A Satire Anthology. Wells Carolyn

Чтение книги онлайн.

      WE bipeds, made up of frail clay,

      Alas! are the children of sorrow;

      And, though brisk and merry to-day,

      We may all be unhappy to-morrow.

      For sunshine’s succeeded by rain;

      Then, fearful of life’s stormy weather,

      Lest pleasure should only bring pain,

      Let us all be unhappy together.

      I grant the best blessing we know

      Is a friend, for true friendship’s a treasure;

      And yet, lest your friend prove a foe,

      Oh, taste not the dangerous pleasure.

      Thus, friendship’s a flimsy affair;

      Thus, riches and health are a bubble;

      Thus, there’s nothing delightful but care,

      Nor anything pleasing but trouble.

      If a mortal could point out that life

      Which on earth could be nearest to heaven,

      Let him, thanking his stars, choose a wife

      To whom truth and honour are given.

      But honour and truth are so rare,

      And horns, when they’re cutting, so tingle,

      That, with all my respect to the fair,

      I’d advise him to sigh, and live single.

      It appears from these premises plain,

      That wisdom is nothing but folly;

      That pleasure’s a term that means pain,

      And that joy is your true melancholy;

      That all those who laugh ought to cry;

      That ’tis fine frisk and fun to be grieving;

      And that, since we must all of us die,

      We should taste no enjoyment while living.

      I  AM a friar of orders gray,

      And down in the valleys I take my way;

      I pull not blackberry, haw, or hip;

      Good store of venison fills my scrip;

      My long bead-roll I merrily chant;

      Where’er I walk no money I want;

      And why I’m so plump the reason I tell:

      Who leads a good life is sure to live well.

      What baron or squire,

      Or knight of the shire,

      Lives half so well as a holy friar?

      After supper, of heaven I dream,

      But that is a pullet and clouted cream;

      Myself by denial I mortify —

      With a dainty bit of a warden-pie;

      I’m clothed in sackcloth for my sin —

      With old sack wine I’m lined within;

      A chirping cup is my matin song,

      And the vesper’s bell is my bowl, ding-dong.

      What baron or squire,

      Or knight of the shire,

      Lives half so well as a holy friar?

      A  COUNTRY squire, of greater wealth than wit

      (For fools are often bless’d with fortune’s smile),

      Had built a splendid house, and furnish’d it

      In splendid style.

      “One thing is wanted,” said a friend; “for, though

      The rooms are fine, the furniture profuse,

      You lack a library, dear sir, for show,

      If not for use.”

      “’Tis true; but, zounds!” replied the squire with glee,

      “The lumber-room in yonder northern wing

      (I wonder I ne’er thought of it) will be

      The very thing.

      “I’ll have it fitted up without delay

      With shelves and presses of the newest mode.

      And rarest wood, befitting every way

      A squire’s abode.

      “And when the whole is ready, I’ll despatch

      My coachman – a most knowing fellow – down,

      To buy me, by admeasurement, a batch

      Of books in town.”

      But ere the library was half supplied

      With all its pomp of cabinet and shelf,

      The booby squire repented him, and cried

      Unto himself:

      “This room is much more roomy than I thought;

      Ten thousand volumes hardly would suffice

      To fill it, and would cost, however bought,

      A plaguy price.

      “Now, as I only want them for their looks,

      It might, on second thoughts, be just as good,

      And cost me next to nothing, if the books

      Were made of wood.

      “It shall be so. I’ll give the shaven deal

      A coat of paint – a colourable dress,

      To look like calf or vellum, and conceal

      Its nakedness.

      And gilt and letter’d with the author’s name,

      Whatever is most excellent and rare

      Shall be, or seem to be (’tis all the same),

      Assembled there.“

      The work was done; the simulated hoards

      Of wit and wisdom round the chamber stood.

      In bindings some; and some, of course, in boards,

      Were all of wood.

      From bulky folios down to slender twelves,

      The choicest tomes in many an even row,

      Display’d СКАЧАТЬ