Posts tagged ‘1732’

Saturday, 2 February 2019

An Elegy on the Death of the Honourable Nicholas Lowe, Esq. by Ebenezer Cooke

Memor esto brevís Aeví1

What means this Mourning, Ladies, has Death led,
Your Brother Captive to his Earthly Bed?
Is Lowe to Nature’s chilly Womb returned,
Who cautiously the fatal Summons shun’d?
And Very rarely moisten would his Clay
For Fear he should a final Visit pay
To the opacous Mansions of the Dead,
By Worms, vile Reptiles, be devouréd.
Here Kings and Beggars lie, the Gulph have shot,
Together blended in the general Lot;
Mingle their Dust, and into Ashes turn;
Distinguish’d only by a gilded Urn,
The marble Tomb erected o’er their Pile,
Who sway’d the Sceptre of Great Britain’s Isle.
Victorious DEATH, all are alike to Thee,
The tender Saplin and the Almond Tree;
When FATE commands thou levellst with the Ground,
The pointed Dart gave Lowe his mortal Wound.
No human Art can brittle Life prolong,
Our Days are numbered and we must be gone
Or soon or late to whom we do belong.
As so on the vigorous Youth as aged Swain,
Never, ah! never to return again.
Why Should we then Lowe’s Absence grieve, since all
Have shar’d the Punishment by Adam’s Fall
But Ah! Maecenas, who his Death can bear,
His conduct knew, and unconcerned appear.
How could our Agent in his Winding Sheet
The Deathless Trunk become bound Hand and Feet,
Oh! not in Floods of Tears his Exit mourn
His Ghost surrendered with a dying Groan;
For if Lowe’s Life impartially we scan,
A cautious, sober, charitable Man;
His Conversation innocently free,
When Business called him into Company
Nor Prone to Vice, or Immorality
But tho’ none live so just as to be found
Without some Fault that may their Conscience wound,
It can be said, his Character to blast,
He liv’d and dy’d a Batchelor at last.


Lo! here he lies, wrapt in his winding Sheet,
Astraea2 bound his Hands, and DEATH his Feet
And that he might of Happiness partake,
JEHOVAH did his soul to Heaven take,
His Habeas Corpus mov’d his Body too,
And to this World he bid a long Adieu.
Exchanging all its gaudy Pageantry,
For that blest State of Immortality,
Which Saints enjoy to all Eternity.

1. Be mindful that life is brief.
2. Astraea was a Greek virgin goddess of justice, purity, innocence and precision. She was associated with the constellation of Virgo and the return of a Golden Age.

From: Cook, Ebenezer and Steiner, Bernard C. (ed.), Early Maryland Poetry: The Works of Ebenezer Cook, Gent: Laureat of Maryland, with an Appendix containing The Mousetrap, 1900, Maryland Historical Society: Baltimore, pp. 53-54.

Date: 1732

By: Ebenezer Cooke (c1665-c1732)

Tuesday, 3 November 2015

Excerpt from “The Beauties of the Universe” by Robert Gambol

His Soul, when it shall drop this brittle Clay,
Will to superior Regions wing its Way;
Unbounded in its Ken, (from Prison free,)
Will clearly view what here we darkly see:
Those planetary worlds, and thousands more,
Now veil’d from Human Sight, it shall explore;
Each Faculty will then have full employ;
And Pleasures vary, that can never cloy;
No fruitless Wish, no barren Hope ‘twill know,
The Stream of Bliss for ever clear will flow;
Fruition then with Desire shall move,
And all be Rapture, all ecstatic Love;
All in the great Creator’s Praise conspire,
And with glad Transport join the sacred Choir!

From: R.G., The beauties of the universe. A poem. By a gentleman of the navy, 1732, J. Roberts: London, p. 7.

Date: 1732

By: Robert Gambol (?-?)

Friday, 12 September 2014

The Fly by William Oldys

An Anacreontick

Busy, curious, thirsty Fly,
Gently drink, and drink as I;
Freely welcome to my Cup,
Could’st thou sip and sip it up;
Make the most of Life you may,
Life is short and wears away.

Just alike, both mine and thine,
Hasten quick to their Decline;
Thine’s a Summer, mine’s no more,
Though repeated to threescore;
Threescore Summers, when they’re gone,
Will appear as short as one.

From: Oldys, William, A Literary Antiquary. Memoir of William Oldys, Esq., Norroy King-At-Arms. Together with his Diary, Choice Notes from his Adversaria, and an Account of the London Libraries, 1862, Spottiswood and Co: London, p. xiii.

Date: 1732

By: William Oldys (1696-1761)

Tuesday, 15 November 2011

The Lady’s Dressing Room by Jonathan Swift

Five hours, (and who can do it less in?)
By haughty Celia spent in dressing;
The goddess from her chamber issues,
Arrayed in lace, brocades and tissues.
        Strephon, who found the room was void,
And Betty otherwise employed,
Stole in, and took a strict survey,
Of all the litter as it lay;
Whereof, to make the matter clear,
And inventory follows here.
         And first a dirty smock appeared,
Beneath the armpits well besmeared.
Strephon, the rogue, displayed it wide,
And turned it round on every side.
On such a point few words are best,
And Strephon bids us guess the rest,
But swears how damnably the men lie,
In calling Celia sweet and cleanly.
Now listen while he next produces
The various combs for various uses,
Filled up with dirt so closely fixt,
No brush could force a way betwixt.
A paste of composition rare,
Sweat, dandruff, powder, lead and hair;
A forehead cloth with oil upon’t
To smooth the wrinkles on her front;
Here alum flower to stop the steams,
Exhaled from sour unsavory streams,
There night-gloves made of Tripsy’s hide,
Bequeathed by Tripsy when she died,
With puppy water, beauty’s help
Distilled from Tripsy’s darling whelp;
Here gallypots and vials placed,
Some filled with washes, some with paste,
Some with pomatum, paints and slops,
And ointments good for scabby chops.
Hard by a filthy basin stands,
Fouled with the scouring of her hands;
The basin takes whatever comes
The scrapings of her teeth and gums,
A nasty compound of all hues,
For here she spits, and here she spews.
But oh! it turned poor Strephon’s bowels,
When he beheld and smelled the towels,
Begummed, bemattered, and beslimed
With dirt, and sweat, and earwax grimed.
No object Strephon’s eye escapes,
Here petticoats in frowzy heaps;
Nor be the handkerchiefs forgot
All varnished o’er with snuff and snot.
The stockings why should I expose,
Stained with the marks of stinking toes;
Or greasy coifs and pinners reeking,
Which Celia slept at least a week in?
A pair of tweezers next he found
To pluck her brows in arches round,
Or hairs that sink the forehead low,
Or on her chin like bristles grow.
         The virtues we must not let pass,
Of Celia’s magnifying glass.
When frightened Strephon cast his eye on’t
It showed visage of a giant.
A glass that can to sight disclose,
The smallest worm in Celia’s nose,
And faithfully direct her nail
To squeeze it out from head to tail;
For catch it nicely by the head,
It must come out alive or dead.
         Why Strephon will you tell the rest?
And must you needs describe the chest?
That careless wench! no creature warn her
To move it out from yonder corner;
But leave it standing full in sight
For you to exercise your spite.
In vain the workman showed his wit
With rings and hinges counterfeit
To make it seem in this disguise
A cabinet to vulgar eyes;
For Strephon ventured to look in,
Resolved to go through thick and thin;
He lifts the lid, there needs no more,
He smelled it all the time before.
As from within Pandora’s box,
When Epimetheus op’d the locks,
A sudden universal crew
Of human evils upwards flew;
He still was comforted to find
That Hope at last remained behind;
So Strephon lifting up the lid,
To view what in the chest was hid.
The vapors flew from out the vent,
But Strephon cautious never meant
The bottom of the pan to grope,
And foul his hands in search of Hope.
O never may such vile machine
Be once in Celia’s chamber seen!
O may she better learn to keep
Those “secrets of the hoary deep!”
         As mutton cutlets, prime of meat,
Which though with art you salt and beat
As laws of cookery require,
And toast them at the clearest fire;
If from adown the hopeful chops
The fat upon a cinder drops,
To stinking smoke it turns the flame
Pois’ning the flesh from whence it came,
And up exhales a greasy stench,
For which you curse the careless wench;
So things, which must not be expressed,
When plumped into the reeking chest,
Send up an excremental smell
To taint the parts from whence they fell.
The petticoats and gown perfume,
Which waft a stink round every room.
Thus finishing his grand survey,
Disgusted Strephon stole away
Repeating in his amorous fits,
Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!
         But Vengeance, goddess never sleeping
Soon punished Strephon for his peeping;
His foul imagination links
Each Dame he sees with all her stinks:
And, if unsavory odors fly,
Conceives a lady standing by:
All women his description fits,
And both ideas jump like wits:
But vicious fancy coupled fast,
And still appearing in contrast.
I pity wretched Strephon blind
To all the charms of female kind;
Should I the queen of love refuse,
Because she rose from stinking ooze?
To him that looks behind the scene,
Satira’s but some pocky queen.
When Celia in her glory shows,
If Strephon would but stop his nose
(Who now so impiously blasphemes
Her ointments, daubs, and paints and creams,
Her washes, slops, and every clout,
With which he makes so foul a rout)
He soon would learn to think like me,
And bless his ravished sight to see
Such order from confusion sprung,
Such gaudy tulips raised from dung.


Date: 1732

By: Jonathan Swift (1667-1745)