Vulgar words in Specimens with Memoirs of the Less-known British Poets, Complete (Page 1)
This book at a glance
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And now is religion a rider, a roamer by the street, A leader of lovëdays,[1] and a loudë[2] beggar, A pricker on a palfrey from manor to manor, An heap of houndës at his arse as he a lord were.
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[8] 'Duddron:' slut.
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[13] 'Duddrons:' sluts.
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now thou art summoned By sickness, death's herald and champion, Thou 'rt like a pilgrim which abroad hath done Treason, and durst not turn to whence he is fled; Or like a thief, which, till death's doom be read, Wisheth himself delivered from prison; But damn'd, and haul'd to execution, Wisheth that still he might be imprisoned: Yet grace, if thou repent, thou canst not lack; But who shall give thee that grace to begin?
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IX If poisonous minerals, and if that tree Whose fruit threw death on (else immortal) us; If lecherous goats, if serpents envious, Cannot be damn'd, alas!
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He was the first that more desired to have One than another; first that e'er did crave Love by mute signs, and had no power to speak; First that could make love-faces, or could do The vaulter's somersalts, or used to woo With hoiting gambols, his own bones to break, To make his mistress merry, or to wreak Her anger on himself.
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19 If antique times admired Silenus old, Who oft appear'd set on his lazy ass, How would they wonder, if they had behold Such sights, as from the myrtle high did pass!
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2 I would be great, but that the sun doth still Level his rays against the rising hill; I would be high, but see the proudest oak Most subject to the rending thunder-stroke; I would be rich, but see men too unkind Dig in the bowels of the richest mind; I would be wise, but that I often see The fox suspected while the ass goes free; I would be fair, but see the fair and proud, Like the bright sun, oft setting in a cloud; I would be poor, but know the humble grass Still trampled on by each unworthy ass; Rich, hated; wise, suspected; scorn'd, if poor; Great, fear'd; fair, tempted; high, still envied more.
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1 Farewell, rewards and fairies, Good housewives now may say, For now foul sluts in dairies Do fare as well as they.
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All my griefs to this are jolly; None so damn'd as melancholy.
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I would not be a Puritan, though he Can preach two hours, and yet his sermon be But half a quarter long; Though from his old mechanic trade By vision he's a pastor made, His faith was grown so strong; Nay, though he think to gain salvation By calling the Pope the Whore of Babylon.
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A guide I had got, who demanded great vails, For conducting me over the mountains of Wales: Twenty good shillings, which sure very large is; Yet that would not serve, but I must bear his charges; And yet for all that, rode astride on a beast, The worst that e'er went on three legs, I protest: It certainly was the most ugly of jades, His hips and his rump made a right ace of spades; His sides were two ladders, well spur-galled withal; His neck was a helve, and his head was a mall; For his colour, my pains and your trouble I'll spare, For the creature was wholly denuded of hair; And, except for two things, as bare as my nail, A tuft of a mane, and a sprig of a tail; And by these the true colour one can no more know, Than by mouse-skins above stairs, the merkin below.
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Now such as the beast was, even such was the rider, With a head like a nutmeg, and legs like a spider; A voice like a cricket, a look like a rat, The brains of a goose, and the heart of a cat: Even such was my guide and his beast; let them pass, The one for a horse, and the other an ass.
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But one thing I chiefly admired in the place, That a saint and a virgin endued with such grace, Should yet be so wonderful kind a well-willer To that whoring and filching trade of a miller, As within a few paces to furnish the wheels Of I cannot tell how many water-mills: I've studied that point much, you cannot guess why, But the virgin was, doubtless, more righteous than I.
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Henceforth with thought of thee I'll season all succeeding jollity, Yet damn not mirth, nor think too much is fit: Excess hath no religion, nor wit; But should wild blood swell to a lawless strain, One check from thee shall channel it again.
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5 The harmless, young, and happy ass, (Seen long before[1] this came to pass,) Is in these joys a high partaker, Ordained and made to bear his Maker.
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8 Then, like the palm, though wronged I'll bear, I will be still a child, still meek As the poor ass which the proud jeer, And only my dear Jesus seek.
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3 And if the house be foul With platter, dish, or bowl, Up-stairs we nimbly creep, And find the sluts asleep; There we pinch their arms and thighs; None escapes, nor none espies.
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John Lord Gower ROBERT CRAWFORD The Bush aboon Traquair THOMAS TICKELL To the Earl of Warwick, on the death of Mr Addison JAMES HAMMOND Elegy XIII SEWELL, VANBRUGH, &c. RICHARD SAVAGE The Bastard THOMAS WARTON THE ELDER An American Love Ode JONATHAN SWIFT Baucis and Philemon On Poetry On the Death of Dr Swift A Character, Panegyric, and Description of the Legion-Club,1736 ISAAC WATTS Few Happy Matches The Sluggard The Rose A Cradle Hymn Breathing toward the Heavenly Country To the Rev.
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His 'Bastard,' indeed, displays considerable powers, stung by a consciousness of wrong into convulsive action; but his other works are nearly worthless, and his life was that of a proud, passionate, selfish, and infatuated fool, unredeemed by scarcely one trait of genuine excellence in character.
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THE BASTARD.
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In gayer hours, when high my fancy ran, The Muse exulting, thus her lay began: 'Blest be the Bastard's birth!
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He, kindling from within, requires no flame; He glories in a Bastard's glowing name.
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'Far nobler blessings wait the bastard's lot; Conceived in rapture, and with fire begot!
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He was not merely, as many are, disgusted with the selfish and malignant elements which are mingled in man's nature and character, and disposed to trace them to any cause save a Divine will, but he believed man to be, as a whole, the work and child of the devil; and he told the imaginary creator and creature to their face, what he thought the truth,--'The devil is an ass.'
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Not beggar's brat on bulk begot; Not bastard of a pedlar Scot; Not boy brought up to cleaning shoes, The spawn of Bridewell or the stews; Not infants dropped, the spurious pledges Of gipsies littering under hedges, Are so disqualified by fate To rise in church, or law, or state, As he whom Phoebus in his ire Hath blasted with poetic fire.
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The hawker shows you one in print, As fresh as farthings from a mint: The product of your toil and sweating, A bastard of your own begetting.
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But if you blab, you are undone: Consider what a risk you run: You lose your credit all at once; The town will mark you for a dunce; The vilest doggrel Grub Street sends Will pass for yours with foes and friends; And you must bear the whole disgrace, Till some fresh blockhead takes your place.
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Thus every poet in his kind Is bit by him that comes behind: Who, though too little to be seen, Can tease, and gall, and give the spleen; Call dunces fools and sons of whores, Lay Grub Street at each other's doors; Extol the Greek and Roman masters, And curse our modern poetasters; Complain, as many an ancient bard did, How genius is no more rewarded; How wrong a taste prevails among us; How much our ancestors out-sung us; Can personate an awkward scorn For those who are not poets born; And all their brother-dunces lash, Who crowd the press with hourly trash.
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Let Sir Tom[1] that rampant ass, Stuff his guts with flax and grass; But, before the priest he fleeces, Tear the Bible all to pieces: At the parsons, Tom, halloo, boy, Worthy offspring of a shoe-boy, Footman, traitor, vile seducer, Perjured rebel, bribed accuser, Lay thy privilege aside, Sprung from Papist regicide; Fall a-working like a mole, Raise the dirt about your hole.
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Honest keeper, drive him further, In his looks are hell and murther; See the scowling visage drop, Just as when he murdered T----p. Keeper, show me where to fix On the puppy pair of Dicks; By their lantern jaws and leathern, You might swear they both are brethren: Dick Fitzbaker, Dick the player, Old acquaintance, are you there?
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Dear companions, hug and kiss, Toast Old Glorious in your piss: Tie them, keeper, in a tether, Let them starve and stink together; Both are apt to be unruly, Lash them daily, lash them duly; Though 'tis hopeless to reclaim them, Scorpion rods perhaps may tame them.
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45 Act simply, as occasion asks; Put mellow wine in seasoned casks; Till not with ass and bull: Remember thy baptismal bond; Keep from commixtures foul and fond, Nor work thy flax with wool.
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[30] 'Bout kirk an' market eke their tales gae on; How Jock woo'd Jenny here to be his bride; An' there, how Marion, for a bastard son, Upo' the cutty-stool was forced to ride; The waefu' scauld o' our Mess John to bide.
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Nor rest we here, but, at our magic call, Monkeys shall climb our trees, and lizards crawl; Huge dogs of Tibet bark in yonder grove, Here parrots prate, there cats make cruel love; In some fair island will we turn to grass (With the queen's leave) her elephant and ass.
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The Bastard SAVAGE, iii.