'What Demon hath possessed thee, that thou wilt never forsake that impertinent custom of punning?'-Scriblerus.
BIANCA!-fair Bianca !-who could dwell
With safety on her dark and hazel gaze,
Nor find there lurk'd in it a witching spell,
Fatal to balmy nights and blessed days!
The peaceful breath that made the bosom swell,
She turn'd to gas, and set it in a blaze;
Each eye of hers had Love's Eupyrion in it,
That he could light his link at in a minute.
So that, wherever in her charms she shone,
A thousand breasts were kindled into flame;
Maidens who cursed her looks forgot their own,
And beaux were turn'd to flambeaux where she came ;
All hearts indeed were conquer'd but her own,
Which none could ever temper down or tame:
In short, to take our haberdasher's hints,
She might have written over it,' from Flint's.'
She was, in truth, the wonder of her sex,
At least in Venice-where with eyes of brown,
Tenderly languid, ladies seldom vex
An amourous gentle with a needless frown;
Where gondolas convey guitars by pecks,
And Love at casements climbeth up and down,
Whom for his tricks and custom in that kind,
Some have considered a Venetian blind.
Howbeit, this difference was quickly taught,
Amongst more youths who had this cruel jailor,
To hapless Julio-all in vain he sought
With each new moon his hatter and his tailor;
In vain the richest padusoy he bought,
And went in bran new beaver to assail herAs if to show that Love had made him smart All over-and not merely round his heart.
In vain he laboured thro' the sylvan park
Bianca haunted in-that where she came,
Her learned eyes in wandering might mark
The twisted cypher of her maiden name,
Wholesomely going thro' a course of bark:
No one was touched or troubled by his flame,
Except the dryads, those old maids that grow
In trees,-like wooden dolls in embryo.
In vain complaining elegies he writ,
And taught his tuneful instrument to grieve, And sang in quavers how his heart was split, Constant beneath her lattice with each eve;
She mock'd his wooing with her wicked wit,
And slash'd his suit, so that it matched his sleeve, Till he grew silent at the vesper star,
And quite despairing, hamstring'd his guitar.
Bianca's heart was coldly frosted o'er
With snows unmelting-an eternal sheet,
But his was red within him, like the core
Of old Vesuvius, with perpetual heat;
And oft he longed internally to pour
His flames and glowing lava at her feet,
But when his burnings he began to spout,
She stopped his mouth, and put the crater out.
Meanwhile he wasted in the eyes of men,
So thin, he seem'd a sort of skeleton-key
Suspended at death's door-so pale-and then
He turn'd as nervous as an aspen tree;
The life of man is three score years and ten,
But he was perishing at twenty-three,
For people truly said, as grief grew stronger,
'It could not shorten his poor life-much longer.'
For hapless lovers always died of old,
Sooner than chew reflection's bitter cud;
So Thisbe stuck herself, what time 'tis told
The tender-hearted mulberries wept blood;
And so poor Sappho, when her boy was cold,
Drown'd her salt tear drops in a salter flood,
Their fame still breathing, tho' their breath be past,
For those old suitors lived beyond their last.
So Julio went to drown,-when life was dull,
But took his corks, and merely had a bath ;
And once he pull'd a trigger at his scull,
But merely broke a window in his wrath;
And once his hopeless being to annul,
He tied a pack-thread to a beam of lath, A line so ample, 'twas a query whether 'Twas meant to be a halter or a tether.
Smile not in scorn, that Julio did not thrust
His sorrows thro'-'tis horrible to die!
And come down with our little all of dust,
That dun of all the duns to satisfy :
To leave life's pleasant city as we must,
In Death's most dreary spunging-house to lie,
Where even all our personals must go
To pay the debt of nature that we owe!
So Julio liv'd:-'twas nothing but a pet
He took at life-a momentary spite;
Besides, he hoped that time would some day get
The better of love's flame, however bright;
A thing that time has never compass'd yet,
For love, we know, is an immortal light.
Like that old fire, that, quite beyond a doubt,
Was always in,-for none have found it out.
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