Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux - Le Lutrin—An Heroick Poem

Nicolas Boileau-Despraux

Published by Good Press, 2021

EAN 4064066317065

ARGUMENT
The Argument ? what needs a Prome
To vamp a Three-half-penny Pome ?
No, Reader, No ; twas never writt
For thy sake, but for little Chitt.
St. George oth back-side of the Horn-book,
The Dragon kills, to Humour Scorn-book.
And thus to wheddle in young Fops,
The gilded Sign hangs ore the Shops :
Miss wont come in to Buy, before
She spies the Knick-knack at the Dore.
Thus Queasie Madams meat forbear
Until they read, The Bill of Fare.
Instead a Frontispiece, or Babbie,
We plact to please some puiney Rabbie,
Who hates an Author that enlarges,
And cons the Index to save charges.
Discord, that Tearing, Hectoring Ranter,
Provokes a Dean and his Arch-chanter,
Who had livd friendly forty years,
To fall together by the ears ;
A Rotten Pulpit placd ith Quire
Furnished fewel to the Fire :
Three swashing Blades, blind Fates agree
Should do the work : but who they bee,
Pray ask the Canto, that can tell
Better than I : and so Farewell
Thus far the Porch, now view the House,
Here is the Mountain, theres the Mouse.
Immortal feuds, and more than Civil Warrs,
And Fights th fierce, disfigurd with no Scarrs
I sing ! And thee Great Prelate, who of late,
Maugre the Changer, and Reluctant Fate
Didst raise at length a Pulpit in the Quire,
Th immortal Trophee of thy Mortal Ire.
Twice the Pragmatick Chanter, th in vain,
Pesumd to discompose thy peaceful Reign ;
Twice with Schismatick Pride did enterprise
To force the Chapter in Rebellion rise ;
As oft the Dean him swoln with envious rage,
Hurld Headlong from high hopes ; and by sage
Sexton assisted, terrifyd the People
Who durst dispute the Title to his Steeple.
Instruct me Muse, for thou canst tell, what Thirst
Of sweeet Revenge, th Dire, engaged first
Religious Souls to break the Sacred Tye
Of blessed Peace and heaven-born Amitie,
To make old Friends new Rivals ; can there rest
Such bitter Gall in a Religious Breast ?
And thou Great Heroe, whose wise conduct stifled
The growing Schisme which else thy Church had rifled
With favour influence my Adventrous Verse,
Nor dare to laugh, whilest I thay Acts rehearse.
In melting Pleasures of Fraternal Peace
An ancient Abbey long had dwelt at case,
Whose Scarlet Prebends bleard poor Mortals eyes,
Whose Ermines, Winters Frost, and Snow defies ;
Basking in fat, and Wealth, themselves they Bless
In sweet Repose of Sacred Idleness :
Thus Stretcht at length on downy Featherbeds,
To chaunt their Matines nere lift up their Heads,
But before Dinner wekd ; for they could smell
The Kitchin Steams, though Deaf to th Prayer-bell
When Eyes and Ears Nights leaden Key composes,
Kind Sleep yet open left their subtle Noses ;
These alwaies Eat in Person, but did praise
Their God by Proxie, in Harmonious Layes,
Pawning the Chanters, and Poor Singing-boyes
Condemnd to those inferiour Drudgeries.
When Discord dappled ore with thousand Crimes,
The Villanies of our Debauched times
Quitting the humble Seat of Parish Churches,
On a Magnificent Cathedral Perches,
The hideous clang of her hate-bearing wing
Peace trembled : whilst the Fiend armd with her Sting.
Allighting swift before the Pompous Pile
Of her proud Pallace, stood and pawsd a while.
Thence with observing eye, her Emprire viewing,
Fomented Feuds and Warrs thereon ensuing,
Hatred, and variance, her self she blesses,
Applauds her Wit in these Atchievd successe
From Norwich there, and Bristol Coaches, she
Legions of Tories dear, arrivd might see,
And could her Vassals boast of all Degrees,
Cittizens, Nobles, Clerks, Priests, Dignities ;
But above all her Feats renownd in stories,
In this she Prides her self, in this she Glories,
That Troops of Barr-gowns rangd under her Banner
Had routed Themes, and now Triumpht on her ;
And yet she saw, and ragd, and Grievd to see
One Church disturb this rare Felicity,
One Church to brave her triumphs ; one Alone
Threaten to shake the firmness of her Throne,
That amidst all these Horricanes and Scuffles
No breath of Stormy Wind its Quiet ruffles.
Needs must so Odious a sight as this
Awake her Rage, make all her Serpents hiss ;
With Stygian Aconite her mouth she fills,
From glaring eyes she streams of Flame distills :
What ? (said she with a tone made windows Quiver),
Have I been able hitherto to Shiver
The Union twixt Cordeliers, Carmelites,
Dominicans, Franciscans, Minorites,
Betwitxt the Molinists, the Celestines,
Jansenists, Jesuites, and Augustines ?
Have I by secreet Arts, nourisht the Stickle
Between the Church-men, and the Contenticle ?
And shall one Paultry-Chapel dare to Brave me ;
Nay hope in time to its nice Law t inslave me ?
And am I Discord still ? Who any more
With Incense will my Sacred Shrines Adore ?
Thus spoke the Hagg ! And in a trice unseen
Of an Old Chanter takes the shape and meen :
A cornerd Cap her Snake-wiggd Head did cover,
Her rich Face sparkling Rubies studded over,
Her Nose, embossd with Carbuncles Divine
Before her steps did like a Flamboy shine ;
Accoutred tus, with Red-coat Soldiers pace
Haughty she marcht to find the Prelates Grace.
A Stately Bed, the Posts most richly Gilt,
Coverd with Sumptuous Crimson Damask Quilt
Enclosd with Double Curtains, scorning light
Of mid-day Sun, and counterfeiting Night,
Stood close in an Appartment like a Cell
Where Sweet Repose and Silence chose to Dwell ;
The Tester was all facd with Looking-Glass,
The rare Invention of this Golden Ass,
Contrivd mysteriously that he might peep
And see how Blithe he lookt, when fast a-sleep.
Here lay the Mitred Head ! in a slumber downd
Whilst gentle fumes his Dreaming Temples Crownd ;
A sprightly Air adorns his Youthful Face,
His double Chine hangs down with goodly Grace ;
The Claret shind through the transparent Skin,
A broad conjecture where he late had been ;
And his Fat comely Corps, so thick and short
Made the soft Pillows groan under his Port :
Here, in Sack-posset armd, without repining
He waits in patience the blest hour of Dining.
The Goddess entering, saw the Table spread,
And all within doors rarely ordered,
Then Softly marching to his lodging, took him
Profoundly napping, and thus she bespoke him.
Sleepst thou, Great Prelate ? Sleepst thou then Supine ?
And to the Chanter meanst thy Place Resign ?
Whilst he sings Oremus, makes Grave Processions,
And hurls about by whole-sale Vows and Blessings ?
Sleepst thou securely, till the Chanter come,
And without Bull, or Brief procurd from Rome,
Whilst thoure wrap in sloath, and free from Fears,
Rotchet and Surplice shall pluck ore thy Ears ?
Sluggard, awake, arise, bestir thee quick,
Renounce thy Ease, or quit thy Bishoprick !
She spoke, and from her Poysonous Mouth did fling
Into his Soul the Zeal of Quarrelling.
The Dean awakes ; The choler in his breast
Formented boils ; yet he the Fury Blest !
Have you not seen a Bull by Gad-fly stung,
When his tormented pride flowncd, kickt, and flund ?
The vexed Air, with Ecchoes frighted rings !
Whilst he exhales his Rage in Bellowings !
So stormd the Prelate, with his Dream ore-heated,
Poor Page, and Chambermaid were rudely treated ;
His mettle movd with conceivd Indignation,