, often satirical in tone. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Gay’s complete poetical works, with related illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)

* Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Gay’s life and works
* Concise introduction to Gay’s life and poetry
* Complete poetical works of John Gay, based on the Lawrence and Bullen Edition, 1893
* Includes Gay’s famous plays, including all of the ballad operas
* Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
* Excellent formatting of the poems
* Special alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
* Easily locate the poems you want to read
* Includes Gay’s letters — spend hours exploring the poet’s personal correspondence
* Gay’s important prose pamphlet ‘The Present State of Wit’
* Features two biographies, including Samuel Johnson’s famous account of Gay’s life — discover the poet’s intriguing past
* Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres

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CONTENTS:

The Life and Poetry of John Gay
Brief Introduction: John Gay
Complete Poetical Works of John Gay
List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

The Dramatic Works
The Mohocks
Three Hours after Marriage
The Beggar’s Opera
Polly
Acis and Galatea
Achilles

The Letters
List of Letters

The Pamphlet
The Present State of Wit

The Biographies
Gay by Samuel Johnson
John Gay by Henry Austin Dobson

Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of poetry titles or buy the entire Delphi Poets Series as a Super Set

Leseprobe

John Gay

(1685-1732)

Contents

The Life and Poetry of John Gay

Brief Introduction: John Gay

Complete Poetical Works of John Gay

List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

The Dramatic Works

The Mohocks

Three Hours after Marriage

The Beggar’s Opera

Polly

Acis and Galatea

Achilles

The Letters

List of Letters

The Pamphlet

The Present State of Wit

The Biographies

Gay by Samuel Johnson

John Gay by Henry Austin Dobson

The Delphi Classics Catalogue

© Delphi Classics 2019

Version 1

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John Gay

By Delphi Classics, 2019

COPYRIGHT

John Gay - Delphi Poets Series

First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Delphi Classics.

© Delphi Classics, 2019.

All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

ISBN: 978 1 78877 964 7

Delphi Classics

is an imprint of

Delphi Publishing Ltd

Hastings, East Sussex

United Kingdom

Contact: [email protected]

www.delphiclassics.com

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The Life and Poetry of John Gay

Barnstaple, the principal town of North Devon, England — Gay’s birthplace

‘The Strand, Barnstaple’ by Joseph Kennedy, c.1850

Brief Introduction: John Gay

From ‘1911 Encyclopædia Britannica, Volume 11’

JOHN GAY (1685–1732), English poet, was baptized on the 16th of September 1685 at Barnstaple, where his family had long been settled. He was educated at the grammar school of the town under Robert Luck, who had published some Latin and English poems. On leaving school he was apprenticed to a silk mercer in London, but being weary, according to Dr Johnson, “of either the restraint or the servility of his occupation,” he soon returned to Barnstaple, where he spent some time with his uncle, the Rev. John Hanmer, the Nonconformist minister of the town. He then returned to London, and though no details are available for his biography until the publication of Wine in 1708, the account he gives in Rural Sports (1713), of years wasted in attending on courtiers who were profuse in promises never kept, may account for his occupations. Among his early literary friends were Aaron Hill and Eustace Budgell. In The Present State of Wit (171 1) Gay attempted to give an account of “all our periodical papers, whether monthly, weekly or diurnal.” He especially praised the Taller and the Spectator, and Swift, who knew nothing of the authorship of the pamphlet, suspected it to be inspired by Steele and Addison. To Liutot’s Miscellany (1712) Gay contributed “An Epistle to Bernard Lintot,” containing some lines in praise of Pope, and a version of the story of Arachne from the sixth book of the Metamorphoses of Ovid. In the same year he was received into the household of the duchess of Monmouth as secretary, a connexion which was, however, broken before June 1714.

The dedication of his Rural Sports (1713) to Pope was the beginning of a lasting friendship. Gay could have no pretensions to rivalry with Pope, who seems never to have tired of helping his friend. In 171 3 he produced a comedy, The Wife of Bath, which was acted only three nights, and The Fan, one of his least successful poems; and in 1714 The Shepherd’s Week, a series of six pastorals drawn from English rustic life. Pope had urged him to undertake this last task in order to ridicule the Arcadian pastorals of Ambrose Philips, who had been praised by the Guardian, to the neglect of Pope’s claims as the first pastoral writer of the age and the true English Theocritus. Gay’s pastorals completely achieved this object, but his ludicrous pictures of the English swains and their loves were found to be abundantly entertaining on their own account. Gay had just been appointed secretary to the British ambassador to the court of Hanover through the influence of Jonathan Swift, when the death of Queen Anne three months later put an end to all his hopes of official employment. In 1715, probably with some help from Pope, he produced What d’ye call it? a dramatic skit on contemporary tragedy, with special reference to Otway’s Venice Preserved. It left the public so ignorant of its real meaning that Lewis Theobald and Benjamin Griffin (1680-1740) published a Complete Key to what d’ye call it by way of explanation. In 1716 appeared his Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London, a poem in three books, for which he acknowledged having received several hints from Swift. It contains graphic and humorous descriptions of the London of that period. In January 1717 he produced the comedy of Three Hours after Marriage, which was grossly indecent without being amusing, and was a complete failure. There is no doubt that in this piece he had assistance from Pope and Arbuthnot, but they were glad enough to have it assumed that Gay was the sole author.

Gay had numerous patrons, and in 1720 he published Poems on Several Occasions by subscription, realizing 1000 or more. In that year James Craggs, the secretary of state, presented him with some South Sea stock. Gay, disregarding the prudent advice of Pope and other of his friends, invested his all in South Sea stock, and, holding on to the end, he lost everything. The shock is said to have made him dangerously ill. As a matter of fact Gay had always been a spoilt child, who expected everything to be done for him. His friends did not fail him at this juncture. He had patrons in William Pulteney, afterwards earl of Bath, in the third earl of Burlington, who constantly entertained him at Chiswick or at Burlington House, and in the third earl of Queensberry. He was a frequent visitor with Pope, and received unvarying kindness from Congreve and Arbuthnot. In 1724 he produced a tragedy called The Captives. In 1727 he wrote for Prince William, afterwards duke of Cumberland, his famous Fifty-one Fables in Verse, for which he naturally hoped to gain some preferment, although he has much to say in them of the servility of courtiers and the vanity of court honours. He was offered the situation of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa, who was still a child. He refused this offer, which all his friends seem to have regarded, for no very obvious reason, as an indignity. As the Fables were written for the amusement of one royal child, there would appear to have been a measure of reason in giving him a sinecure in the service of another. His friends thought him unjustly neglected by the court, but he had already received (1722) a sinecure as lottery commissioner with a salary of £150 a year, and from 1722 to 1729 he had lodgings in the palace at Whitehall. He had never rendered any special services to the court.

He certainly did nothing to conciliate the favour of the government by his next production, the Beggars’ Opera, a lyrical drama produced on the 29th of January 1728 by Rich, in which Sir Robert Walpole was caricatured. This famous piece, which was said to have made “Rich gay and Gay rich,” was an innovation in many respects, and for a time it drove Italian opera off the English stage. Under cover of the thieves and highwaymen who figured in it was disguised a satire on society, for Gay made it plain that in describing the moral code of his characters he had in mind the corruptions of the governing class. Part of the success of the Beggars’ Opera may have been due to the acting of Lavinia Fenton, afterwards duchess of Bolton, in the part of Polly Peachum. The play ran for sixty-two nights, though the representations, four of which were “benefits” of the author, were not, as has sometimes been stated, consecutive. Swift is said to have suggested the subject, and Pope and Arbuthnot were constantly consulted while the work was in progress, but Gay must be regarded as the sole author. He wrote a sequel, Polly, the representation of which was forbidden by the lord chamberlain, no doubt through the influence of Walpole. This act of “oppression” caused no loss to Gay. It proved an excellent advertisement for Polly, which was published by subscription in 1729, and brought its author more than £1000. The duchess of Queensberry was dismissed from court for enlisting subscribers in the palace. The duke of Queensberry gave him a home, and the duchess continued her affectionate patronage until Gay’s death, which took place on the 4th of December 1732. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. The epitaph on his tomb is by Pope, and is followed by Gay’s own mocking couplet:

“Life is a jest, and all things show it,I thought so once, and now I know it.”

Actis and Galatea, an English pastoral opera, the music of which was written by Handel, was produced at the Haymarket in 1732. The profits of his posthumous opera of Achilles (1733), and a new volume of Fables (1738) went to his two sisters, who inherited from him a fortune of £6000. He left two other pieces, The Distressed Wife (1743), a comedy, and The Rehearsal at Goatham (1754), a farce. The Fables, slight as they may appear, cost him more labour than any of his other works. The narratives are in nearly every case original, and are told in clear and lively verse. The moral which rounds off each little story is never strained. They are masterpieces in their kind, and the very numerous editions of them prove their popularity. They have been translated into Latin, French and Italian, Urdu and Bengali.

An alleged portrait of Gay by Godfrey Kneller, c. 1723

William Congreve in 1709 by Godfrey Kneller — the famous playwright and fellow poet, Congreve was a great friend and supporter of Gay.

Portrait of the Duke of Cumberland the Robes of the Order of the Garter by Sir Joshua Reynolds, 1758.  In 1727 Gay wrote for six-year-old Prince William, later the Duke of Cumberland, ‘Fifty-one Fables in Verse’, for which he hoped to gain a preferment.

Portrait of Alexander Pope by the studio of Godfrey Kneller, c. 1716.  The leading poet of the Augustan age, Pope would become Gay’s greatest friend and supporter.

John Rich (1692–1761) was an important director and theatre manager in eighteenth century London. He opened the New Theatre at Lincoln’s Inn Fields (1714), which he managed until he opened the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden (1732). In 1728 Rich produced ‘The Beggar’s Opera’, which ran so successfully, with 62 performances, that it was famously said the play “made Gay rich and Rich gay.”

Complete Poetical Works of John Gay

LAWRENCE AND BULLEN EDITION, 1893

CONTENTS

Wine. A Poem

Wine.

Rural Sports: A Georgic

Rural Sports. Canto I

Rural Sports. Canto II

The Fan

PREFACE

THE PROEME.

THE FAN. BOOK I.

THE FAN. BOOK II.

THE FAN. BOOK III.

The Shepherd’s Week

Prologue

Monday; Or The Squabble

Tuesday; Or, The Ditty

Wednesday; Or, The Dumps

Thursday; Or, The Spell

Friday; Or, The Dirge

Saturday; Or, The Flights

Trivia; Or The Art Of Walking The Streets Of London

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Book I

Book II

Book III

Epistles and Epistolary Verse

ON A MISCELLANY OF POEMS TO BERNARD LINTOTT

EPIGRAMMATICAL PETITION.

A LETTER TO A LADY

AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF BURLINGTON

EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ.

EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PAUL METHUEN, ESQ.

TO MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY FRIEND W — L — , ESQ.

MR. POPE’S WELCOME FROM GREECE

A PANEGYRICAL EPISTLE TO MR. THOMAS SNOW, GOLDSMITH, NEAR TEMPLE BAR

AN EPISTLE TO HER GRACE, HENRIETTA, DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH

TO A YOUNG LADY WITH SOME LAMPREYS

TO A LADY ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHINA

Eclogues

BIRTH OF THE SQUIRE

THE TOILETTE

THE TEA-TABLE

THE FUNERAL

THE ESPOUSAL

Translations

THE STORY OF ARACHNE

OVID’S ‘METAMORPHOSES’. THE NINTH BOOK

THE STORY OF ACHELOÜS AND HERCULES

THE DEATH OF NESSUS THE CENTAUR

THE DEATH OF HERCULES

THE TRANSFORMATION OF LYCHAS INTO A ROCK

THE APOTHEOSIS OF HERCULES.

THE TRANSFORMATION OF GALANTHIS

THE STORY OF IOLÀÜS RESTORED TO YOUTH

THE PROPHECY OF THEMIS

THE DEBATE OF THE GODS

Prologues and Epilogues

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES

‘THE MOHOCKS’ (1712)

THE PROLOGUE

THE EPILOGUE

‘THE WIFE OF BATH’ (1713)

PROLOGUE

EPILOGUE

‘THE WHAT D’YE CALL IT’ (1715)

THE PROLOGUE

EPILOGUE

‘THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE’ (1717)

PROLOGUE

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

‘THE CAPTIVES’ (1724)

PROLOGUE

EPILOGUE

‘ACHILLES: AN OPERA’ (1733)

PROLOGUE

The Fables.

INTRODUCTION.

THE FABLES. PART I.

FABLE I.

FABLE II.

FABLE III.

FABLE IV.

FABLE V.

FABLE VI.

FABLE VII.

FABLE VIII.

FABLE IX.

FABLE X.

FABLE XI.

FABLE XII.

FABLE XIII.

FABLE XIV.

FABLE XV.

FABLE XVI.

FABLE XVII.

FABLE XVIII.

FABLE XIX.

FABLE XX.

FABLE XXI.

FABLE XXII.

FABLE XXIII.

FABLE XXIV.

FABLE XXV.

FABLE XXVI.

FABLE XXVII.

FABLE XXVIII.

FABLE XXIX.

FABLE XXX.

FABLE XXXI.

FABLE XXXII.

FABLE XXXIII.

FABLE XXXIV.

FABLE XXXV.

FABLE XXXVI.

FABLE XXXVII.

FABLE XXXVIII.

FABLE XXXIX.

FABLE XL.

FABLE XLI.

FABLE XLII.

FABLE XLIII.

FABLE XLIV.

FABLE XLV.

FABLE XLVI.

FABLE XLVII.

FABLE XLVIII.

FABLE XLIX.

FABLE L.

THE FABLES. PART II.

FABLE I.

FABLE II.

FABLE III.

FABLE IV.

FABLE V.

FABLE VI.

FABLE VII.

FABLE VIII.

FABLE IX.

FABLE X.

FABLE XI.

FABLE XII.

FABLE XIII.

FABLE XIV.

FABLE XV.

FABLE XVI.

Poems from ‘Gay’s Chair’

THE LADIES’ PETITION

TO MISS JANE SCOTT

PREDICTION

COMPARISONS

ABSENCE

CONGRATULATION

A DEVONSHIRE HILL

LETTER TO A YOUNG LADY

TO MY CHAIR

MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE

PANTHEA

ARAMINTA

A CONTEMPLATION ON NIGHT

A THOUGHT ON ETERNITY

AN ELEGY ON A LAP-DOG

A RECEIPT FOR STEWING VEAL

AY AND NO.

THE QUIDNUNCKI’S

VERSES TO BE PLACED UNDER THE PICTURE OF ENGLAND’S ARCH-POET

EPITAPH OF BYE-WORDS

MY OWN EPITAPH

SONGS AND BALLADS

SWEET WILLIAM’S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN

THE LADY’S LAMENTATION

DAMON AND CUPID

DAPHNIS AND CHLOE

THE COQUET MOTHER AND HER DAUGHTER

NEWGATE’S GARLAND

MOLLY MOG, OR, THE FAIR MAID OF THE INN

A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILES

A BALLAD ON ALE

Songs from the Plays

Songs from ‘The Mohocks’ (1712)

I. A SONG (SCENE I.)

II. CHORUS IN SCENE II.

Songs from ‘The Wife of Bath’ (1713)

I. SONG [Alison (‘The Wife of Bath) I. 1.]

II. A TOAST [Alison. Act II.1

III. STANZAS, UPON A FAIR LADY MAKING ME HAPPY

IV. VERSES [Read by Chaucer. Act V. Sc 1.]

V. SONG [Alison. Act V.]

Songs from ‘The What D’ye Call It’ (1715)

I. A SONG (Sung dismally by a Ghost)

II. A BALLAD (Sung by Susan)

Song from ‘The Beggar’s Opera’ (1728)

AIR I. PEACHUM

AIR II. FILCH

AIR III. MRS. PRACHUM

AIR IV. MRS. PEACHUM

AIR V. MRS. PEACHUM

AIR VI. POLLY

AIR VII. MRS. PEACHUM

AIR VIII. POLLY

AIR IX. MRS. PEACHUM AND POLLY

AIR X. POLLY

AIR XI. PEACHUM

AIR XII. POLLY

AIR XIII. POLLY

AIR XIV. MACHEATH AND POLLY

AIR XV. MACHEATH

AIR XVI. MACHEATH AND POLLY

AIR XVII. POLLY

AIR XVIII. MACHEATH AND POLLY

ACT II

AIR I. MATT

AIR II. MARCH IN RINALDO WITH DRUMS AND TRUMPETS

AIR III. MACHEATH

AIR IV. MACHEATH AND LADIES

AIR V. JENNY

AIR VI. JENNY

AIR VII. MACHEATH

AIR VIII. MACHEATH

AIR IX. LUCY

AIR X. LUCY

AIR XI. MACHEATH

AIR XII. LOCKIT

AIR XIII. LUCY

AIR XIV. LOCKIT

AIR XV. MACHEATH

AIR XVI. POLLY

AIR XVII. MACHEATH

AIR XVIII. POLLY AND LUCY

AIR XIX. POLLY

AIR XX. LUCY AND POLLY

AIR XXI. POLLY

AIR XXII. LUCY

ACT III

AIR I. LUCY

AIR II. LUCY

AIR III. LOCKIT

AIR IV. MACHEATH

AIR V. LOCKIT

AIR VI. TRAPES

AIR VII. LUCY

AIR VIII. LUCY

AIR IX. POLLY AND LUCY

AIR X. POLLY

AIR XI. LUCY

AIR XII. POLLY AND LUCY

AIR XIII. MACHEATH,

AIR XIV. POLLY

AIR XV. LUCY

AIR XVI. LOCKIT

AIR XVII. MACHEATH

AIRS XVIII. TO XXVII. (MEDLEY). MACHEATH

AIR XXVIII. LUCY, POLLY AND MACHEATH

AIR XXIX. MACHEATH

Songs from ‘Polly’ (1729)

AIR I. TRAPES

AIR II. DUCAT AND TRAPES

AIR III. DUCAT

AIR IV. FLIMZY

AIR V. TRAPES

AIR VI. POLLY

AIR VII. POLLY

AIR VIII. TRAPES

AIR IX. MRS. DUCAT

AIR X. DUCAT

AIR XI. DUCAT AND MRS. DUCAT

AIR XII. DAMARIS

AIR XIII. POLLY

AIR XIV. POLLY AND DUCAT

AIR XV. DUCAT

AIR XVI. POLLY

AIR XVII. DUCAT, MRS. DUCAT AND SERVANT

AIR XVIII. DAMARIS

AIR XIX. MRS. DUCAT

AIR XX. DAMARIS

AIR XXI. POLLY

ACT II

AIR XXII. POLLY

AIR XXIII. POLLY

AIR XXIV. CUTLACE

AIR XXV. LAGUKRRE

AIR XXVI. HACKER

AIR XXVII. POLLY

AIR XXVIII. CULVERIN

AIR XXIX. MORANO

AIR XXX. MORANO AND JENNY

AIR XXXI. JENNY

AIR XXXII. VANDBRBLUFF

AIR XXXIII. MORANO

AIR XXXIV. POLLY

AIR XXXV. JENNY

AIR XXXVI. JENNY AND POLLY

AIR XXXVII. JENNY

AIR XXXVIII. MORANO

AIR XXXIX. JENNY

AIR XL. CAWWAWKEE

AIR XLI. CAWWAWKEE

AIR XLII. JENNY

RECITATIVE. MORANO

AIR XLIII. MORANO

AIR XLIV. JENNY

AIR XLV. VANDERBLUFF

AIR XLVI. MORANO, VANDERBLUFF AND JENNY

AIR XLVII. CAWWAWKEE

AIR XLVIII. POLLY

AIR XLIX. DUCAT

AIR L. CAWWAWKEE

AIR LI. FIRST AND SECOND PIRATE

AIR LII. MORANO AND THE FIRST PIRATE

AIR LIII. MORANO, VANDERBLUFF AND FIRST PIRATE

AIR LIV. CAWWAWKEE

AIR LV. MORANO

AIR LVI. DUCAT

AIR LVII. CAWWAWKEE

AIR LVIII. POLLY and CAWWAWKEE

AIR LIX. MORANO

AIR LX. MORANO

AIR LXI. MORANO

AIR LXII. CAWWAWKEE AND POLLY

AIR LXIII. POLLY

AIR LXIV. POLLY

AIR LXV. CAWWAWKEE

AIR LXVI. JENNY

AIR LXVII. POLLY

AIR LXVIII. POLLY

AIR LXIX. CAWWAWKEE and POLLY

AIR LXX. POLLY

AIR LXXI. A DANCE

Songs from ‘Achilles’ (1733)

AIR I. ACHILLES

AIR II. THETIS

AIR III. ACHILLES

AIR IV. ACHILLES

AIR V. THETIS

AIR VI. THETIS AND LYCOMEDES

AIR VII. DIPHILUS

AIR VIII. LYCOMEDES

AIR IX. DIPHILUS

AIR X. LYCOMEDES

AIR XI. THEASPE

AIR XII. LYCOMEDBS AND THEASPE

AIR XIII. THEASPE (Wiping)

AIR XIV. THEASPE (Angry)

AIR XV. LYCOMEDES

AIR XVI. LYCOMEDES

AIR XVII. ARTEMONA

AIR XVIII. THRASPE

AIR XIX. ARTEMONA

ACT II

AIR XX. DIPHILUS (offering Achilles the ring a second time)

AIR XXI. ACHILLES

AIR XXII. LYCOMEDRS

AIR XXIII. LYCOMEDES

AIR XXIV. ACHILLES

AIR XXV. LYCOMEDES

AIR XXVI. LYCOMEDES and ACHILLES

AIR XXVII. ACHILLES (Holding Lycomedes down)

AIR XXVIII. LYCOMEDES

AIR XXIX. THEASPE and LYCOMEDES

AIR XXX. LYCOMEDES

AIR XXXI. THEASPE

AIR XXXII. ACHILLES

AIR XXXIII. DEIDAMIA

AIR XXXIV. ACHILLES and DEIDAMIA

AIR XXXV. DEIDAMIA

AIR XXXVI. ACHILLES

AIR XXXVII. ACHILLES AND DEIDAMIA

ACT III

AIR XXXVIII. THEASPE

AIR XXXIX. THEASPE

AIR XL. AJAX

AIR XLI. PERIPHAS

AIR XLII. PERIPHAS AND AJAX

AIR XLIII. PERIPHAS

AIR XLIV. PHILOE

AIR XLV. ARTEMONA

AIR XLVI. DIOMEDES

AIR XLVII. ULYSSES, DIOMEDES, ACHILLES AND AGYRTES

AIR XLVIII. ACHILLES

AIR XLIX. ACHILLES

AIR L. ACHILLES, ULYSSES AND DEIDAMIA

AIR LI. PERIPHAS, AJAX, ULYSSES AND DIOMEDES

AIR LII. DEIDAMIA

AIR LIII. A DANCE

AIR LIV. ULYSSES

Wine. A Poem

THE following reference to Wine is contained in a letter written by Aaron Hill to Savage (June 23,1736):— ‘That poem you speak of called Wine he [Gay] printed in the year 1710, as I remember: I am sure I have one among my pamphlets.... I will look for it and send it you, if ‘twill be of any use or satisfaction to any gentleman of your acquaintance.’ (Hill’s Works, i. 338.) The poem was, in point of fact, printed two years earlier, as the following advertisement, published in the Daily Courant of May 22, 2708, and repeated on the 25th, clearly shows: ‘Just published, Wine. A Poem. Printed for Wm. Keble at the Black-spread-eagle in Westminster Hall. Where also may be had the celebrated speeches of Ajax and Ulysses for the Armour of Achilles in the 23th Book of Ovid’s Metamorphosis. Essay’d in English verse by Mr. Tate, Poet Laureat, and Aaron Hill, Gent.’ It was pirated not long afterwards by the notorious Henry Hills of Blackfriars, whose dishonesty in this connection may have prompted Gay’s subsequent reference to ‘ Pirate Hills’ brown sheets and scurvy letter.’ (See On a Miscellany of Poems, at p. 278 of this volume.) Wine did not find a place among Gay’s collected poems of 1720, perhaps, as Mr. Austin Dobson suggests, because it was in blank verse. It was, however, included in the collection of his works published by John Bell in 1773, where it is said to be printed from a copy of the original edition. A pirated reprint by Hills (1709) may be seen at the Forster Library, South Kensington. It differs slightly from the version given in Bell’s edition, and reproduced here; but the variations are, for the most part, unimportant.

Wine.

Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possun, Qua scribuntur aqua potoribus. — HOR.

Of Happiness Terrestrial, and the SourceWhence human pleasures flow, sing Heavenly Muse,Of sparkling juices, of th’ enliv’ning Grape,Whose quickning tast adds vigour to the Soul,Whose sov’raign pow’r revives decaying nature,   5And thaws the frozen Blood of hoary AgeA kindly warmth diffusing, Youthful firesGild his dim Eyes, and paint with ruddy hueHis wrizzled Visage, ghastly wan before:Cordial restorative, to mortal Man   10With copious Hand by bounteous Gods bestow’d.

BACCHUS Divine, aid my adventrous Song,That with no middle flight intends to soarInspir’d, Sublime on Pegasean WingBy thee upborn, I draw Miltonic Air.   15

When fumy Vapours clog our loaded BrowsWith furrow’d Frowns, when stupid downcast EyesTh’ external Symptoms of remorse within,Our Grief express, or when in sullen DumpsWith Head Incumbent on Expanded Palm,   20Moaping we sit in silent sorrow drown’d:Whether Inviegling Hymen has trappandTh’ unwary Youth, and ty’d the Gordian KnotOf jangling Wedlock, Indissoluble;Worried all Day by loud Xantippes Din,   25And when the gentle Dew of sleep inclinesWith slumbrous weight his Eye-lids, She inflam’dWith Uncloy’d Lust, and itch Insatiable,His Stock exhausted, still yells on for more;Nor fails She to Exalt him to the Stars,   30And fix him there among the Branched Crew(Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn,)The greatest Monster of the Zodiac;Or for the loss of Anxious Worldly Pelf,Or Celia’s scornful slights, and cold disdain   35Had check’d his Am’rous flame with coy repulse,The worst Events that Mortals can befall;By cares depress’d, in pensive Hypoish Mood,With slowest pace, the tedious Minuits Roll.

Thy charming sight, but much more charming Gust   40New Life incites, and warms our chilly Blood,Strait with pert Looks, we raise our drooping fronts,And pour in Chrystal pure, thy purer juice,With chearful Countenance, and steady HandRaise it Lip-high, then fix the spatious Rim   45T’ expecting Mouth, and now with Grateful tast,The ebbing Wine glides swiftly o’er the Tongue,The circling Blood with quicker motion flies;Such is thy pow’rful influence, thou straitDispell’d those Clouds that lowring dark eclips’d   50The whilom Glories of our gladsom Face,And dimpled Cheeks, and sparkling rolling Eyes,Thy chearing Virtues, and thy worth proclaim.So Mists and Exhalations that ariseFrom Hills or steamy Lake, Dusky or Gray   55Prevail, till Phoebus sheds Titanian Rays,And paints their Fleecy skirts with shining Gold;Unable to resist, the Foggy dampsThat veild the surface of the verdant Fields,At the Gods penetrating Beams dispense:   60The Earth again in former Beauty smiles,In gaudiest Livery drest, all Gay and Clear.

When disappointed Strephon meets Repulse,Scofft at, despis’d, in Melancholic moodJoyless he wasts in sighs the lazy Hours,   65Till Reinforc’t by thy Almighty aid,He Storms the Breach, and Wins the Beauteous Fort.

To pay Thee Homage, and receive Thy Blessings,The British Marriner quits native shore,And ventures through the tractless vast Abyss,   70Plowing the Ocean, whilst the Upheav’d OakWith beaked Prow, Rides tilting ore the Waves;Shockt by Tempestuous jarring Winds she RollsIn dangers Imminent, till she arrivesAt those blest Climes, thou favourst with thy presence;Whether, at Lusitanian sultry Coasts,   75Or lofty Teneriff, Palma, Ferro,Provence, Or at the Celtiberian Shores;With gazing Pleasure, and AstonishmentAt Paradice, (Seat of our antient sire,)He thinks himself arriv’d, the Purple GrapeIn largest Clusters Pendant, Grace the Vines   80Innumerous, in Fields Grottesque and WildThey with Implicit Curles the Oak entwine,And load with Fruit Divine Her spreading Boughs;Sight most delicious, not an Irksom Thought,Or of left native Isle, or absent Friends,   85Or dearest Wife, or tender sucking Babe,His kindly treach’rous Mem’ry now presents;The Jovial GOD has left no room for Cares.

CELESTIAL Liquor, thou that didst inspireMaro and Flaccus, and the Grecian Bard,   90With lofty Numbers, and Heroic strainsUnparelell’d,with Eloquence profound,And Arguments Convincive didst enforceFam’d Tully, and Demosthenes Renown’d:Ennius first Fam’d in Latin Song, in vain   95Drew Heliconian streams, Ungrateful whetTo Jaded Muse, and oft’ with vain attemptHeroic Acts in Flagging Numbers dullWith pains essay’d, but abject still and low,His Unrecruited Muse could never reachThe mighty Theme, till from the Purple Font   100Of bright Lenaean fire, Her barren droughtHe quench’d, and with inspiring Nect’rous JuiceHer drooping Spirits chear’d, aloft she towresBorn on stiff Pennons, and of Wars alarms,And Trophies won, in loftiest Numbers sings:Tis thou the Hero’s breast to Martial Acts,And resolution bold, and ardour braveExcit’st, thou check’st Inglorious lolling ease,And sluggish Minds with gen’rous fires inflam’st,O thou, that first my quickned Soul engag’d,Still with thy aid assist me, What is darkIllumin, What is low raise and support,That to the height of this great Argument,Thy Universal Sway o’re all the World,In everlasting Numbers, like the ThemeI may record, and sing thy Matchless Worth.

Had the Oxonian Bard thy Praise rehears’d,His Muse had yet retain’d her wonted height;Such as of late o’re Blenheims Field she soardAerial, now in Ariconian BogsShe lies Inglorious floundring, like her ThemeLanguid and Faint, and on damp Wing immerg’dIn acid juice, in vain attempts to rise.

With what sublimest Joy from noisy Town,At Rural Seat, Lucretius retir’d,Flaccus, untainted by perplexing Cares,Where the white Poplar, and the lofty PineJoin Neighbouring Boughs, sweet Hospitable shadeCreating, from Phoebean Rays secure,A cool Retreat, with few well chosen FriendsOn flowry Mead Recumbent, spent the HoursIn Mirth innocuous, and Alternate Verse!With Roses Interwoven, Poplar wreathsTheir Temples bind, dress of Sylvestrian Gods;Choicest Nectarian juice Crown’d largest Bowles,And Overlook’d the lid, alluring sight,Of fragrant Scent attractive, tast Divine!Whether from Formian Grape depress’d, FalernOr Setin, Massic, Gauran or Sabine,Lesbian or Caecuban, the chearing BowlMov’d briskly round, and spur’d their heightned WitTo Sing Mecaenas praise their Patron kind.

But we, not as our Pristin sires, repairT’ umbrageous Grot or Vale, but when the SunFaintly from Western Skies his rays obliqueDarts sloping, and to Thetis watry LapHastens in Prone Career, with Friends SelectSwiftly we hie to Devil Young or OldJocund and Boon, where at the entrance standsA Stripling, who with Scrapes and Humil Cringe,Greets us in winning Speech and Accent Bland;With lightest bound, and safe unerring stepHe skips before, and nimbly climbs the Stairs:Melampus thus, panting with lolling Tongue,And wagging Tail, Gamboles, and frisks beforeHis sequel Lord from pensive walk return’d,Whether in Shady Wood, or Pastures Green,And waits his coming at the well known Gate.Nigh to the Stairs Ascent, in regal PortSits a Majestic Dame, whose looks denounceCommand and Sov’reignty, with haughty Air,And Studied Mien, in Semicirc’lar ThroneEnclos’d, she deals around her dread Commands;Behind her (Dazling sight) in order Rang’d,Pile above Pile Chrystallin Vessels shine;Attendant Slaves with eager stride advance,And after Homage paid, bawl out aloudWords Unintelligible, noise confus’d:She knows the Jargon Sound, and strait describesIn Characters Mysterious Words obscure;More legible are Algebraic Signs,Or Mystic Figures by Magicians drawn,When thy Invoke aid Diabolical.

Drive hence the Rude and Barb’rous DissonanceOf Savage Thracians, and Croatian Boors;The loud Centaurean Broiles with LapithaeSound harsh, and grating to Lenaean God:Chase brutal Feuds of Belgian skippers hence,(Amid their Cups, whose Innate Tempers shown)In clumsy Fist wielding Scymetrian Knife,Who slash each others Eyes, and Blubber’d Face,Prophaning Bacchanalian solemn rites:Musicks Harmonious Numbers better suitHis Festivalls, from Instrument or Voice,Or Gasperini’s Hand the trembling stringShould touch, or from the Tuscan Dames,Or warbling TOFTS more soft Melodious TongueSweet Symphonies should flow, the Delian GodFor Airy BACCHUS is Associate meet.

The Stairs Ascent now gain’d, our Guide unbarsThe Door of Spatious Room, and creaking Chairs(To ear offensive) round the Table sets,We sit, when thus his Florid Speech begins:Name, Sirs, the WINE that most invites your Tast,Champaign or Burgundy, or Florence pure,Or Hock Antique, or Lisbon New or Old,Bourdeaux, or neat French Wine, or Alicant:For Bourdeaux we with Voice UnanimousDeclare, (such Sympathy’s in Boon Compeers.)He quits the Room Alert, but soon returns,One Hand Capacious glist’ring Vessels boreResplendant, th’ other with a grasp secure,A Bottle (mighty charge) upstaid, full FraughtWith goodly Wine, He with extended HandRais’d high, pours forth Sanguin frothy Juice,O’erspread with Bubbles, dissipated soon:We strait t’ our Arms repair, experienc’t Chiefs;Now Glasses clash with Glasses, (charming sound,)And Glorious ANNA’S Health the first the bestCrowns the full Glass, at HER inspiring NameThe sprightly Wine Results, and seems to Smile,With hearty Zeal, and wish UnanimousThe Health we Drink, and in HER Health our own.

A Pause ensues, and now with grateful ChatWe improve the Interval, and Joyous MirthEngages our rais’d Souls, Pat Repartee,Or Witty Joke our airy Senses movesTo pleasant Laughter, strait the Ecchoing RoomWith Universal Peals and Shouts Resounds.

The ROYAL DANE, blest Consort of blest QUEEN,Next Crowns the Rubied Nectar, all whose BlissIn ANNA’S Plac’t, with Sympathetic Flame,And Mutual Endearments, all HER Joys,Like the kind Turtles pure untainted Love,Center in HIM, who shares the grateful HeartsOf Loyal Subjects, with his Sov’reign QUEEN,For by HIS Prudent Care, united shoresWere sav’d from Hostile Fleets Invasion dire.

The Hero MALBRO next, whose vast ExploitsFames Clarion sounds, fresh Laurels, Triumphs newWe wish, like those HE won at Hockstets Field.

Next DEVONSHIRE Illustrious, who from RaceOf Noblest Patriots sprung, whose Souls Endow’d,And is with ev’ry Vertuous gift Adorn’dThat shon in His most worthy Ancestors,For then distinct in sep’rate Breasts were seenVirtues distinct, but all in HIM Unite.

Prudent GODOLPHIN, of the Nations wealFrugal, but free and gen’rous of his ownNext Crowns the Bowl, with Faithful SUNDERLAND,And HALIFAX, the Muses darling Song,In whom Conspicuous, with full Lustre shineThe surest Judgment, and the brightest Wit,Himself Mecaenas and a Flaccus too,And all the Worthies of the British RealmIn order rang’d succeeded, Healths that ting’dThe Dulcet Wine, with a more charming Gust.

Now each the Mistress by whose scorching EyesFird, tosts Cosmelia Fair, or Dulcibella,Or Sylvia Comely Black, with jetty EyesPiercing, or Airy Celia sprightly Maid.Insensibly thus flow Unnumber’d Hours;Glass succeeds Glass, till the DIRCAEAN GODShines in our Eyes, and with his Fulgent RaysEnlightens our glad Looks with lovely Die;All Blithe and Jolly that like Arthurs KnightsOf Rotund Fable, Fam’d in Pristin Records,Now most we seem’d, such is the Power of Wine.

Thus we the winged Hours in harmless Mirth,And Joys Unsully’d pass, till Humid NightHas half her Race perform’d, now all AbroadIs hush’d and silent, nor the Rumbling noiseOf Coach or Cart, or smoaky Link-Boys callIs heard; but Universal silence Reigns:When we in Merry Plight, Airy and Gay,Surpriz’d to find the Hours so swiftly flie,With hasty knock, or Twang of Pendant CordAlarm the drowsy Youth from slumb’ring Nod;Startled he flies, and stumbles o’er the StairsErroneous, and with busie Knuckles pliesHis yet clung Eye-lids, and with stagg’ring ReelEnters Confus’d, and Mutt’ring asks our Wills;When we with Lib’ral Hand the Score discharge,And Homeward each his Course with steady step

Rural Sports: A Georgic

Rural Sports. Canto I

You, who the sweets of rural life have known,Despise the ungrateful hurry of the town;In Windsor groves your easy hours employ,And, undistub’d, yourself and muse enjoy.Thames, listens to thy strains, and silent flows,And no rude winds through rustling osiers blows,While all his wondering nymphs around thee throng,To hear the Syrens warble in thy song.

But I, who ne’er was bless’d by fortune’s hand,Nor brighten’d plough shares in paternal land, Long in the noisy town have been immur’d,Respir’d its smoke, and all its cares endur’d,Where news and politics divide mankind,And schemes of state involve the uneasy mind:Faction embroils the world; and every tongueIs mov’d by flattery, or with scandal hung:Friendship, for sylvan shades, the palace flies,Where all must yield to interest’s dearer ties,Each rival Machiavel with envy burns,And honesty forsakes them all by turns;While calumny upon each party’s thrown,Which both promote, and both alike disown.Fatigu’d at last; a calm retreat I chose,And sooth’d my harass’d mind with sweet repose,Where fields, and shades, and the refreshing clime,Inspire my silvan song, and prompt my rhyme.My muse shall rove through flowery meads and plains,And deck with rural sports her native strains,And the same road ambitiously pursue,Frequented by the Mantuan swain, and you.

’Tis not that rural sports alone invite,But all the grateful country breathes delight;Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign,And strings the sinews of the industrious swain.Soon as the morning lark salutes the day,Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,Where I behold the farmer’s early care,In the revolving labours of the year.

When the fresh spring in all her state is crown’d,And high luxuriant grass o’erspreads the ground,The labourer with the bending scythe is seen,Shaving the surface of the waving green,Of all her native pride disrobes the land,And meads lays waste before the sweeping hand:While the mounting sun the meadow glows,The fading herbage round he loosely throws;But if some sign portend a lasting shower,The experienc’d swain foresees the coming hour,His sun burnt hands the scattering fork forsake,And ruddy damsels ply the saving rake;In rising hills the fragrant harvest grows, And spreads along the field in equal rows.

Now when the height of heaven bright Phoebus gains,And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains,When heifers seek the shade and cooling lake,And in the middle path-way basks the snake?O lead me, guard me from the sultry hours,Hide me, ye forests, in your closet bowers:Where the tall oak his spreading arms entwine,,And with the beech a mutual shade combines;Where flows the murmuring brook, inviting dreams,Where bordering hazle overhangs the streams,Whose rolling current winding round and round,With frequent falls makes all the woods resound,Upon the mossy couch my limbs I cast,And even at noon the sweets of evening taste.

Here I peruse the Mantuan’s Georgic strains,And learn the labours of Italian swains;In every page I see new landscapes rise, And all Hesperia opens to my eyes.I wander o’er the various rural toil,And know the nature of each different soil:This waving field is gilded o’er with corn, That spreading trees with blushing fruit adorn;Here I survey the purple vintage grow,Climb round the poles, and rise in graceful row;Now I behold the steed curvet and bound,And paw with restless hoof the smoking ground:The dewlap’d bull now chaffs along the plain,While burning love ferments in every vein;His well-arm’d front against his rival aims,And by the dint of war his mistress claims:The careful insect ‘midst his works I view,Now from the flowers exhaust the fragrant dew;With golden treasures load his little thighs,And steer his distant journey through the skies;Some against hostile drones the hive defend; Others with sweets the waxen cells distend;Each in the toil his destin’d office bears,And in the little bulk a mighty soul appears.

Or when the ploughman leaves the task of day,And trudging homeward whistles on the way;When the big udder’d cows with patience stand,Waiting the stroakings of the damsel’s hand;No warbling cheers the woods; the feather’d choirTo court kind slumbers to their sprays retire;When no rude gale disturbs the sleeping trees,Nor aspen leaves confess the gentlest breeze;Engag’d in thought, to Neptune’s bounds I stray,To take my farewell of the parting day;Far in the deep the sun his glory hides,A streak of gold the sea and sky divides;The purple clouds their amber lining show, And edg’d with flame rolls every wave below:Here pensive I behold the fading light,And o’er the distant billow lose my sight.

Now night in the silent state begins to riseAnd twinkling orbs bestrow the uncloudy skies;Her borrow’d lustre growing Cynthia lends,And on the main a glittering path extends;Millions of worlds hang in the spacious air,Which round their suns the annual circles steer. Sweet contemplation elevates my sense,While I survey the works of Providence.O would the muse in loftier strains rehearse,The glorious Author of the universe,Who reins the winds, gives the vast ocean bounds,And circumscribes the floating worlds their rounds.My soul should overflow in songs of praise,And my Creator’s name inspire my lays!

As in successive course the seasons roll,So circling pleasures recreate the soul.When genial spring a living warmth bestows,And o’er the year her verdant mantle throws,No swelling inundation hides the grounds,But crystal currents glide within their bounds;The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake,Float in the sun, and skim along the lake,With frequent leap they range the shallow streams,Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams.Now let the fisherman his tolls prepare,And arm himself with every watery snare;His hooks, his lines persue with careful eye,Increase his tackle, and his rod re-tie.

When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain,Troubling the streams with swift-descending rain,And waters, tumbling down the mountain’s side,Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide;Then, soon as vernal gales begin to rise,And drive the liquid burthen through the skies,The fisher to the neighbouring current speeds,Whose rapid surface purls, unknown to weeds;Upon a rising border of the brookHe sits him down, and ties the treacherous hook;Now expectation cheers his eager thought,His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught,Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand,Where every guest applauds his skilful hand.

Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws,Which down the murmuring current gently flows;When if or chance or hunger’s powerful swayDirects the roving trout this fatal way,He greedily sucks in the twining bait,And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat:Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line! How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!Cast on the bank, he dies with gasping pains,And trickling blood his silver mail distains.

You must not every worm promiscuous use,Judgement will tell thee proper bait to choose;The worm that draws a long immoderate sizeThe trout abhors, and the rank morsel flies;And if too small, the naked fraud’s in sight,And fear forbids, while hunger does invite.Those baits will best reward the fisher’s pains,Whose polish’d tails a shining yellow stains.Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss,Cherish the sullied reptile race with moss;Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil,And from their bodies wipe their native soil.

But when the sun displays his glorious beams,And shallow rivers flow with silver streams,Then the deceit the scaly breed survey,Bask in the sun, and look into the day.You now a more delusive art must try,And tempt their hunger with the curious fly.

To frame the little animal, provideAll the gay hues that wait on female pride,Let nature guide thee; sometimes golden wireThe shining bellies of the fly require;The peacock plumes thy tackle must not fail,Nor the drear purchase of the sable’s tail.Each gaudy bird some slender tribute brings,And lends the growing insect proper wings:Silks of all colours must their aid impart,And every fur promote the fisher’s art.So the gay lady, with expensive care,Borrows the pride of land, of sea, and air;Furs, pearls, and plumes, the glittering thing displays,Dazzles our eyes, and easy hearts betrays.

Mark well the various seasons of the year,How the succeeding insect race appear;In this revolving moon one colour reigns,Which in the next the fickle trout disdains.Oft have I seen a skilful angler tryThe various colours of the treacherous fly;When he with fruitless pain hath skimm’d the brook,And the coy fish rejects the skipping hooks,He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,Which o’er the stream a waving forest throw;When if an insect fall, (his certain guide)He gently takes him from the whirling tide;Examines well his form with curious eyes,His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns and size.Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,And on the back a speckled feather binds,So just the colours shine through every part,That nature seems to live again in art.Let not thy wary step advance too near,While all thy hopes hang on a single hair;The new-form’d insect on the water moves,The speckled trout the curious snare approvesUpon the curling surface let it glide,With natural motion from thy hand supplied,Against the stream now let it gently play,Now in the rapid eddy roll away.The scaly shoals float by, and seiz’d with fearBehold their fellows toss’d in thinner air;But soon they leap, and catch the swimming bait,Plunge on the hook, and share an equal fate.

When a brisk gale against the current blows,And all the watery plain in wrinkles flows,Then let the fisherman his art repeat,Where bubbling eddies favour the deceit. If an enormous salmon chance to spyThe wanton errors of the floating fly,He lifts his silver gills above the flood,And greedily sucks in the unfaithful food;Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey,And bears with joy the little spoil away.Soon, in smart pain, he feels the dire mistake,Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake,With sudden rage he now aloft appears,And in his eye convulsive anguish bears;And now again, impatient of the wound,He rolls and wreaths his shining body round;Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide,The trembling fins the boiling wave divide;Now hope exalts the fisher’s beating heart,Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art;He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes,While the line stretches with the unwieldy prize;Each motion humours with his steady hands,And one slight hair the mighty bulk commands;Till tir’d at last, despoil’d of all his strength,The game athwart the stream unfolds his length.He now with pleasure views the gasping prizeGnash his sharp teeth, and roll his blood-shot eyesThen draws him to the shore, with artful care,And lifts his nostrils in the sickening air:Upon the burthen’d stream he floating lies,Stretches his quivering fins, and gasping dies.

Would you preserve a numerous finny race?Let your fierce dogs the ravenous otter chase;The amphibious monster ranges all the shores,Darts through the waves, and every haunt exploresOr let the gin his roving steps betray,And save from hostile jaws the scaly prey.

I never wander where the bordering reedsO’erlook the muddy stream, whose tangling weedsPerplex the fisher; I, nor choose to bearThe thievish nightly net, nor barbed spear;Nor drain I ponds the golden carp to take,Nor troll for pikes, dispeoplers of the lake.Around the steel no tortur’d worm shall twine,No blood of living insect stain my line;Let me less cruel cast the feather’d hook,With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook,Silent along the mazy margin stray,And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.

Rural Sports. Canto II

Now, sporting muse, draw in the flowing reins,Leave the clear streams a while for sunny plains.Should you the various arms and toils rehearse,And all the fisherman adorn thy verse;Should you the wide-encircling net display,And in its spacious arch enclose the sea,Then haul the plunging load upon the land,And with the soale and turbot hide the sand;It would extend the growing theme too long,And tire the reader with the watery song.

Let the keen hunter from the chase refrain,Nor render all the ploughman’s labour vain,When Ceres pours out plenty from her horn,And clothes the fields with golden ears of corn.New, now, ye reapers to your task repair,Haste, save the product of the bounteous year.To the wide-gathering hook long furrows yield,And rising sheaves extend through all the field.

Yet if for silvan sport thy bosom glow,Let thy feet greyhound urge his dying foe.With what delight the rapid course I view!How does my eye the circling race pursue!He snaps deceitful air with empty jaws,The subtle hare darts swift beneath his paws;She flies, he stretches, now with nimble bound.Eager he presses on, but overshoots his ground;She turns, he winds, and soon regains the way,Then tears with goary mouth the screaming prey.What various sport does rural life afford!What unbought dainties heap the wholesome board!

Nor less the spaniel, skilful to betray,Rewards the fowler with the feather’d prey.Soon as the lab’ring horse with swelling veins,Hath safely hous’d the farmer’s doubtful gains,To sweet repast the unwary partridge flies,With joy amid the scatter’d harvest lies;Wandering in plenty, danger he forgets,Nor dreads the slavery of entangling nets.The subtile dog scowrs with sagacious noseAlong the field, and snuffs each breeze that blows,Against the wind he takes his prudent way,While the strong gale directs him to the prey;Now the warm scent assures the covey near,He treads with caution, and he points with fearThen (lest some centry fowl the fraud descry,And bid his fellows from the danger fly)Close to the ground in expectation lies,Till in the snare the fluttering covey rise.Soon as the blushing light begins to spreadAnd glancing Phoebus gilds the mountain’s head,His early flight the ill-fated partridge takes,And quits the friendly shelter of the brakes:Or when the sun casts a declining ray,And drives his chariot down the western way,Let your obsequious ranger search around,Where yellow stubble withers on the ground:Nor will the roving spy direct in vain, But numerous coveys gratify thy pain.When the meridian sun contracts the shade,And frisking heifers seek the cooling shade;Or when the country floats with sudden rains,Or driving mists deface the moist’ned plains;In vain his toils the unskilful fowler tries,While in thick woods the feeding partridge lies.Nor must the sporting verse the gun forbear,But what’s the fowler’s be the muse’s care.See how the well-taught pointer leads the way:The scent grows warm; he stops; he springs the prey;The fluttering coveys from the stubble rise,And on swift wing divide the sounding skies;The scattering lead pursues the certain sight,And death in thunder overtakes their flight.Cool breathes the morning air, and winter’s hand Spreads wide her hoary mantle o’er the land;Now to the copse thy lesser spaniel take,Teach him to range the ditch and force the brake;Now closest coverts can protect the game:Hark! the dog opens; take thy certain aim;The woodcock flutters; how he wavering flies!The wood resounds: he wheels, he drops, he dies.

The towering hawk let future poets sing,Who terror bears upon his soaring wing:Let them on high the frighted hern survey,And lofty numbers paint their airy fray,Nor shall the mounting lark the muse detain,That greets the morning with his early strain;When, ‘midst his song, the twinkling glass betrays;While from each angle flash the glancing rays,And in the sun the transient colours blaze,Bride lures the little warbler from the skies:The light-enamour’d bird deluded dies.

But still the chase, a pleasing task, remains;The hound must open in these rural strains.Soon as Aurora drives away the night,And edges eastern clouds with rosy light,The healthy huntsman, with the cheerful horn,Summons the dogs, and greets the dappled morn;The jocund thunder wakes the enliven’d hounds,They rouse from sleep, and answer sounds for sounds.Wide through the furzy field their rout they take,Their bleeding bosoms force the thorny brake:The dying game their smoking nostrils trace,No bounding hedge obstructs their eager pace;The distant mountains echo from afar,And hanging woods resound the flying war:The tuneful noise the sprightly courser hears,Paws the green turf, and pricks his trembling earsThe slacken’d rein now gives him all his speed,Back flies the rapid ground beneath the steed:Hills, dales, and forests far behind remain,While the warm scent draws on the deep mouth’d train.Where shall the trembling hare a shelter find?Hark! death advances in each gust of wind!New stratagems and doubling wiles she tries,Now circling turns, and now at large she flies;Till spent at last, she pants, and heaves for breathThen lays her down, and waits devouring death.

But stay, advent’rous muse, hast thou the forceTo wind the twisted horn, to guide the horse?To keep thy seat unmov’d hast thou the skillO’er the high gate, and down the headlong hillCanst thou the stag’s laborious chase direct,Or the strong fox through all his arts detect,The theme demands a more experienc’d lay;Ye mighty hunters, spare this weak essay.

Oh happy plains, remote from war’s alarms,And all the ravages of hostile arms!And happy shepherds, who, secure from fear,On open downs preserve your fleecy care!Whose spacious barns groan with increasing store,And whirling flails disjoint the cracking floor:No barbarous soldier, bent on cruel spoil,Spreads desolation o’er your fertile soil;No trampling steed lays waste the ripen’d grain,Nor crackling fires devour the promis’d gain:No flaming beacons cast their blaze afar,The dreadful signal of invasive war;No trumpet’s clangor wounds the mother’s ear,And calls the lover from his swooning fair.

What happiness the rural maid attends,In cheerful labour while each day she spends!She gratefully receives what heaven has sent,And, rich in poverty, enjoys content:(Such happiness, and such unblemish’d fameNe’er glad the bosom of the courtly dame)She never feels the spleen’s imagin’d pains,Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins;She never loses life in thoughtless ease,Nor on the velvet couch invites disease;Her home-spun dress in simple neatness liesAnd for no glaring equipage she sighs:Her reputation, which is all her boast,In a malicious visit ne’er was lost:No midnight masquerade her beauty wears,And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs.If love’s soft passion warms her happy swain;An equal passion in her bosom reign,No home-bred jars her quiet state control,Nor watchful jealousy torments her soul;With secret joy she sees her little raceHang on her breast, and her small cottage graceThe fleecy ball their little fingers cull,Or from the spindle draw the length’ning wool:Thus flow her hours with constant peace of mind,Till age the latest thread of life unwind.

Ye happy fields, unknown to noise and strife,The kind rewarders of industrious life,Ye shady woods, where once I used to rove;Alike indulgent to the muse and love;Ye murmuring streams that in meanders roll,The sweet composers of the pensive soul,Farewell - The city calls me from your bowers;Farewell amusing thoughts and peaceful hours.

The Fan

The Fan was first published on the 8th of December 1713. It filled thirty-two folio pages, and bore the following title: — The! Fan. | A | Poem. | In Three Books. | By Mr. Gay. | (motto from the 14th Iliad) | London: | Printed for J. Tonson at Shakespear’s Head over- | against Catherine Street in the Strand 1714.’ It was reprinted, with numerous omissions and emendations, in the quarto edition of Gay’s Poems (1720).

PREFACE

Two matters in connection with this edition of Gay’s Poems call for brief comment on the part of the Editor.

It should be explained in the first instance that every effort has been made to put forward a complete and trustworthy text In the case of those pieces which were included by Gay in the quarto edition of his poems in 1720, the revised versions then given have been followed; variations from an earlier form being indicated where they occur. The other poems have for the most part been reprinted from first edition copies. The spelling and the punctuation have in all cases been made to conform to the usage of the present day.

The Introductory Memoir, it may further be explained, contains a summary of the chief facts now ascertainable concerning the life and literary career of John Gay. The writer has attempted to discover the exact date of publication of every one of Gay’s poems; and the attempt, it will be observed, has been to a considerable extent successful. Several minor biographical rectifications have been made, and some new facts have been placed on record.

It would be an unpardonable oversight on the part of any writer on Gay not to acknowledge the obligations under which he has been placed by the pioneer work of Mr. Austin Dobson. That gentleman’s article on Gay in the Dictionary of National Biography is indispensable to the student. Messrs. Elwin and Courthope’s edition of the Works of Alexander Pope is also of very great value.

                JOHN UNDERHILL.

WIMBLEDON, March 1893.

THE PROEME.

TO THE

COURTEOUS READER

GREAT marvel hath it been (and that not unworthily) to diverse worthy wits, that in this our island of Britain, in all rare sciences so greatly abounding, more especially in all kinds of poesie highly flourishing, no poet {though otherways of notable cunning in roundelays) hath hit on the right simple eclogue after the true ancient guise of Theocritus, before this mine attempt.

Other Poet travailing in this plain highway of Pastoral know I none. Yet, certes, such it behoveth a Pastoral to be, as nature in the country affordeth; and the manners also meetly copied from the rustical folk therein. In this also my love to my native country Britain much pricketh me forward, to describe aright the manners of our own honest and laborious ploughmen, in no wise sure more unworthy a British poet’s imitation, than those of Sicily or Arcadie; albeit, not ignorant I am, what a rout and rabblement of critical gallimawfry hath been made of late days by certain young men of insipid delicacy,concerning, I wist not what, golden age, and other outrageous conceits, to which they would confine Pastoral. Whereof, I avow, I account nought at all, knowing no age so justly to be instiled golden, as this of our sovereign lady Queen Anne.

This idle trumpery(only fit for schools and schoolboys) unto that ancient Dorick Shepherd Theocritus or his mates, was never known; he rightly, throughout his fifth Idyll, maketh his louts give foul language and behold their goats at rut in all simplicity.

Verily, as little pleasance receiveth a true homebred taste, from all the fine finical newfangled fooleries of this gay Gothic garniture, wherewith they so nicely bedeck their court clowns, or clown courtiers (for, which to call them rightly, I wot not) as would a prudent citizen journeying to his country farms, should he find them occupied by people of this motley make, instead of plain downright hearty cleanly folk, such as be now tenants to the wealthyburgesses of this realms.

Furthermore, it is my purpose, gentle reader, to set before thee, as it were apicture, rather lively landscape of thy own country, just as thou mightest see it, didest thou take a walk into the fields at the proper season: even as maister Milton hath elegantly set forth the same:

As one who long in populous city pent,

Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air,

Forth issuing on a summer’s morn to breathe

Among the pleasant villages and farms

Adjoin’d, from each thing met conceives delight;

The smell of grain or tedded grass or kine

Or dairie, each rural sight, each rural sound.

Thou wilt not find my shepherdesses idly piping on oaten reeds, but milking the kine, tying up the sheaves, or if the hogs are astray driving them to their styes. My shepherd gathereth none other nosegays but what ate the growth of our own fields, he sleepeth not under myrtle shades, but under a hedge, nor doth he vigilantly defend his flocks from wolves, because there are none, as maister Spenser well observeth:

Well is known that since the Saxon King

Never was wolf seen, many or some

Nor in all Kent nor in Christendom.

For as much as I have mentioned maister Spenser, soothly I must acknowledge him a bard of sweetest memorial. Yet hath his shepherds boy at some times raised his rustic reed to rhimes more rumbling than rural. Diverse grave points also hath he handled of churchly matter and doubts in religion daily arising, to great clerks only appertaining. What liketh me best are his nanus, indeed right simple and mut for the country, such as Lobbin, Cuddy, Hobbinol, Diggon and others, some of which I have made bold to borrow. Moreover, as he called his eclogues, the shepherd’s calendar, and divided the same into the twelve months,I have chosen(peradventure not over-rashly) to name mine by the days of the week, omitting Sunday or the Sabbath, ours being supposed to be Christian shepherds, and to be then at church worship. Yet further of many of maister Spenser’s eclogues it may be observed; though months they be called, of the said months therein, nothing is specified; wherein I have also esteemed him worthy mine imitation.