Volume Ii Part 10 (1/2)
ON THE GALLOWS
There is a gate, we know full well, That stands 'twixt Heaven, and Earth, and h.e.l.l, Where many for a pa.s.sage venture, Yet very few are fond to enter: Although 'tis open night and day, They for that reason shun this way: Both dukes and lords abhor its wood, They can't come near it for their blood.
What other way they take to go, Another time I'll let you know.
Yet commoners with greatest ease Can find an entrance when they please.
The poorest hither march in state (Or they can never pa.s.s the gate) Like Roman generals triumphant, And then they take a turn and jump on't, If gravest parsons here advance, They cannot pa.s.s before they dance; There's not a soul that does resort here, But strips himself to pay the porter.
ON THE VOWELS
We are little airy creatures, All of different voice and features; One of us in gla.s.s is set, One of us you'll find in jet.
T'other you may see in tin, And the fourth a box within.
If the fifth you should pursue, It can never fly from you.
ON SNOW
From Heaven I fall, though from earth I begin, No lady alive can show such a skin.
I'm bright as an angel, and light as a feather, But heavy and dark, when you squeeze me together.
Though candour and truth in my aspect I bear, Yet many poor creatures I help to ensnare.
Though so much of Heaven appears in my make, The foulest impressions I easily take.
My parent and I produce one another, The mother the daughter, the daughter the mother.
ON A CANNON
Begotten, and born, and dying with noise, The terror of women, and pleasure of boys, Like the fiction of poets concerning the wind, I'm chiefly unruly when strongest confined.
For silver and gold I don't trouble my head, But all I delight in is pieces of lead; Except when I trade with a s.h.i.+p or a town, Why then I make pieces of iron go down.
One property more I would have you remark, No lady was ever more fond of a spark; The moment I get one, my soul's all a-fire, And I roar out my joy, and in transport expire.
ON A PAIR OF DICE
We are little brethren twain, Arbiters of loss and gain, Many to our counters run, Some are made, and some undone: But men find it to their cost, Few are made, but numbers lost.
Though we play them tricks for ever, Yet they always hope our favour.
ON A CANDLE
TO LADY CARTERET
Of all inhabitants on earth, To man alone I owe my birth, And yet the cow, the sheep, the bee, Are all my parents more than he: I, a virtue, strange and rare, Make the fairest look more fair, And myself, which yet is rarer, Growing old, grow still the fairer.
Like sots, alone I'm dull enough, When dosed with smoke, and smear'd with snuff; But, in the midst of mirth and wine, I with double l.u.s.tre s.h.i.+ne.