Fugitive Poetry. 1600–1878/The Picture
The Picture.
Matches are made for many reasons—
For love, convenience, money, fun, and spite!
How many, against common sense, are treasons!
How few the happy pairs who match aright!
In the fair breast of some bewitching dame,
How many a youth will strive fond love to waken,
And when, at length, successful in his aim,
Be first mis-led and afterwards mis-taken!
Then curse his fate, at matrimony swear,
And, like poor Adam, have a rib to spare!
How many ladies—speculating dears!—
Will make six matches in so many years,
So fast, sometimes, the amorous gudgeons bite!
Others, like bungling housemaids in the dark,
Will fret and fume, and lose full many a spark,
And never, never get a match to light,
Nor think their want of skill the job could hinder,
But lay the fault upon the plaguy tinder.
Old men young women wed—by way of nurses;
Young men old women—just to fill their purses;
Nor young men only—for 'tis my belief
(Nor do I think the metaphor a bold one),
When folks in life turn over a new leaf,
Why very few would grumble at a gold one!
For love, convenience, money, fun, and spite!
How many, against common sense, are treasons!
How few the happy pairs who match aright!
In the fair breast of some bewitching dame,
How many a youth will strive fond love to waken,
And when, at length, successful in his aim,
Be first mis-led and afterwards mis-taken!
Then curse his fate, at matrimony swear,
And, like poor Adam, have a rib to spare!
How many ladies—speculating dears!—
Will make six matches in so many years,
So fast, sometimes, the amorous gudgeons bite!
Others, like bungling housemaids in the dark,
Will fret and fume, and lose full many a spark,
And never, never get a match to light,
Nor think their want of skill the job could hinder,
But lay the fault upon the plaguy tinder.
Old men young women wed—by way of nurses;
Young men old women—just to fill their purses;
Nor young men only—for 'tis my belief
(Nor do I think the metaphor a bold one),
When folks in life turn over a new leaf,
Why very few would grumble at a gold one!
But tell me, Muse, what charm it was could tickle
The once invincible Sir Peter Pickle!
Was it her eyes—that so attached to one day,
Looked piously seven different ways for Sunday?
Was it her hump, that had a camel suited?
Her left leg, bandy?—or her right, club-footed?
Or nose, in shape so like a liquor funnel?
Or mouth, whose width might shame the Highgate tunnel?
The once invincible Sir Peter Pickle!
Was it her eyes—that so attached to one day,
Looked piously seven different ways for Sunday?
Was it her hump, that had a camel suited?
Her left leg, bandy?—or her right, club-footed?
Or nose, in shape so like a liquor funnel?
Or mouth, whose width might shame the Highgate tunnel?
Was it the beanties of her face combined—
A face—(since similes I have begun on)
Not like a face that I can call to mind,
Except the one beneath the Regent's cannon!
No, gentle friends; although such beauties might
Have warmed the bosom of an anchorite,
The charm that made our knight all milk and honey,
Was that infallible specific—Money!
Peter, whom want of brass had made more brazen,
In moving terms began his love to blazon;
Sigh after sigh, in quick succession rushes,
Nor are the labours of his lungs in vain,
Her cheek soon crimsons with consenting blushes,
Red as a chimney-pot just after rain!
A face—(since similes I have begun on)
Not like a face that I can call to mind,
Except the one beneath the Regent's cannon!
No, gentle friends; although such beauties might
Have warmed the bosom of an anchorite,
The charm that made our knight all milk and honey,
Was that infallible specific—Money!
Peter, whom want of brass had made more brazen,
In moving terms began his love to blazon;
Sigh after sigh, in quick succession rushes,
Nor are the labours of his lungs in vain,
Her cheek soon crimsons with consenting blushes,
Red as a chimney-pot just after rain!
The licence bought—he marries her in haste;
Brings home his bride, and gives his friends a gay day;
All his relations, wondering at his taste,
Vowed he had better had the Pig-faced Lady!
Struck with this monstrous lump of womankind,
The thought of money never crossed their mind.
Brings home his bride, and gives his friends a gay day;
All his relations, wondering at his taste,
Vowed he had better had the Pig-faced Lady!
Struck with this monstrous lump of womankind,
The thought of money never crossed their mind.
The dinner o'er, the ladies and the bride
Retired, and wine and chat went round jocosely;
Sir Peter's brother took the knight aside,
And questioned him about the matter closely.
"Confound it, Peter! how came you to pitch
On such an ugly, squinting, squabby witch p
A man like you, so handsome and so knowing:
Your wits, my friend, must surely be a-going!
Who could have thought you such a tasteless oaf,
To wed a lump of odd-come-shorts and bits,
That Madame Nature in her merry fits,
Had jumbled into something like a face!
With skin as black as if she charcoal fed on,
Crooked and crusty, like an outside loaf;
A remnant of an ourang-outang face—
Eve's grandmother, with the serpent's head on!
What spell could into such a hobble throw you?"
"Just step upstairs," says Peter, "and I'll show you."
Retired, and wine and chat went round jocosely;
Sir Peter's brother took the knight aside,
And questioned him about the matter closely.
"Confound it, Peter! how came you to pitch
On such an ugly, squinting, squabby witch p
A man like you, so handsome and so knowing:
Your wits, my friend, must surely be a-going!
Who could have thought you such a tasteless oaf,
To wed a lump of odd-come-shorts and bits,
That Madame Nature in her merry fits,
Had jumbled into something like a face!
With skin as black as if she charcoal fed on,
Crooked and crusty, like an outside loaf;
A remnant of an ourang-outang face—
Eve's grandmother, with the serpent's head on!
What spell could into such a hobble throw you?"
"Just step upstairs," says Peter, "and I'll show you."
Upstairs they went;—"There, there's her picture say.
Is it not like her, sir?—Your judgment, pray."—
"Like her, Sir Peter!—take it not uncivil,
'Tis like her—and as ugly as the devil;
With just her squinting leer:—but, hang it! what
A very handsome Frame it's got!
So richly gilt, and so superbly wrought!"
"You're right," says Peter, "'twas the Frame that caught:
I grant my wife is ugly, squabby, old,
But still she pleases—being set in gold;
Let others for the Picture feel a flame,
I, my good brother, married for the Frame!"
Is it not like her, sir?—Your judgment, pray."—
"Like her, Sir Peter!—take it not uncivil,
'Tis like her—and as ugly as the devil;
With just her squinting leer:—but, hang it! what
A very handsome Frame it's got!
So richly gilt, and so superbly wrought!"
"You're right," says Peter, "'twas the Frame that caught:
I grant my wife is ugly, squabby, old,
But still she pleases—being set in gold;
Let others for the Picture feel a flame,
I, my good brother, married for the Frame!"