Part 4 (1/2)

Whene'er she greeted him, his gills grew red, While she was quite unconscious of the matter;-- But he, the beast! was casting sheeps-eyes at her, Out of his bullock-head.

That c.o.xcombs _were_ and _are_, I need not give, Nor take the trouble, now, to prove; Nor that those dead, like many, now, who live, Have thought a Lady's condescension, love.

This happen'd with fat Friar John!-- Monastick c.o.xcomb! amorous, and gummy; Fill'd with conceit up to his very brim!-- He thought his guts and garbage doated on, By a fair Dame, whose Husband was to _him_ Hyperion to a mummy.

Burning with flames the Lady never knew, Hotter and heavier than toasted cheese, He sent her a much warmer _billet-doux_ Than Abelard e'er writ to Elose.

But whether Friar John's fat shape and face, Tho' pleading both together, Were sorry advocates, in such a case;-- Or, whether He marr'd his hopes, by suffering his pen With too much fervour to display 'em;-- As very tender Nurses, now and then, Cuddle their Children, till they overlay 'em;--

'Twas plain, his pray'r to decorate the brows Of good Sir Thomas was so far from granted, That the Dame went, directly, to her spouse, And told him what the filthy Friar wanted.

Think, Reader, think! if thou hast ta'en, for life, A partner to thy bed, for worse or better, Think what Sir Thomas felt, when his chaste wife Brandish'd, before his eyes, the Friar's letter!

[Ill.u.s.tration]

He felt, Sir,--Zounds!-- Yes, Zounds! I say, Sir,--for it makes me swear-- More torture than he suffer'd from the wounds He got among the French, in France;-- Not that I take upon me to advance The knight was ever wounded there.

Think gravely, Sir, I pray:--fancy the Knight-- ('Tis quite a Picture)--with his heart's delight!

Fancy you see his virtuous Lady stand, Holding the Friar's foulness in her hand!--

How should Sir Thomas, Sir, behave?

Why bounce, and sputter, surely, like a squib:-- You would have done the same, Sir, if a knave, A frouzy Friar, meddle'd with your Rib.

His bosom almost burst with ire Against the Friar;

Rage gave his face an apoplectick hue; His cheeks turn'd purple, and his nose turn'd blue; He swore with this mock Saint he'd soon be even;-- He'd have him flay'd, like Saint Bartholomew;-- And, now again, he'd have him stone'd, like Stephen.

But, ”_Ira furor brevis est_,”

As Horace, quaintly, has express'd;--

Therefore the Knight, finding his foam and froth Work thro' the bung-hole of his mouth, like beer, Pull'd out the vent-peg of his wrath, To let the stream of his revenge run clear:

Debating, with himself, what mode might suit him, To trounce the rogue who wanted to cornute him.

First, an attack against his Foe he plann'd, Learn'd in the Field, where late he fought so felly; That is--to march up, bravely, sword in hand, And run the Friar thro' his holy belly.

At last, his better judgment did declare-- Seeing his honour would as little s.h.i.+ne By sticking Friars, as by killing swine-- To circ.u.mvent him, by a _ruse de guerre_:

And, as the project ripen'd in his head, Thus to his virtuous Wife he said:

”Now sit thee down, my Lady bright!

And list thy Lord's desire; An a.s.signation thou shalt write, Beshrew me! to the Friar.

”Aread him, at the midnight hour, In silent sort to go, And bide thy coming, in the Bower-- For there do Crabsticks grow.

”He shall not tarry long;--for why?

When _Twelve_ have striking done, Then, by the G.o.d of Gardens![7] I Will cudgel him till _One_.”