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    Delphi Complete Poetical Works of John Gay (Illustrated)
    Delphi Complete Poetical Works of John Gay (Illustrated)
    Delphi Complete Poetical Works of John Gay (Illustrated)
    Ebook1,622 pages13 hours

    Delphi Complete Poetical Works of John Gay (Illustrated)

    By John Gay

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    About this ebook

    An eighteenth century poet and dramatist, John Gay is best remembered for ‘The Beggar's Opera’ (1728), a ballad opera featuring the characters Captain Macheath and Polly Peachum, who swiftly became household names. Gay’s refined and satirical poetry was much influenced by his close friend Alexander Pope. His first important poem, ‘Rural Sports’, is a descriptive and didactic work in two short books dealing with hunting and fishing, as well as meditations on the Horatian theme of retirement. Gay’s finest poem, ‘Trivia: or, The Art of Walking the Streets of London’ (1716), displays an assured craftsmanship in which rhythm and diction portrays the many experiences he describes. Other notable poems include ‘The Shepherd’s Week’ (1714), a series of mock classical poems in a pastoral setting and the ‘Fables’ (1727), structured as octosyllabic illustrations of moral themes, often satirical in tone. The Delphi Poets Series offers readers the works of literature’s finest poets, with superior formatting. This volume presents Gay’s complete poetical works, with related illustrations and the usual Delphi bonus material. (Version 1)


    * Beautifully illustrated with images relating to Gay’s life and works
    * Concise introduction to Gay’s life and poetry
    * Complete poetical works of John Gay, based on the Lawrence and Bullen Edition, 1893
    * Includes Gay’s famous plays, including all of the ballad operas
    * Images of how the poetry books were first printed, giving your eReader a taste of the original texts
    * Excellent formatting of the poems
    * Special alphabetical contents tables for the poetry
    * Easily locate the poems you want to read
    * Includes Gay’s letters — spend hours exploring the poet’s personal correspondence
    * Gay’s important prose pamphlet ‘The Present State of Wit’
    * Features two biographies, including Samuel Johnson’s famous account of Gay’s life — discover the poet’s intriguing past
    * Scholarly ordering of texts into chronological order and literary genres


    Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to see our wide range of poet titles


    CONTENTS:


    The Life and Poetry of John Gay
    Brief Introduction: John Gay
    Complete Poetical Works of John Gay
    List of Poems in Alphabetical Order


    The Dramatic Works
    The Mohocks
    Three Hours after Marriage
    The Beggar’s Opera
    Polly
    Acis and Galatea
    Achilles


    The Letters
    List of Letters


    The Pamphlet
    The Present State of Wit


    The Biographies
    Gay by Samuel Johnson
    John Gay by Henry Austin Dobson


    Please visit www.delphiclassics.com to browse through our range of poetry titles or buy the entire Delphi Poets Series as a Super Set

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherDelphi Classics Ltd
    Release dateJun 28, 2019
    ISBN9781788779647
    Delphi Complete Poetical Works of John Gay (Illustrated)

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      Book preview

      Delphi Complete Poetical Works of John Gay (Illustrated) - John Gay

      John Gay

      (1685-1732)

      Contents

      The Life and Poetry of John Gay

      Brief Introduction: John Gay

      Complete Poetical Works of John Gay

      List of Poems in Alphabetical Order

      The Dramatic Works

      The Mohocks

      Three Hours after Marriage

      The Beggar’s Opera

      Polly

      Acis and Galatea

      Achilles

      The Letters

      List of Letters

      The Pamphlet

      The Present State of Wit

      The Biographies

      Gay by Samuel Johnson

      John Gay by Henry Austin Dobson

      The Delphi Classics Catalogue

      © Delphi Classics 2019

      Version 1

      Browse the entire series…

      John Gay

      By Delphi Classics, 2019

      COPYRIGHT

      John Gay - Delphi Poets Series

      First published in the United Kingdom in 2019 by Delphi Classics.

      © Delphi Classics, 2019.

      All rights reserved.  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form other than that in which it is published.

      ISBN: 978 1 78877 964 7

      Delphi Classics

      is an imprint of

      Delphi Publishing Ltd

      Hastings, East Sussex

      United Kingdom

      Contact: sales@delphiclassics.com

      www.delphiclassics.com

      NOTE

      When reading poetry on an eReader, it is advisable to use a small font size and landscape mode, which will allow the lines of poetry to display correctly.

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      Then you’ll love these eBooks…

      For the first time in digital publishing history, Delphi Classics is proud to present the complete works of these important poets.

      Explore the Age of Enlightenment at Delphi Classics

      The Life and Poetry of John Gay

      Barnstaple, the principal town of North Devon, England — Gay’s birthplace

      ‘The Strand, Barnstaple’ by Joseph Kennedy, c.1850

      Brief Introduction: John Gay

      From ‘1911 Encyclopædia Britannica, Volume 11’

      JOHN GAY (1685–1732), English poet, was baptized on the 16th of September 1685 at Barnstaple, where his family had long been settled. He was educated at the grammar school of the town under Robert Luck, who had published some Latin and English poems. On leaving school he was apprenticed to a silk mercer in London, but being weary, according to Dr Johnson, of either the restraint or the servility of his occupation, he soon returned to Barnstaple, where he spent some time with his uncle, the Rev. John Hanmer, the Nonconformist minister of the town. He then returned to London, and though no details are available for his biography until the publication of Wine in 1708, the account he gives in Rural Sports (1713), of years wasted in attending on courtiers who were profuse in promises never kept, may account for his occupations. Among his early literary friends were Aaron Hill and Eustace Budgell. In The Present State of Wit (171 1) Gay attempted to give an account of all our periodical papers, whether monthly, weekly or diurnal. He especially praised the Taller and the Spectator, and Swift, who knew nothing of the authorship of the pamphlet, suspected it to be inspired by Steele and Addison. To Liutot’s Miscellany (1712) Gay contributed An Epistle to Bernard Lintot, containing some lines in praise of Pope, and a version of the story of Arachne from the sixth book of the Metamorphoses of Ovid. In the same year he was received into the household of the duchess of Monmouth as secretary, a connexion which was, however, broken before June 1714.

      The dedication of his Rural Sports (1713) to Pope was the beginning of a lasting friendship. Gay could have no pretensions to rivalry with Pope, who seems never to have tired of helping his friend. In 171 3 he produced a comedy, The Wife of Bath, which was acted only three nights, and The Fan, one of his least successful poems; and in 1714 The Shepherd’s Week, a series of six pastorals drawn from English rustic life. Pope had urged him to undertake this last task in order to ridicule the Arcadian pastorals of Ambrose Philips, who had been praised by the Guardian, to the neglect of Pope’s claims as the first pastoral writer of the age and the true English Theocritus. Gay’s pastorals completely achieved this object, but his ludicrous pictures of the English swains and their loves were found to be abundantly entertaining on their own account. Gay had just been appointed secretary to the British ambassador to the court of Hanover through the influence of Jonathan Swift, when the death of Queen Anne three months later put an end to all his hopes of official employment. In 1715, probably with some help from Pope, he produced What d’ye call it? a dramatic skit on contemporary tragedy, with special reference to Otway’s Venice Preserved. It left the public so ignorant of its real meaning that Lewis Theobald and Benjamin Griffin (1680-1740) published a Complete Key to what d’ye call it by way of explanation. In 1716 appeared his Trivia, or the Art of Walking the Streets of London, a poem in three books, for which he acknowledged having received several hints from Swift. It contains graphic and humorous descriptions of the London of that period. In January 1717 he produced the comedy of Three Hours after Marriage, which was grossly indecent without being amusing, and was a complete failure. There is no doubt that in this piece he had assistance from Pope and Arbuthnot, but they were glad enough to have it assumed that Gay was the sole author.

      Gay had numerous patrons, and in 1720 he published Poems on Several Occasions by subscription, realizing 1000 or more. In that year James Craggs, the secretary of state, presented him with some South Sea stock. Gay, disregarding the prudent advice of Pope and other of his friends, invested his all in South Sea stock, and, holding on to the end, he lost everything. The shock is said to have made him dangerously ill. As a matter of fact Gay had always been a spoilt child, who expected everything to be done for him. His friends did not fail him at this juncture. He had patrons in William Pulteney, afterwards earl of Bath, in the third earl of Burlington, who constantly entertained him at Chiswick or at Burlington House, and in the third earl of Queensberry. He was a frequent visitor with Pope, and received unvarying kindness from Congreve and Arbuthnot. In 1724 he produced a tragedy called The Captives. In 1727 he wrote for Prince William, afterwards duke of Cumberland, his famous Fifty-one Fables in Verse, for which he naturally hoped to gain some preferment, although he has much to say in them of the servility of courtiers and the vanity of court honours. He was offered the situation of gentleman-usher to the Princess Louisa, who was still a child. He refused this offer, which all his friends seem to have regarded, for no very obvious reason, as an indignity. As the Fables were written for the amusement of one royal child, there would appear to have been a measure of reason in giving him a sinecure in the service of another. His friends thought him unjustly neglected by the court, but he had already received (1722) a sinecure as lottery commissioner with a salary of £150 a year, and from 1722 to 1729 he had lodgings in the palace at Whitehall. He had never rendered any special services to the court.

      He certainly did nothing to conciliate the favour of the government by his next production, the Beggars’ Opera, a lyrical drama produced on the 29th of January 1728 by Rich, in which Sir Robert Walpole was caricatured. This famous piece, which was said to have made Rich gay and Gay rich, was an innovation in many respects, and for a time it drove Italian opera off the English stage. Under cover of the thieves and highwaymen who figured in it was disguised a satire on society, for Gay made it plain that in describing the moral code of his characters he had in mind the corruptions of the governing class. Part of the success of the Beggars’ Opera may have been due to the acting of Lavinia Fenton, afterwards duchess of Bolton, in the part of Polly Peachum. The play ran for sixty-two nights, though the representations, four of which were benefits of the author, were not, as has sometimes been stated, consecutive. Swift is said to have suggested the subject, and Pope and Arbuthnot were constantly consulted while the work was in progress, but Gay must be regarded as the sole author. He wrote a sequel, Polly, the representation of which was forbidden by the lord chamberlain, no doubt through the influence of Walpole. This act of oppression caused no loss to Gay. It proved an excellent advertisement for Polly, which was published by subscription in 1729, and brought its author more than £1000. The duchess of Queensberry was dismissed from court for enlisting subscribers in the palace. The duke of Queensberry gave him a home, and the duchess continued her affectionate patronage until Gay’s death, which took place on the 4th of December 1732. He was buried in Westminster Abbey. The epitaph on his tomb is by Pope, and is followed by Gay’s own mocking couplet:

      "Life is a jest, and all things show it,

      I thought so once, and now I know it."

      Actis and Galatea, an English pastoral opera, the music of which was written by Handel, was produced at the Haymarket in 1732. The profits of his posthumous opera of Achilles (1733), and a new volume of Fables (1738) went to his two sisters, who inherited from him a fortune of £6000. He left two other pieces, The Distressed Wife (1743), a comedy, and The Rehearsal at Goatham (1754), a farce. The Fables, slight as they may appear, cost him more labour than any of his other works. The narratives are in nearly every case original, and are told in clear and lively verse. The moral which rounds off each little story is never strained. They are masterpieces in their kind, and the very numerous editions of them prove their popularity. They have been translated into Latin, French and Italian, Urdu and Bengali.

      An alleged portrait of Gay by Godfrey Kneller, c. 1723

      William Congreve in 1709 by Godfrey Kneller — the famous playwright and fellow poet, Congreve was a great friend and supporter of Gay.

      Portrait of the Duke of Cumberland the Robes of the Order of the Garter by Sir Joshua Reynolds, 1758.  In 1727 Gay wrote for six-year-old Prince William, later the Duke of Cumberland, ‘Fifty-one Fables in Verse’, for which he hoped to gain a preferment.

      Portrait of Alexander Pope by the studio of Godfrey Kneller, c. 1716.  The leading poet of the Augustan age, Pope would become Gay’s greatest friend and supporter.

      John Rich (1692–1761) was an important director and theatre manager in eighteenth century London. He opened the New Theatre at Lincoln’s Inn Fields (1714), which he managed until he opened the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden (1732). In 1728 Rich produced ‘The Beggar’s Opera’, which ran so successfully, with 62 performances, that it was famously said the play made Gay rich and Rich gay.

      Complete Poetical Works of John Gay

      LAWRENCE AND BULLEN EDITION, 1893

      CONTENTS

      Wine. A Poem

      Wine.

      Rural Sports: A Georgic

      Rural Sports. Canto I

      Rural Sports. Canto II

      The Fan

      PREFACE

      THE PROEME.

      THE FAN. BOOK I.

      THE FAN. BOOK II.

      THE FAN. BOOK III.

      The Shepherd’s Week

      Prologue

      Monday; Or The Squabble

      Tuesday; Or, The Ditty

      Wednesday; Or, The Dumps

      Thursday; Or, The Spell

      Friday; Or, The Dirge

      Saturday; Or, The Flights

      Trivia; Or The Art Of Walking The Streets Of London

      Advertisement

      Book I

      Book II

      Book III

      Epistles and Epistolary Verse

      ON A MISCELLANY OF POEMS TO BERNARD LINTOTT

      EPIGRAMMATICAL PETITION.

      A LETTER TO A LADY

      AN EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE EARL OF BURLINGTON

      EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE WILLIAM PULTENEY, ESQ.

      EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE PAUL METHUEN, ESQ.

      TO MY INGENIOUS AND WORTHY FRIEND W — L — , ESQ.

      MR. POPE’S WELCOME FROM GREECE

      A PANEGYRICAL EPISTLE TO MR. THOMAS SNOW, GOLDSMITH, NEAR TEMPLE BAR

      AN EPISTLE TO HER GRACE, HENRIETTA, DUCHESS OF MARLBOROUGH

      TO A YOUNG LADY WITH SOME LAMPREYS

      TO A LADY ON HER PASSION FOR OLD CHINA

      Eclogues

      BIRTH OF THE SQUIRE

      THE TOILETTE

      THE TEA-TABLE

      THE FUNERAL

      THE ESPOUSAL

      Translations

      THE STORY OF ARACHNE

      OVID’S ‘METAMORPHOSES’. THE NINTH BOOK

      THE STORY OF ACHELOÜS AND HERCULES

      THE DEATH OF NESSUS THE CENTAUR

      THE DEATH OF HERCULES

      THE TRANSFORMATION OF LYCHAS INTO A ROCK

      THE APOTHEOSIS OF HERCULES.

      THE TRANSFORMATION OF GALANTHIS

      THE STORY OF IOLÀÜS RESTORED TO YOUTH

      THE PROPHECY OF THEMIS

      THE DEBATE OF THE GODS

      Prologues and Epilogues

      PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES

      ‘THE MOHOCKS’ (1712)

      THE PROLOGUE

      THE EPILOGUE

      ‘THE WIFE OF BATH’ (1713)

      PROLOGUE

      EPILOGUE

      ‘THE WHAT D’YE CALL IT’ (1715)

      THE PROLOGUE

      EPILOGUE

      ‘THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE’ (1717)

      PROLOGUE

      EPILOGUE

      PROLOGUE

      ‘THE CAPTIVES’ (1724)

      PROLOGUE

      EPILOGUE

      ‘ACHILLES: AN OPERA’ (1733)

      PROLOGUE

      The Fables.

      INTRODUCTION.

      THE FABLES. PART I.

      FABLE I.

      FABLE II.

      FABLE III.

      FABLE IV.

      FABLE V.

      FABLE VI.

      FABLE VII.

      FABLE VIII.

      FABLE IX.

      FABLE X.

      FABLE XI.

      FABLE XII.

      FABLE XIII.

      FABLE XIV.

      FABLE XV.

      FABLE XVI.

      FABLE XVII.

      FABLE XVIII.

      FABLE XIX.

      FABLE XX.

      FABLE XXI.

      FABLE XXII.

      FABLE XXIII.

      FABLE XXIV.

      FABLE XXV.

      FABLE XXVI.

      FABLE XXVII.

      FABLE XXVIII.

      FABLE XXIX.

      FABLE XXX.

      FABLE XXXI.

      FABLE XXXII.

      FABLE XXXIII.

      FABLE XXXIV.

      FABLE XXXV.

      FABLE XXXVI.

      FABLE XXXVII.

      FABLE XXXVIII.

      FABLE XXXIX.

      FABLE XL.

      FABLE XLI.

      FABLE XLII.

      FABLE XLIII.

      FABLE XLIV.

      FABLE XLV.

      FABLE XLVI.

      FABLE XLVII.

      FABLE XLVIII.

      FABLE XLIX.

      FABLE L.

      THE FABLES. PART II.

      FABLE I.

      FABLE II.

      FABLE III.

      FABLE IV.

      FABLE V.

      FABLE VI.

      FABLE VII.

      FABLE VIII.

      FABLE IX.

      FABLE X.

      FABLE XI.

      FABLE XII.

      FABLE XIII.

      FABLE XIV.

      FABLE XV.

      FABLE XVI.

      Poems from ‘Gay’s Chair’

      THE LADIES’ PETITION

      TO MISS JANE SCOTT

      PREDICTION

      COMPARISONS

      ABSENCE

      CONGRATULATION

      A DEVONSHIRE HILL

      LETTER TO A YOUNG LADY

      TO MY CHAIR

      MISCELLANEOUS PIECES IN VERSE

      PANTHEA

      ARAMINTA

      A CONTEMPLATION ON NIGHT

      A THOUGHT ON ETERNITY

      AN ELEGY ON A LAP-DOG

      A RECEIPT FOR STEWING VEAL

      AY AND NO.

      THE QUIDNUNCKI’S

      VERSES TO BE PLACED UNDER THE PICTURE OF ENGLAND’S ARCH-POET

      EPITAPH OF BYE-WORDS

      MY OWN EPITAPH

      SONGS AND BALLADS

      SWEET WILLIAM’S FAREWELL TO BLACK-EYED SUSAN

      THE LADY’S LAMENTATION

      DAMON AND CUPID

      DAPHNIS AND CHLOE

      THE COQUET MOTHER AND HER DAUGHTER

      NEWGATE’S GARLAND

      MOLLY MOG, OR, THE FAIR MAID OF THE INN

      A NEW SONG OF NEW SIMILES

      A BALLAD ON ALE

      Songs from the Plays

      Songs from ‘The Mohocks’ (1712)

      I. A SONG (SCENE I.)

      II. CHORUS IN SCENE II.

      Songs from ‘The Wife of Bath’ (1713)

      I. SONG [Alison (‘The Wife of Bath) I. 1.]

      II. A TOAST [Alison. Act II.1

      III. STANZAS, UPON A FAIR LADY MAKING ME HAPPY

      IV. VERSES [Read by Chaucer. Act V. Sc 1.]

      V. SONG [Alison. Act V.]

      Songs from ‘The What D’ye Call It’ (1715)

      I. A SONG (Sung dismally by a Ghost)

      II. A BALLAD (Sung by Susan)

      Song from ‘The Beggar’s Opera’ (1728)

      AIR I. PEACHUM

      AIR II. FILCH

      AIR III. MRS. PRACHUM

      AIR IV. MRS. PEACHUM

      AIR V. MRS. PEACHUM

      AIR VI. POLLY

      AIR VII. MRS. PEACHUM

      AIR VIII. POLLY

      AIR IX. MRS. PEACHUM AND POLLY

      AIR X. POLLY

      AIR XI. PEACHUM

      AIR XII. POLLY

      AIR XIII. POLLY

      AIR XIV. MACHEATH AND POLLY

      AIR XV. MACHEATH

      AIR XVI. MACHEATH AND POLLY

      AIR XVII. POLLY

      AIR XVIII. MACHEATH AND POLLY

      ACT II

      AIR I. MATT

      AIR II. MARCH IN RINALDO WITH DRUMS AND TRUMPETS

      AIR III. MACHEATH

      AIR IV. MACHEATH AND LADIES

      AIR V. JENNY

      AIR VI. JENNY

      AIR VII. MACHEATH

      AIR VIII. MACHEATH

      AIR IX. LUCY

      AIR X. LUCY

      AIR XI. MACHEATH

      AIR XII. LOCKIT

      AIR XIII. LUCY

      AIR XIV. LOCKIT

      AIR XV. MACHEATH

      AIR XVI. POLLY

      AIR XVII. MACHEATH

      AIR XVIII. POLLY AND LUCY

      AIR XIX. POLLY

      AIR XX. LUCY AND POLLY

      AIR XXI. POLLY

      AIR XXII. LUCY

      ACT III

      AIR I. LUCY

      AIR II. LUCY

      AIR III. LOCKIT

      AIR IV. MACHEATH

      AIR V. LOCKIT

      AIR VI. TRAPES

      AIR VII. LUCY

      AIR VIII. LUCY

      AIR IX. POLLY AND LUCY

      AIR X. POLLY

      AIR XI. LUCY

      AIR XII. POLLY AND LUCY

      AIR XIII. MACHEATH,

      AIR XIV. POLLY

      AIR XV. LUCY

      AIR XVI. LOCKIT

      AIR XVII. MACHEATH

      AIRS XVIII. TO XXVII. (MEDLEY). MACHEATH

      AIR XXVIII. LUCY, POLLY AND MACHEATH

      AIR XXIX. MACHEATH

      Songs from ‘Polly’ (1729)

      AIR I. TRAPES

      AIR II. DUCAT AND TRAPES

      AIR III. DUCAT

      AIR IV. FLIMZY

      AIR V. TRAPES

      AIR VI. POLLY

      AIR VII. POLLY

      AIR VIII. TRAPES

      AIR IX. MRS. DUCAT

      AIR X. DUCAT

      AIR XI. DUCAT AND MRS. DUCAT

      AIR XII. DAMARIS

      AIR XIII. POLLY

      AIR XIV. POLLY AND DUCAT

      AIR XV. DUCAT

      AIR XVI. POLLY

      AIR XVII. DUCAT, MRS. DUCAT AND SERVANT

      AIR XVIII. DAMARIS

      AIR XIX. MRS. DUCAT

      AIR XX. DAMARIS

      AIR XXI. POLLY

      ACT II

      AIR XXII. POLLY

      AIR XXIII. POLLY

      AIR XXIV. CUTLACE

      AIR XXV. LAGUKRRE

      AIR XXVI. HACKER

      AIR XXVII. POLLY

      AIR XXVIII. CULVERIN

      AIR XXIX. MORANO

      AIR XXX. MORANO AND JENNY

      AIR XXXI. JENNY

      AIR XXXII. VANDBRBLUFF

      AIR XXXIII. MORANO

      AIR XXXIV. POLLY

      AIR XXXV. JENNY

      AIR XXXVI. JENNY AND POLLY

      AIR XXXVII. JENNY

      AIR XXXVIII. MORANO

      AIR XXXIX. JENNY

      AIR XL. CAWWAWKEE

      AIR XLI. CAWWAWKEE

      AIR XLII. JENNY

      RECITATIVE. MORANO

      AIR XLIII. MORANO

      AIR XLIV. JENNY

      AIR XLV. VANDERBLUFF

      AIR XLVI. MORANO, VANDERBLUFF AND JENNY

      AIR XLVII. CAWWAWKEE

      AIR XLVIII. POLLY

      AIR XLIX. DUCAT

      AIR L. CAWWAWKEE

      AIR LI. FIRST AND SECOND PIRATE

      AIR LII. MORANO AND THE FIRST PIRATE

      AIR LIII. MORANO, VANDERBLUFF AND FIRST PIRATE

      AIR LIV. CAWWAWKEE

      AIR LV. MORANO

      AIR LVI. DUCAT

      AIR LVII. CAWWAWKEE

      AIR LVIII. POLLY and CAWWAWKEE

      AIR LIX. MORANO

      AIR LX. MORANO

      AIR LXI. MORANO

      AIR LXII. CAWWAWKEE AND POLLY

      AIR LXIII. POLLY

      AIR LXIV. POLLY

      AIR LXV. CAWWAWKEE

      AIR LXVI. JENNY

      AIR LXVII. POLLY

      AIR LXVIII. POLLY

      AIR LXIX. CAWWAWKEE and POLLY

      AIR LXX. POLLY

      AIR LXXI. A DANCE

      Songs from ‘Achilles’ (1733)

      AIR I. ACHILLES

      AIR II. THETIS

      AIR III. ACHILLES

      AIR IV. ACHILLES

      AIR V. THETIS

      AIR VI. THETIS AND LYCOMEDES

      AIR VII. DIPHILUS

      AIR VIII. LYCOMEDES

      AIR IX. DIPHILUS

      AIR X. LYCOMEDES

      AIR XI. THEASPE

      AIR XII. LYCOMEDBS AND THEASPE

      AIR XIII. THEASPE (Wiping)

      AIR XIV. THEASPE (Angry)

      AIR XV. LYCOMEDES

      AIR XVI. LYCOMEDES

      AIR XVII. ARTEMONA

      AIR XVIII. THRASPE

      AIR XIX. ARTEMONA

      ACT II

      AIR XX. DIPHILUS (offering Achilles the ring a second time)

      AIR XXI. ACHILLES

      AIR XXII. LYCOMEDRS

      AIR XXIII. LYCOMEDES

      AIR XXIV. ACHILLES

      AIR XXV. LYCOMEDES

      AIR XXVI. LYCOMEDES and ACHILLES

      AIR XXVII. ACHILLES (Holding Lycomedes down)

      AIR XXVIII. LYCOMEDES

      AIR XXIX. THEASPE and LYCOMEDES

      AIR XXX. LYCOMEDES

      AIR XXXI. THEASPE

      AIR XXXII. ACHILLES

      AIR XXXIII. DEIDAMIA

      AIR XXXIV. ACHILLES and DEIDAMIA

      AIR XXXV. DEIDAMIA

      AIR XXXVI. ACHILLES

      AIR XXXVII. ACHILLES AND DEIDAMIA

      ACT III

      AIR XXXVIII. THEASPE

      AIR XXXIX. THEASPE

      AIR XL. AJAX

      AIR XLI. PERIPHAS

      AIR XLII. PERIPHAS AND AJAX

      AIR XLIII. PERIPHAS

      AIR XLIV. PHILOE

      AIR XLV. ARTEMONA

      AIR XLVI. DIOMEDES

      AIR XLVII. ULYSSES, DIOMEDES, ACHILLES AND AGYRTES

      AIR XLVIII. ACHILLES

      AIR XLIX. ACHILLES

      AIR L. ACHILLES, ULYSSES AND DEIDAMIA

      AIR LI. PERIPHAS, AJAX, ULYSSES AND DIOMEDES

      AIR LII. DEIDAMIA

      AIR LIII. A DANCE

      AIR LIV. ULYSSES

      Wine. A Poem

      THE following reference to Wine is contained in a letter written by Aaron Hill to Savage (June 23,1736):— ‘That poem you speak of called Wine he [Gay] printed in the year 1710, as I remember: I am sure I have one among my pamphlets.... I will look for it and send it you, if ‘twill be of any use or satisfaction to any gentleman of your acquaintance.’ (Hill’s Works, i. 338.) The poem was, in point of fact, printed two years earlier, as the following advertisement, published in the Daily Courant of May 22, 2708, and repeated on the 25th, clearly shows: ‘Just published, Wine. A Poem. Printed for Wm. Keble at the Black-spread-eagle in Westminster Hall. Where also may be had the celebrated speeches of Ajax and Ulysses for the Armour of Achilles in the 23th Book of Ovid’s Metamorphosis. Essay’d in English verse by Mr. Tate, Poet Laureat, and Aaron Hill, Gent.’ It was pirated not long afterwards by the notorious Henry Hills of Blackfriars, whose dishonesty in this connection may have prompted Gay’s subsequent reference to ‘ Pirate Hills’ brown sheets and scurvy letter.’ (See On a Miscellany of Poems, at p. 278 of this volume.) Wine did not find a place among Gay’s collected poems of 1720, perhaps, as Mr. Austin Dobson suggests, because it was in blank verse. It was, however, included in the collection of his works published by John Bell in 1773, where it is said to be printed from a copy of the original edition. A pirated reprint by Hills (1709) may be seen at the Forster Library, South Kensington. It differs slightly from the version given in Bell’s edition, and reproduced here; but the variations are, for the most part, unimportant.

      Wine.

      Nulla placere diu, nec vivere carmina possun,

      Qua scribuntur aqua potoribus. — HOR.

      Of Happiness Terrestrial, and the Source

      Whence human pleasures flow, sing Heavenly Muse,

      Of sparkling juices, of th’ enliv’ning Grape,

      Whose quickning tast adds vigour to the Soul,

      Whose sov’raign pow’r revives decaying nature,   5

      And thaws the frozen Blood of hoary Age

      A kindly warmth diffusing, Youthful fires

      Gild his dim Eyes, and paint with ruddy hue

      His wrizzled Visage, ghastly wan before:

      Cordial restorative, to mortal Man   10

      With copious Hand by bounteous Gods bestow’d.

      BACCHUS Divine, aid my adventrous Song,

      That with no middle flight intends to soar

      Inspir’d, Sublime on Pegasean Wing

      By thee upborn, I draw Miltonic Air.   15

      When fumy Vapours clog our loaded Brows

      With furrow’d Frowns, when stupid downcast Eyes

      Th’ external Symptoms of remorse within,

      Our Grief express, or when in sullen Dumps

      With Head Incumbent on Expanded Palm,   20

      Moaping we sit in silent sorrow drown’d:

      Whether Inviegling Hymen has trappand

      Th’ unwary Youth, and ty’d the Gordian Knot

      Of jangling Wedlock, Indissoluble;

      Worried all Day by loud Xantippes Din,   25

      And when the gentle Dew of sleep inclines

      With slumbrous weight his Eye-lids, She inflam’d

      With Uncloy’d Lust, and itch Insatiable,

      His Stock exhausted, still yells on for more;

      Nor fails She to Exalt him to the Stars,   30

      And fix him there among the Branched Crew

      (Taurus, and Aries, and Capricorn,)

      The greatest Monster of the Zodiac;

      Or for the loss of Anxious Worldly Pelf,

      Or Celia’s scornful slights, and cold disdain   35

      Had check’d his Am’rous flame with coy repulse,

      The worst Events that Mortals can befall;

      By cares depress’d, in pensive Hypoish Mood,

      With slowest pace, the tedious Minuits Roll.

      Thy charming sight, but much more charming Gust   40

      New Life incites, and warms our chilly Blood,

      Strait with pert Looks, we raise our drooping fronts,

      And pour in Chrystal pure, thy purer juice,

      With chearful Countenance, and steady Hand

      Raise it Lip-high, then fix the spatious Rim   45

      T’ expecting Mouth, and now with Grateful tast,

      The ebbing Wine glides swiftly o’er the Tongue,

      The circling Blood with quicker motion flies;

      Such is thy pow’rful influence, thou strait

      Dispell’d those Clouds that lowring dark eclips’d   50

      The whilom Glories of our gladsom Face,

      And dimpled Cheeks, and sparkling rolling Eyes,

      Thy chearing Virtues, and thy worth proclaim.

      So Mists and Exhalations that arise

      From Hills or steamy Lake, Dusky or Gray   55

      Prevail, till Phoebus sheds Titanian Rays,

      And paints their Fleecy skirts with shining Gold;

      Unable to resist, the Foggy damps

      That veild the surface of the verdant Fields,

      At the Gods penetrating Beams dispense:   60

      The Earth again in former Beauty smiles,

      In gaudiest Livery drest, all Gay and Clear.

      When disappointed Strephon meets Repulse,

      Scofft at, despis’d, in Melancholic mood

      Joyless he wasts in sighs the lazy Hours,   65

      Till Reinforc’t by thy Almighty aid,

      He Storms the Breach, and Wins the Beauteous Fort.

      To pay Thee Homage, and receive Thy Blessings,

      The British Marriner quits native shore,

      And ventures through the tractless vast Abyss,   70

      Plowing the Ocean, whilst the Upheav’d Oak

      With beaked Prow, Rides tilting ore the Waves;

      Shockt by Tempestuous jarring Winds she Rolls

      In dangers Imminent, till she arrives

      At those blest Climes, thou favourst with thy presence;

      Whether, at Lusitanian sultry Coasts,   75

      Or lofty Teneriff, Palma, Ferro,

      Provence, Or at the Celtiberian Shores;

      With gazing Pleasure, and Astonishment

      At Paradice, (Seat of our antient sire,)

      He thinks himself arriv’d, the Purple Grape

      In largest Clusters Pendant, Grace the Vines   80

      Innumerous, in Fields Grottesque and Wild

      They with Implicit Curles the Oak entwine,

      And load with Fruit Divine Her spreading Boughs;

      Sight most delicious, not an Irksom Thought,

      Or of left native Isle, or absent Friends,   85

      Or dearest Wife, or tender sucking Babe,

      His kindly treach’rous Mem’ry now presents;

      The Jovial GOD has left no room for Cares.

      CELESTIAL Liquor, thou that didst inspire

      Maro and Flaccus, and the Grecian Bard,   90

      With lofty Numbers, and Heroic strains

      Unparelell’d,with Eloquence profound,

      And Arguments Convincive didst enforce

      Fam’d Tully, and Demosthenes Renown’d:

      Ennius first Fam’d in Latin Song, in vain   95

      Drew Heliconian streams, Ungrateful whet

      To Jaded Muse, and oft’ with vain attempt

      Heroic Acts in Flagging Numbers dull

      With pains essay’d, but abject still and low,

      His Unrecruited Muse could never reach

      The mighty Theme, till from the Purple Font   100

      Of bright Lenaean fire, Her barren drought

      He quench’d, and with inspiring Nect’rous Juice

      Her drooping Spirits chear’d, aloft she towres

      Born on stiff Pennons, and of Wars alarms,

      And Trophies won, in loftiest Numbers sings:

      Tis thou the Hero’s breast to Martial Acts,

      And resolution bold, and ardour brave

      Excit’st, thou check’st Inglorious lolling ease,

      And sluggish Minds with gen’rous fires inflam’st,

      O thou, that first my quickned Soul engag’d,

      Still with thy aid assist me, What is dark

      Illumin, What is low raise and support,

      That to the height of this great Argument,

      Thy Universal Sway o’re all the World,

      In everlasting Numbers, like the Theme

      I may record, and sing thy Matchless Worth.

      Had the Oxonian Bard thy Praise rehears’d,

      His Muse had yet retain’d her wonted height;

      Such as of late o’re Blenheims Field she soard

      Aerial, now in Ariconian Bogs

      She lies Inglorious floundring, like her Theme

      Languid and Faint, and on damp Wing immerg’d

      In acid juice, in vain attempts to rise.

      With what sublimest Joy from noisy Town,

      At Rural Seat, Lucretius retir’d,

      Flaccus, untainted by perplexing Cares,

      Where the white Poplar, and the lofty Pine

      Join Neighbouring Boughs, sweet Hospitable shade

      Creating, from Phoebean Rays secure,

      A cool Retreat, with few well chosen Friends

      On flowry Mead Recumbent, spent the Hours

      In Mirth innocuous, and Alternate Verse!

      With Roses Interwoven, Poplar wreaths

      Their Temples bind, dress of Sylvestrian Gods;

      Choicest Nectarian juice Crown’d largest Bowles,

      And Overlook’d the lid, alluring sight,

      Of fragrant Scent attractive, tast Divine!

      Whether from Formian Grape depress’d, Falern

      Or Setin, Massic, Gauran or Sabine,

      Lesbian or Caecuban, the chearing Bowl

      Mov’d briskly round, and spur’d their heightned Wit

      To Sing Mecaenas praise their Patron kind.

      But we, not as our Pristin sires, repair

      T’ umbrageous Grot or Vale, but when the Sun

      Faintly from Western Skies his rays oblique

      Darts sloping, and to Thetis watry Lap

      Hastens in Prone Career, with Friends Select

      Swiftly we hie to Devil Young or Old

      Jocund and Boon, where at the entrance stands

      A Stripling, who with Scrapes and Humil Cringe,

      Greets us in winning Speech and Accent Bland;

      With lightest bound, and safe unerring step

      He skips before, and nimbly climbs the Stairs:

      Melampus thus, panting with lolling Tongue,

      And wagging Tail, Gamboles, and frisks before

      His sequel Lord from pensive walk return’d,

      Whether in Shady Wood, or Pastures Green,

      And waits his coming at the well known Gate.

      Nigh to the Stairs Ascent, in regal Port

      Sits a Majestic Dame, whose looks denounce

      Command and Sov’reignty, with haughty Air,

      And Studied Mien, in Semicirc’lar Throne

      Enclos’d, she deals around her dread Commands;

      Behind her (Dazling sight) in order Rang’d,

      Pile above Pile Chrystallin Vessels shine;

      Attendant Slaves with eager stride advance,

      And after Homage paid, bawl out aloud

      Words Unintelligible, noise confus’d:

      She knows the Jargon Sound, and strait describes

      In Characters Mysterious Words obscure;

      More legible are Algebraic Signs,

      Or Mystic Figures by Magicians drawn,

      When thy Invoke aid Diabolical.

      Drive hence the Rude and Barb’rous Dissonance

      Of Savage Thracians, and Croatian Boors;

      The loud Centaurean Broiles with Lapithae

      Sound harsh, and grating to Lenaean God:

      Chase brutal Feuds of Belgian skippers hence,

      (Amid their Cups, whose Innate Tempers shown)

      In clumsy Fist wielding Scymetrian Knife,

      Who slash each others Eyes, and Blubber’d Face,

      Prophaning Bacchanalian solemn rites:

      Musicks Harmonious Numbers better suit

      His Festivalls, from Instrument or Voice,

      Or Gasperini’s Hand the trembling string

      Should touch, or from the Tuscan Dames,

      Or warbling TOFTS more soft Melodious Tongue

      Sweet Symphonies should flow, the Delian God

      For Airy BACCHUS is Associate meet.

      The Stairs Ascent now gain’d, our Guide unbars

      The Door of Spatious Room, and creaking Chairs

      (To ear offensive) round the Table sets,

      We sit, when thus his Florid Speech begins:

      Name, Sirs, the WINE that most invites your Tast,

      Champaign or Burgundy, or Florence pure,

      Or Hock Antique, or Lisbon New or Old,

      Bourdeaux, or neat French Wine, or Alicant:

      For Bourdeaux we with Voice Unanimous

      Declare, (such Sympathy’s in Boon Compeers.)

      He quits the Room Alert, but soon returns,

      One Hand Capacious glist’ring Vessels bore

      Resplendant, th’ other with a grasp secure,

      A Bottle (mighty charge) upstaid, full Fraught

      With goodly Wine, He with extended Hand

      Rais’d high, pours forth Sanguin frothy Juice,

      O’erspread with Bubbles, dissipated soon:

      We strait t’ our Arms repair, experienc’t Chiefs;

      Now Glasses clash with Glasses, (charming sound,)

      And Glorious ANNA’S Health the first the best

      Crowns the full Glass, at HER inspiring Name

      The sprightly Wine Results, and seems to Smile,

      With hearty Zeal, and wish Unanimous

      The Health we Drink, and in HER Health our own.

      A Pause ensues, and now with grateful Chat

      We improve the Interval, and Joyous Mirth

      Engages our rais’d Souls, Pat Repartee,

      Or Witty Joke our airy Senses moves

      To pleasant Laughter, strait the Ecchoing Room

      With Universal Peals and Shouts Resounds.

      The ROYAL DANE, blest Consort of blest QUEEN,

      Next Crowns the Rubied Nectar, all whose Bliss

      In ANNA’S Plac’t, with Sympathetic Flame,

      And Mutual Endearments, all HER Joys,

      Like the kind Turtles pure untainted Love,

      Center in HIM, who shares the grateful Hearts

      Of Loyal Subjects, with his Sov’reign QUEEN,

      For by HIS Prudent Care, united shores

      Were sav’d from Hostile Fleets Invasion dire.

      The Hero MALBRO next, whose vast Exploits

      Fames Clarion sounds, fresh Laurels, Triumphs new

      We wish, like those HE won at Hockstets Field.

      Next DEVONSHIRE Illustrious, who from Race

      Of Noblest Patriots sprung, whose Souls Endow’d,

      And is with ev’ry Vertuous gift Adorn’d

      That shon in His most worthy Ancestors,

      For then distinct in sep’rate Breasts were seen

      Virtues distinct, but all in HIM Unite.

      Prudent GODOLPHIN, of the Nations weal

      Frugal, but free and gen’rous of his own

      Next Crowns the Bowl, with Faithful SUNDERLAND,

      And HALIFAX, the Muses darling Song,

      In whom Conspicuous, with full Lustre shine

      The surest Judgment, and the brightest Wit,

      Himself Mecaenas and a Flaccus too,

      And all the Worthies of the British Realm

      In order rang’d succeeded, Healths that ting’d

      The Dulcet Wine, with a more charming Gust.

      Now each the Mistress by whose scorching Eyes

      Fird, tosts Cosmelia Fair, or Dulcibella,

      Or Sylvia Comely Black, with jetty Eyes

      Piercing, or Airy Celia sprightly Maid.

      Insensibly thus flow Unnumber’d Hours;

      Glass succeeds Glass, till the DIRCAEAN GOD

      Shines in our Eyes, and with his Fulgent Rays

      Enlightens our glad Looks with lovely Die;

      All Blithe and Jolly that like Arthurs Knights

      Of Rotund Fable, Fam’d in Pristin Records,

      Now most we seem’d, such is the Power of Wine.

      Thus we the winged Hours in harmless Mirth,

      And Joys Unsully’d pass, till Humid Night

      Has half her Race perform’d, now all Abroad

      Is hush’d and silent, nor the Rumbling noise

      Of Coach or Cart, or smoaky Link-Boys call

      Is heard; but Universal silence Reigns:

      When we in Merry Plight, Airy and Gay,

      Surpriz’d to find the Hours so swiftly flie,

      With hasty knock, or Twang of Pendant Cord

      Alarm the drowsy Youth from slumb’ring Nod;

      Startled he flies, and stumbles o’er the Stairs

      Erroneous, and with busie Knuckles plies

      His yet clung Eye-lids, and with stagg’ring Reel

      Enters Confus’d, and Mutt’ring asks our Wills;

      When we with Lib’ral Hand the Score discharge,

      And Homeward each his Course with steady step

      Unerring steer’d, of Cares and Coin bereft.

      Rural Sports: A Georgic

      Rural Sports. Canto I

      You, who the sweets of rural life have known,

      Despise the ungrateful hurry of the town;

      In Windsor groves your easy hours employ,

      And, undistub’d, yourself and muse enjoy.

      Thames, listens to thy strains, and silent flows,

      And no rude winds through rustling osiers blows,

      While all his wondering nymphs around thee throng,

      To hear the Syrens warble in thy song.

      But I, who ne’er was bless’d by fortune’s hand,

      Nor brighten’d plough shares in paternal land,

      Long in the noisy town have been immur’d,

      Respir’d its smoke, and all its cares endur’d,

      Where news and politics divide mankind,

      And schemes of state involve the uneasy mind:

      Faction embroils the world; and every tongue

      Is mov’d by flattery, or with scandal hung:

      Friendship, for sylvan shades, the palace flies,

      Where all must yield to interest’s dearer ties,

      Each rival Machiavel with envy burns,

      And honesty forsakes them all by turns;

      While calumny upon each party’s thrown,

      Which both promote, and both alike disown.

      Fatigu’d at last; a calm retreat I chose,

      And sooth’d my harass’d mind with sweet repose,

      Where fields, and shades, and the refreshing clime,

      Inspire my silvan song, and prompt my rhyme.

      My muse shall rove through flowery meads and plains,

      And deck with rural sports her native strains,

      And the same road ambitiously pursue,

      Frequented by the Mantuan swain, and you.

      ’Tis not that rural sports alone invite,

      But all the grateful country breathes delight;

      Here blooming health exerts her gentle reign,

      And strings the sinews of the industrious swain.

      Soon as the morning lark salutes the day,

      Through dewy fields I take my frequent way,

      Where I behold the farmer’s early care,

      In the revolving labours of the year.

      When the fresh spring in all her state is crown’d,

      And high luxuriant grass o’erspreads the ground,

      The labourer with the bending scythe is seen,

      Shaving the surface of the waving green,

      Of all her native pride disrobes the land,

      And meads lays waste before the sweeping hand:

      While the mounting sun the meadow glows,

      The fading herbage round he loosely throws;

      But if some sign portend a lasting shower,

      The experienc’d swain foresees the coming hour,

      His sun burnt hands the scattering fork forsake,

      And ruddy damsels ply the saving rake;

      In rising hills the fragrant harvest grows,

      And spreads along the field in equal rows.

      Now when the height of heaven bright Phoebus gains,

      And level rays cleave wide the thirsty plains,

      When heifers seek the shade and cooling lake,

      And in the middle path-way basks the snake?

      O lead me, guard me from the sultry hours,

      Hide me, ye forests, in your closet bowers:

      Where the tall oak his spreading arms entwine,,

      And with the beech a mutual shade combines;

      Where flows the murmuring brook, inviting dreams,

      Where bordering hazle overhangs the streams,

      Whose rolling current winding round and round,

      With frequent falls makes all the woods resound,

      Upon the mossy couch my limbs I cast,

      And even at noon the sweets of evening taste.

      Here I peruse the Mantuan’s Georgic strains,

      And learn the labours of Italian swains;

      In every page I see new landscapes rise,

      And all Hesperia opens to my eyes.

      I wander o’er the various rural toil,

      And know the nature of each different soil:

      This waving field is gilded o’er with corn,

      That spreading trees with blushing fruit adorn;

      Here I survey the purple vintage grow,

      Climb round the poles, and rise in graceful row;

      Now I behold the steed curvet and bound,

      And paw with restless hoof the smoking ground:

      The dewlap’d bull now chaffs along the plain,

      While burning love ferments in every vein;

      His well-arm’d front against his rival aims,

      And by the dint of war his mistress claims:

      The careful insect ‘midst his works I view,

      Now from the flowers exhaust the fragrant dew;

      With golden treasures load his little thighs,

      And steer his distant journey through the skies;

      Some against hostile drones the hive defend;

      Others with sweets the waxen cells distend;

      Each in the toil his destin’d office bears,

      And in the little bulk a mighty soul appears.

      Or when the ploughman leaves the task of day,

      And trudging homeward whistles on the way;

      When the big udder’d cows with patience stand,

      Waiting the stroakings of the damsel’s hand;

      No warbling cheers the woods; the feather’d choir

      To court kind slumbers to their sprays retire;

      When no rude gale disturbs the sleeping trees,

      Nor aspen leaves confess the gentlest breeze;

      Engag’d in thought, to Neptune’s bounds I stray,

      To take my farewell of the parting day;

      Far in the deep the sun his glory hides,

      A streak of gold the sea and sky divides;

      The purple clouds their amber lining show,

      And edg’d with flame rolls every wave below:

      Here pensive I behold the fading light,

      And o’er the distant billow lose my sight.

      Now night in the silent state begins to rise

      And twinkling orbs bestrow the uncloudy skies;

      Her borrow’d lustre growing Cynthia lends,

      And on the main a glittering path extends;

      Millions of worlds hang in the spacious air,

      Which round their suns the annual circles steer.

      Sweet contemplation elevates my sense,

      While I survey the works of Providence.

      O would the muse in loftier strains rehearse,

      The glorious Author of the universe,

      Who reins the winds, gives the vast ocean bounds,

      And circumscribes the floating worlds their rounds.

      My soul should overflow in songs of praise,

      And my Creator’s name inspire my lays!

      As in successive course the seasons roll,

      So circling pleasures recreate the soul.

      When genial spring a living warmth bestows,

      And o’er the year her verdant mantle throws,

      No swelling inundation hides the grounds,

      But crystal currents glide within their bounds;

      The finny brood their wonted haunts forsake,

      Float in the sun, and skim along the lake,

      With frequent leap they range the shallow streams,

      Their silver coats reflect the dazzling beams.

      Now let the fisherman his tolls prepare,

      And arm himself with every watery snare;

      His hooks, his lines persue with careful eye,

      Increase his tackle, and his rod re-tie.

      When floating clouds their spongy fleeces drain,

      Troubling the streams with swift-descending rain,

      And waters, tumbling down the mountain’s side,

      Bear the loose soil into the swelling tide;

      Then, soon as vernal gales begin to rise,

      And drive the liquid burthen through the skies,

      The fisher to the neighbouring current speeds,

      Whose rapid surface purls, unknown to weeds;

      Upon a rising border of the brook

      He sits him down, and ties the treacherous hook;

      Now expectation cheers his eager thought,

      His bosom glows with treasures yet uncaught,

      Before his eyes a banquet seems to stand,

      Where every guest applauds his skilful hand.

      Far up the stream the twisted hair he throws,

      Which down the murmuring current gently flows;

      When if or chance or hunger’s powerful sway

      Directs the roving trout this fatal way,

      He greedily sucks in the twining bait,

      And tugs and nibbles the fallacious meat:

      Now, happy fisherman, now twitch the line!

      How thy rod bends! behold, the prize is thine!

      Cast on the bank, he dies with gasping pains,

      And trickling blood his silver mail distains.

      You must not every worm promiscuous use,

      Judgement will tell thee proper bait to choose;

      The worm that draws a long immoderate size

      The trout abhors, and the rank morsel flies;

      And if too small, the naked fraud’s in sight,

      And fear forbids, while hunger does invite.

      Those baits will best reward the fisher’s pains,

      Whose polish’d tails a shining yellow stains.

      Cleanse them from filth, to give a tempting gloss,

      Cherish the sullied reptile race with moss;

      Amid the verdant bed they twine, they toil,

      And from their bodies wipe their native soil.

      But when the sun displays his glorious beams,

      And shallow rivers flow with silver streams,

      Then the deceit the scaly breed survey,

      Bask in the sun, and look into the day.

      You now a more delusive art must try,

      And tempt their hunger with the curious fly.

      To frame the little animal, provide

      All the gay hues that wait on female pride,

      Let nature guide thee; sometimes golden wire

      The shining bellies of the fly require;

      The peacock plumes thy tackle must not fail,

      Nor the drear purchase of the sable’s tail.

      Each gaudy bird some slender tribute brings,

      And lends the growing insect proper wings:

      Silks of all colours must their aid impart,

      And every fur promote the fisher’s art.

      So the gay lady, with expensive care,

      Borrows the pride of land, of sea, and air;

      Furs, pearls, and plumes, the glittering thing displays,

      Dazzles our eyes, and easy hearts betrays.

      Mark well the various seasons of the year,

      How the succeeding insect race appear;

      In this revolving moon one colour reigns,

      Which in the next the fickle trout disdains.

      Oft have I seen a skilful angler try

      The various colours of the treacherous fly;

      When he with fruitless pain hath skimm’d the brook,

      And the coy fish rejects the skipping hooks,

      He shakes the boughs that on the margin grow,

      Which o’er the stream a waving forest throw;

      When if an insect fall, (his certain guide)

      He gently takes him from the whirling tide;

      Examines well his form with curious eyes,

      His gaudy vest, his wings, his horns and size.

      Then round his hook the chosen fur he winds,

      And on the back a speckled feather binds,

      So just the colours shine through every part,

      That nature seems to live again in art.

      Let not thy wary step advance too near,

      While all thy hopes hang on a single hair;

      The new-form’d insect on the water moves,

      The speckled trout the curious snare approves

      Upon the curling surface let it glide,

      With natural motion from thy hand supplied,

      Against the stream now let it gently play,

      Now in the rapid eddy roll away.

      The scaly shoals float by, and seiz’d with fear

      Behold their fellows toss’d in thinner air;

      But soon they leap, and catch the swimming bait,

      Plunge on the hook, and share an equal fate.

      When a brisk gale against the current blows,

      And all the watery plain in wrinkles flows,

      Then let the fisherman his art repeat,

      Where bubbling eddies favour the deceit.

      If an enormous salmon chance to spy

      The wanton errors of the floating fly,

      He lifts his silver gills above the flood,

      And greedily sucks in the unfaithful food;

      Then downward plunges with the fraudful prey,

      And bears with joy the little spoil away.

      Soon, in smart pain, he feels the dire mistake,

      Lashes the wave, and beats the foamy lake,

      With sudden rage he now aloft appears,

      And in his eye convulsive anguish bears;

      And now again, impatient of the wound,

      He rolls and wreaths his shining body round;

      Then headlong shoots beneath the dashing tide,

      The trembling fins the boiling wave divide;

      Now hope exalts the fisher’s beating heart,

      Now he turns pale, and fears his dubious art;

      He views the tumbling fish with longing eyes,

      While the line stretches with the unwieldy prize;

      Each motion humours with his steady hands,

      And one slight hair the mighty bulk commands;

      Till tir’d at last, despoil’d of all his strength,

      The game athwart the stream unfolds his length.

      He now with pleasure views the gasping prize

      Gnash his sharp teeth, and roll his blood-shot eyes

      Then draws him to the shore, with artful care,

      And lifts his nostrils in the sickening air:

      Upon the burthen’d stream he floating lies,

      Stretches his quivering fins, and gasping dies.

      Would you preserve a numerous finny race?

      Let your fierce dogs the ravenous otter chase;

      The amphibious monster ranges all the shores,

      Darts through the waves, and every haunt explores

      Or let the gin his roving steps betray,

      And save from hostile jaws the scaly prey.

      I never wander where the bordering reeds

      O’erlook the muddy stream, whose tangling weeds

      Perplex the fisher; I, nor choose to bear

      The thievish nightly net, nor barbed spear;

      Nor drain I ponds the golden carp to take,

      Nor troll for pikes, dispeoplers of the lake.

      Around the steel no tortur’d worm shall twine,

      No blood of living insect stain my line;

      Let me less cruel cast the feather’d hook,

      With pliant rod athwart the pebbled brook,

      Silent along the mazy margin stray,

      And with the fur-wrought fly delude the prey.

      Rural Sports. Canto II

      Now, sporting muse, draw in the flowing reins,

      Leave the clear streams a while for sunny plains.

      Should you the various arms and toils rehearse,

      And all the fisherman adorn thy verse;

      Should you the wide-encircling net display,

      And in its spacious arch enclose the sea,

      Then haul the plunging load upon the land,

      And with the soale and turbot hide the sand;

      It would extend the growing theme too long,

      And tire the reader with the watery song.

      Let the keen hunter from the chase refrain,

      Nor render all the ploughman’s labour vain,

      When Ceres pours out plenty from her horn,

      And clothes the fields with golden ears of corn.

      New, now, ye reapers to your task repair,

      Haste, save the product of the bounteous year.

      To the wide-gathering hook long furrows yield,

      And rising sheaves extend through all the field.

      Yet if for silvan sport thy bosom glow,

      Let thy feet greyhound urge his dying foe.

      With what delight the rapid course I view!

      How does my eye the circling race pursue!

      He snaps deceitful air with empty jaws,

      The subtle hare darts swift beneath his paws;

      She flies, he stretches, now with nimble bound.

      Eager he presses on, but overshoots his ground;

      She turns, he winds, and soon regains the way,

      Then tears with goary mouth the screaming prey.

      What various sport does rural life afford!

      What unbought dainties heap the wholesome board!

      Nor less the spaniel, skilful to betray,

      Rewards the fowler with the feather’d prey.

      Soon as the lab’ring horse with swelling veins,

      Hath safely hous’d the farmer’s doubtful gains,

      To sweet repast the unwary partridge flies,

      With joy amid the scatter’d harvest lies;

      Wandering in plenty, danger he forgets,

      Nor dreads the slavery of entangling nets.

      The subtile dog scowrs with sagacious nose

      Along the field, and snuffs each breeze that blows,

      Against the wind he takes his prudent way,

      While the strong gale directs him to the prey;

      Now the warm scent assures the covey near,

      He treads with caution, and he points with fear

      Then (lest some centry fowl the fraud descry,

      And bid his fellows from the danger fly)

      Close to the ground in expectation lies,

      Till in the snare the fluttering covey rise.

      Soon as the blushing light begins to spread

      And glancing Phoebus gilds the mountain’s head,

      His early flight the ill-fated partridge takes,

      And quits the friendly shelter of the brakes:

      Or when the sun casts a declining ray,

      And drives his chariot down the western way,

      Let your obsequious ranger search around,

      Where yellow stubble withers on the ground:

      Nor will the roving spy direct in vain,

      But numerous coveys gratify thy pain.

      When the meridian sun contracts the shade,

      And frisking heifers seek the cooling shade;

      Or when the country floats with sudden rains,

      Or driving mists deface the moist’ned plains;

      In vain his toils the unskilful fowler tries,

      While in thick woods the feeding partridge lies.

      Nor must the sporting verse the gun forbear,

      But what’s the fowler’s be the muse’s care.

      See how the well-taught pointer leads the way:

      The scent grows warm; he stops; he springs the prey;

      The fluttering coveys from the stubble rise,

      And on swift wing divide the sounding skies;

      The scattering lead pursues the certain sight,

      And death in thunder overtakes their flight.

      Cool breathes the morning air, and winter’s hand

      Spreads wide her hoary mantle o’er the land;

      Now to the copse thy lesser spaniel take,

      Teach him to range the ditch and force the brake;

      Now closest coverts can protect the game:

      Hark! the dog opens; take thy certain aim;

      The woodcock flutters; how he wavering flies!

      The wood resounds: he wheels, he drops, he dies.

      The towering hawk let future poets sing,

      Who terror bears upon his soaring wing:

      Let them on high the frighted hern survey,

      And lofty numbers paint their airy fray,

      Nor shall the mounting lark the muse detain,

      That greets the morning with his early strain;

      When, ‘midst his song, the twinkling glass betrays;

      While from each angle flash the glancing rays,

      And in the sun the transient colours blaze,

      Bride lures the little warbler from the skies:

      The light-enamour’d bird deluded dies.

      But still the chase, a pleasing task, remains;

      The hound must open in these rural strains.

      Soon as Aurora drives away the night,

      And edges eastern clouds with rosy light,

      The healthy huntsman, with the cheerful horn,

      Summons the dogs, and greets the dappled morn;

      The jocund thunder wakes the enliven’d hounds,

      They rouse from sleep, and answer sounds for sounds.

      Wide through the furzy field their rout they take,

      Their bleeding bosoms force the thorny brake:

      The dying game their smoking nostrils trace,

      No bounding hedge obstructs their eager pace;

      The distant mountains echo from afar,

      And hanging woods resound the flying war:

      The tuneful noise the sprightly courser hears,

      Paws the green turf, and pricks his trembling ears

      The slacken’d rein now gives him all his speed,

      Back flies the rapid ground beneath the steed:

      Hills, dales, and forests far behind remain,

      While the warm scent draws on the deep mouth’d train.

      Where shall the trembling hare a shelter find?

      Hark! death advances in each gust of wind!

      New stratagems and doubling wiles she tries,

      Now circling turns, and now at large she flies;

      Till spent at last, she pants, and heaves for breath

      Then lays her down, and waits devouring death.

      But stay, advent’rous muse, hast thou the force

      To wind the twisted horn, to guide the horse?

      To keep thy seat unmov’d hast thou the skill

      O’er the high gate, and down the headlong hill

      Canst thou the stag’s laborious chase direct,

      Or the strong fox through all his arts detect,

      The theme demands a more experienc’d lay;

      Ye mighty hunters, spare this weak essay.

      Oh happy plains, remote from war’s alarms,

      And all the ravages of hostile arms!

      And happy shepherds, who, secure from fear,

      On open downs preserve your fleecy care!

      Whose spacious barns groan with increasing store,

      And whirling flails disjoint the cracking floor:

      No barbarous soldier, bent on cruel spoil,

      Spreads desolation o’er your fertile soil;

      No trampling steed lays waste the ripen’d grain,

      Nor crackling fires devour the promis’d gain:

      No flaming beacons cast their blaze afar,

      The dreadful signal of invasive war;

      No trumpet’s clangor wounds the mother’s ear,

      And calls the lover from his swooning fair.

      What happiness the rural maid attends,

      In cheerful labour while each day she spends!

      She gratefully receives what heaven has sent,

      And, rich in poverty, enjoys content:

      (Such happiness, and such unblemish’d fame

      Ne’er glad the bosom of the courtly dame)

      She never feels the spleen’s imagin’d pains,

      Nor melancholy stagnates in her veins;

      She never loses life in thoughtless ease,

      Nor on the velvet couch invites disease;

      Her home-spun dress in simple neatness lies

      And for no glaring equipage she sighs:

      Her reputation, which is all her boast,

      In a malicious visit ne’er was lost:

      No midnight masquerade her beauty wears,

      And health, not paint, the fading bloom repairs.

      If love’s soft passion warms her happy swain;

      An equal passion in her bosom reign,

      No home-bred jars her quiet state control,

      Nor watchful jealousy torments her soul;

      With secret joy she sees her little race

      Hang on her breast, and her small cottage grace

      The fleecy ball their little fingers cull,

      Or from the spindle draw the length’ning wool:

      Thus flow her hours with constant peace of mind,

      Till age the latest thread of life unwind.

      Ye happy fields, unknown to noise and strife,

      The kind rewarders of industrious life,

      Ye shady woods, where once I used to rove;

      Alike indulgent to the muse and love;

      Ye murmuring streams that in meanders roll,

      The sweet composers of the pensive soul,

      Farewell - The city calls me from your bowers;

      Farewell amusing thoughts and peaceful hours.

      The Fan

      The Fan was first published on the 8th of December 1713. It filled thirty-two folio pages, and bore the following title: — The! Fan. | A | Poem. | In Three Books. | By Mr. Gay. | (motto from the 14th Iliad) | London: | Printed for J. Tonson at Shakespear’s Head over- | against Catherine Street in the Strand 1714.’ It was reprinted, with numerous omissions and emendations, in the quarto edition of Gay’s Poems (1720).

      PREFACE

      Two matters in connection with this edition of Gay’s Poems call for brief comment on the part of the Editor.

      It should be explained in the first instance that every effort has been made to put forward a complete and trustworthy text In the case of those pieces which were included by Gay in the quarto edition of his poems in 1720, the revised versions then given have been followed; variations from an earlier form being indicated where they occur. The other poems have for the most part been reprinted from first edition copies. The spelling and the punctuation have in all cases been made to conform to the usage of the present day.

      The Introductory Memoir, it may further be explained, contains a summary of the chief facts now ascertainable concerning the life and literary career of John Gay. The writer has attempted to discover the exact date of publication of every one of Gay’s poems; and the attempt, it will be observed, has been to a considerable extent successful. Several minor biographical rectifications have been made, and some new facts have been placed on record.

      It would be an unpardonable oversight on the part of any writer on Gay not to acknowledge the obligations under which he has been placed by the pioneer work of Mr. Austin Dobson. That gentleman’s article on Gay in the Dictionary of National Biography is indispensable to the student. Messrs. Elwin and Courthope’s edition of the Works of Alexander Pope is also of very great value.

                      JOHN UNDERHILL.

      WIMBLEDON, March 1893.

      THE PROEME.

      TO THE

      COURTEOUS READER

      GREAT marvel hath it been (and that not unworthily) to diverse worthy wits, that in this our island of Britain, in all rare sciences so greatly abounding, more especially in all kinds of poesie highly flourishing, no poet {though otherways of notable cunning in roundelays) hath hit on the right simple eclogue after the true ancient guise of Theocritus, before this mine attempt.

      Other Poet travailing in this plain highway of Pastoral know I none. Yet, certes, such it behoveth a Pastoral to be, as nature in the country affordeth; and the manners also meetly copied from the rustical folk therein. In this also my love to my native country Britain much pricketh me forward, to describe aright the manners of our own honest and laborious ploughmen, in no wise sure more unworthy a British poet’s imitation, than those of Sicily or Arcadie; albeit, not ignorant I am, what a rout and rabblement of critical gallimawfry hath been made of late days by certain young men of insipid delicacy, concerning, I wist not what, golden age, and other outrageous conceits, to which they would confine Pastoral. Whereof, I avow, I account nought at all, knowing no age so justly to be instiled golden, as this of our sovereign lady Queen Anne.

      This idle trumpery (only fit for schools and schoolboys) unto that ancient Dorick Shepherd Theocritus or his mates, was never known; he rightly, throughout his fifth Idyll, maketh his louts give foul language and behold their goats at rut in all simplicity.

      Verily, as little pleasance receiveth a true homebred taste, from all the fine finical newfangled fooleries of this gay Gothic garniture, wherewith they so nicely bedeck their court clowns, or clown courtiers (for, which to call them rightly, I wot not) as would a prudent citizen journeying to his country farms, should he find them occupied by people of this motley make, instead of plain downright hearty cleanly folk, such as be now tenants to the wealthy burgesses of this realms.

      Furthermore, it is my purpose, gentle reader, to set before thee, as it were a picture, rather lively landscape of thy own country, just as thou mightest see it, didest thou take a walk into the fields at the proper season: even as maister Milton hath elegantly set forth the same:

      As one who long in populous city pent,

      Where houses thick and sewers annoy the air,

      Forth issuing on a summer’s morn to breathe

      Among the pleasant villages and farms

      Adjoin’d, from each thing met conceives delight;

      The smell of grain or tedded grass or kine

      Or dairie, each rural sight, each rural sound.

      Thou wilt not find my shepherdesses idly piping on oaten reeds, but milking the kine, tying up the sheaves, or if the hogs are astray driving them to their styes. My shepherd gathereth none other nosegays but what ate the growth of our own fields, he sleepeth not under myrtle shades, but under a hedge, nor doth he vigilantly defend his flocks from wolves, because there are none, as maister Spenser well observeth:

      Well is known that since the Saxon King

      Never was wolf seen, many or some

      Nor in all Kent

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