Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/Celibacy versus Matrimony
Celibacy Versus Matrimony.
"My bane and antidote are both before me."—Addison.
Bachelor's Fare.
Frequently whining, and always repining,
Vexed and perplexed at not having a wife,
Thinking to marry, decided to tarry,
So pass the days of a bachelor's life.
His mind ever ranging, unconstant and changing,
It's fraught with anxiety, trouble, and care,
And fed with vain wishes, poor pitiful dishes!
But most that's delicious in bachelor's fare.
Vexed and perplexed at not having a wife,
Thinking to marry, decided to tarry,
So pass the days of a bachelor's life.
His mind ever ranging, unconstant and changing,
It's fraught with anxiety, trouble, and care,
And fed with vain wishes, poor pitiful dishes!
But most that's delicious in bachelor's fare.
How cheerless and lonely is he that has only
Himself to have thoughts for, himself to maintain:
No one to regale him when sorrows assail him,
And none to bewail him in sickness and pain!
Though marriage brings trouble, its comforts are double,
As all happy husbands can truly declare,
To all that the single state ever did arrogate,
Hence do we reprobate bachelor's fare.
Himself to have thoughts for, himself to maintain:
No one to regale him when sorrows assail him,
And none to bewail him in sickness and pain!
Though marriage brings trouble, its comforts are double,
As all happy husbands can truly declare,
To all that the single state ever did arrogate,
Hence do we reprobate bachelor's fare.
Who call women evils, new, old, or blue devils,
Convince one they're acting the comic part o'er
Of the fox in the fable, which not being able
To pluck and to suck the sweet grapes, calls them sour!
To love a sweet creature with grace in each feature,
Not even a bachelor's self can forbear;
But such to neglect, and fain to reject,
Those fools may expect that want bachelor's fare.
Convince one they're acting the comic part o'er
Of the fox in the fable, which not being able
To pluck and to suck the sweet grapes, calls them sour!
To love a sweet creature with grace in each feature,
Not even a bachelor's self can forbear;
But such to neglect, and fain to reject,
Those fools may expect that want bachelor's fare.
It can't be denied that sometimes wives will chide,
As they ought when they see there's occasion;
And those who do blame them for this, and defame them,
Deserve a severe flagellation:
To have an adviser each day growing wiser,
A true bosom friend, is the married man's share;
But though 'tis distressing and spirit depressing,
To lack this great blessing is bachelor's fare.
As they ought when they see there's occasion;
And those who do blame them for this, and defame them,
Deserve a severe flagellation:
To have an adviser each day growing wiser,
A true bosom friend, is the married man's share;
But though 'tis distressing and spirit depressing,
To lack this great blessing is bachelor's fare.
Though children, too truly, are often unruly,
And boys may be sometimes too lavish of treasure,
Yet few, rich or poor, ever lived I am sure,
That did not afford to their parents much pleasure.
If all men of this, and of all other bliss
That wedlock contains, were but fully aware,
Not one in a score, the nation all o'er,
Would wish any more to have bachelor's fare.
And boys may be sometimes too lavish of treasure,
Yet few, rich or poor, ever lived I am sure,
That did not afford to their parents much pleasure.
If all men of this, and of all other bliss
That wedlock contains, were but fully aware,
Not one in a score, the nation all o'er,
Would wish any more to have bachelor's fare.
The Married Man's Fare.
Happy and free are a married man's reveries;
Cheerily, merrily, passes his life;
He knows not the bachelor's revelries, devilries,
Caressed by, and blessed by, his children and wife.
From lassitude free too, his home still to flee to,
A pet on his knee too, his kindness to share,
A fireside so cheery, the smiles of his deary,—
Oh, this, boys, this is the married man's fare.
Cheerily, merrily, passes his life;
He knows not the bachelor's revelries, devilries,
Caressed by, and blessed by, his children and wife.
From lassitude free too, his home still to flee to,
A pet on his knee too, his kindness to share,
A fireside so cheery, the smiles of his deary,—
Oh, this, boys, this is the married man's fare.
Wife, kind as an angel, sees things never range ill,
Busy promoting his comfort around,
Dispelling dejection with smiles of affection,
Sympathising, advising, when fortune has frowned.
Old ones relating, droll tales never stating,
Little ones prating, all strangers to care;
Some romping, some jumping, some punching, some munching,
Economy dealing the married man's fare.
Busy promoting his comfort around,
Dispelling dejection with smiles of affection,
Sympathising, advising, when fortune has frowned.
Old ones relating, droll tales never stating,
Little ones prating, all strangers to care;
Some romping, some jumping, some punching, some munching,
Economy dealing the married man's fare.
Thus is each jolly day, one lively holiday:
Not so the bachelor, lonely, depressed—
No gentle one near him, no home to endear him,
In sorrow to cheer him, no friend if no guest;
No children to climb up—'twould fill all my rhyme up,
And take too much time up, to tell his despair;
Cross housekeeper meeting him, cheating him, beating him,
Bills pouring, maids scouring, devouring his fare.
Not so the bachelor, lonely, depressed—
No gentle one near him, no home to endear him,
In sorrow to cheer him, no friend if no guest;
No children to climb up—'twould fill all my rhyme up,
And take too much time up, to tell his despair;
Cross housekeeper meeting him, cheating him, beating him,
Bills pouring, maids scouring, devouring his fare.
He has no one to put on a sleeve or neck button—
Shirts mangled to rags—drawers stringless at knee;
The cook to his grief too, spoils pudding and beef too,
With overdone, underdone, undone is he;
No son, still a treasure, in business or leisure;
No daughter, with pleasure, new joys to prepare;
But old maids and cousins, kind souls! rush in dozens,
Believing him soon of his bachelor's fare.
Shirts mangled to rags—drawers stringless at knee;
The cook to his grief too, spoils pudding and beef too,
With overdone, underdone, undone is he;
No son, still a treasure, in business or leisure;
No daughter, with pleasure, new joys to prepare;
But old maids and cousins, kind souls! rush in dozens,
Believing him soon of his bachelor's fare.
He calls children apes, sir, (the fox and the grapes, sir,)
And fain would be wed when his locks are like snow;
But widows throw scorn out, and tell him he's worn out,
And maidens deriding, cry "No! my love, no!"
Old age comes with sorrow, with wrinkle, with furrow,
No hope in to-morrow—none sympathy spares;
And, when unfit to rise up, he looks to the skies up—
None close his old eyes up—he dies—and who cares?
And fain would be wed when his locks are like snow;
But widows throw scorn out, and tell him he's worn out,
And maidens deriding, cry "No! my love, no!"
Old age comes with sorrow, with wrinkle, with furrow,
No hope in to-morrow—none sympathy spares;
And, when unfit to rise up, he looks to the skies up—
None close his old eyes up—he dies—and who cares?