Part 3 (1/2)
SIR THOMAS ERPINGHAM, a gallant knight, When this king Harry went to war, in France, Girded a sword about his middle; Resolving, very l.u.s.tily, to fight, And teach the Frenchmen how to dance, Without a fiddle.
And wond'rous bold Sir Thomas prove'd in battle, Performing prodigies, with spear and s.h.i.+eld; His valour, like a murrain among cattle, Was reckon'd very fatal in the field.
Yet, tho' Sir Thomas had an iron fist, He was, at heart, a mild Philanthropist.
Much did he grieve, when making Frenchmen die, To any inconvenience to put 'em: ”It quite distress'd his feelings,” he would cry, ”That he must cut their throats,”--and, then he cut 'em.
Thus, during many a Campaign, He cut, and grieve'd, and cut, and came again;-- Pitying, and killing;-- Lamenting sorely for men's souls, While pretty little eyelet holes, Clean thro' their bodies he kept drilling:
Till palling on his Laurels, grown so thick, (As boys pull blackberries, till they are sick,) Homeward he bent his course, to wreath 'em; And in his Castle, near fair Norwich town, Glutted with glory, he sat down, In perfect solitude, beneath 'em.
Now, sitting under Laurels, Heroes say, Gives grace, and dignity--and so it may-- When men have done campaigning; But, certainly, these gentlemen must own That sitting under Laurels, quite alone, Is much more dignified than entertaining.
Pious aeneas, who, in his narration Of his own prowess, felt so great a charm;-- (For, tho' he feign'd great grief in the relation, He made the story longer than your arm;[4])
Pious aeneas no more pleasure knew Than did our Knight--who could he pious too-- In telling his exploits, and martial brawls: But pious _Thomas_ had no Dido near him-- No Queen--King, Lord, nor Commoner to hear him-- So he was force'd to tell them to the walls:
And to his Castle walls, in solemn guise, The knight, full often, did soliloquize:--
For ”Walls have ears,” Sir Thomas had been told; Yet thought the tedious hours would seem much shorter, If, now and then, a tale he could unfold To ears of flesh and blood, not stone and mortar.
At length, his old _Castellum_ grew so dull, That legions of Blue Devils seize'd the Knight; Megrim invested his belaurell'd skull; Spleen laid embargoes on his appet.i.te;
Till, thro' the day-time, he was haunted, wholly, By all the imps of ”loathed Melancholy!”-- Heaven keep her, and her imps, for ever, from us!-- An Incubus,[5] whene'er he went to bed, Sat on his stomach, like a lump of lead, Making unseemly faces at Sir Thomas.
Plagues such as these might make a Parson swear; Sir Thomas being but a Layman, Swore, very roundly, _a la militaire_, Or, rather, (from vexation) like a Drayman:
d.a.m.ning his Walls, out of all line and level; Sinking his drawbridges and moats; Wis.h.i.+ng that he were cutting throats-- And they were at the devil.
”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 G.o.d 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 G.o.d! whose frolick arrows pa.s.s Thro' hearts of Potentates, and Prentice-boys; Who mark'st with Milkmaids' forms, the tell-tale gra.s.s, And make'st the fruitful Prude repent her joys!
Drop me one feather, from thy wanton wing, Young G.o.d 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.