Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A CITY ECLOGUE, by W." "J. [PSEUD.]


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A CITY ECLOGUE, by                    
First Line: "'twas sunday morning, quite serene the air"
Last Line: "let us poor cits do whatsoever we may, / our headstrong spouses still will have their way!"
Alternate Author Name(s): "j., W.;
Subject(s): Cities;marriage;old Age; Urban Life;weddings;husbands;wives


'TWAS Sunday morning, quite serene the air,
And city beaux began to dress their hair,
Prepared in buggies or in gigs to ride,
With some fair nymph close wedged in by their side,
To smell a dunghill, view a farm or plain,
Then dine, get drunk, and drive to town again!
Smart 'prentice youths and clerks their boots drew on,
Intent on mounting horses had on loan,
And male and female, in promiscuous throng,
To quit the city hurried all along;
When Mrs. Cask her surly spouse addressed
And, smiling softly, thus her wish expressed:
Mrs. C. How sweet the morning air! how vastly fine!
I'd like immensely out of town to dine,
In some gay village near the public road:
You know, my dear, we seldom go abroad;
Confined the week, dear Mr. Cask, as we,
We should on Sunday breathe some air that's free.
Our neighbour Potion says as how 'tis good,
Both for the spirits and to cleanse the blood.
Come, have a coach, and drive somewhere from town;
You make the tea, while I put on my gown.
Mr. C. I hate all jaunts expensive such as these;
I'll dine at home; but after, if you please,
We'll take a walk, as sober folks should do,
To Islington or Bagnigge, I and you.
I'll smoke my pipe and you shall drink your tea,
Poll can go with us—wife, do you agree?
Mrs. C. You still will talk in your old vulgar style.
Pray, do you think that I can walk a mile?
We'll have a coach, as folks of taste should have:
Since you've enough, why 'should I be a slave'?
I cannot walk—I can't, upon my life!
We'll have a coach; say 'yes', and end our strife.
Mr. C. You cannot walk! why not as well as I?
You'd find it easy, if you'd only try.
Mrs. C. Fie! Mr. Cask, how foolishly you talk!
Do you expect that I should meanly walk?
Don't all my neighbours every Sunday ride,
And justly would not they me then deride?
To walk is vulgar; with a cheerful face,
Say 'yes' at once—come, do it with a grace.
Mr. C. Expense for ever! Ay, this is the way,
I slave behind the counter every day;
Scarce stir one moment, weekly, from my shop,
Save just sometimes in at the Sun to pop,
To smoke my pipe and see what's going on,
The price of stocks, the lottery and loan;
Yet this and that and t' other thing you buy,
And every way to ruin me you try.
A thousand things I've got to cause vexation,
Bad debts, sad failures, children's education,
Two sons, a daughter, all at boarding school!
Some folks have told me I'm an arrant fool
To bring up children as great people do,
And this expense is owing all to you.
The half-year's bills I saw the other day,
And very soon I'll have them too to pay:
There's 'dancing, drawing, music, coats, cap, hat,
Clothes mended, ushers'—and the devil knows what!
Again, for Poll—you need not fume nor fret:
You'll see me soon exposed in the Gazette.
Mrs. C. Don't many neighbours send their sons to college,
To learn old Greek and get all kinds of knowledge,
At more expense? and yet you trifles grudge.
Why, Mr. Cask, our Jack may be a judge.
Poor wretched woman, that I e'er should be
Fast tied for life unto a bear like thee!
Don't all around me in their satins flaunt,
And of their liveries and attendants vaunt,
See balls and plays in the genteelest style,
Whilst I at home sit moping all the while?
A gown or cap you scarce will e'er bestow,
And what you do is at a price so low
That I'm not fit in public to appear;
And yet you gain a thousand neat a year,
Besides ten thousand out on mortgage lent,
That brings you in a pretty sum per cent.
Mr. C. I'll stop my ears—pray hold your cursèd tongue—
You'll drive me mad—I'm always in the wrong—
O lud!—O lud! my life is wretched sure!
Continual din and noise do I endure.
One time I'm teased to buy a satin gown;
Next day to drive perhaps ten miles from town.
Sometimes, however busy be the day,
I'm dragged by force to coach it to the play.
Each day you find some little pretty things
That I must purchase—china, plate or rings.
I'm scarce allowed a single moment's ease,
Nor must I do but what you, madam, please.
My hat and wig are sometimes ungenteel:
I'm often forced to strip from head to heel;
My old drab coat I long on Sundays wore,
Though whole, is now become a sad eyesore;
My woollen nightcap too offends your sight;
I scarce dare go to smoke my pipe at night,
'Tis low, 'tis mean, 'tis vulgar', still you bawl,
And then poor me you somewhere strive to haul;
And in your mouth you've always this reproach,
That I refuse to treat you with a coach.
Mrs. C. A hackney coach!—had I but proper spirit,
I'd have a carriage, I'd no longer, bear it
Miss C. Indeed, papa, I think you're vastly wrong:
Mama and I have gone on foot too long.
Mr. C. Be quiet, hussy—don't I always pay
Enough for you?—demands come every day;
Trade is low and taxes fast advancing,
So, Miss Pest, I'll pay for no more dancing.
Mrs. C. O cruel man, how can you serve one so?
More rude and bearish every day you grow:
Such treatment surely would provoke a saint!
My smelling bottle! Oh! I faint!—I faint!
Mr. C. Here, Betty! Betty!—salts!—the bottle—run!
Oh! foolish man! what have I, have I done!
My child in tears—my wife in fainting fits!
Oh! neighbours, help!—I'll lose, I'll lose my wits!
Mrs. C. Ah! barb'rous man! and will you not relent?
Must I untimely to my grave be sent?
Mr. C. Dry up your tears—the comfort this of marriage!
Once more, wife, I'll treat you with a carriage.
Run, Betty, quickly, run into the street,
And hire the first neat hackney coach you meet.
These women still somehow have got the art
To overcome us, and to melt the heart;
Let us poor cits do whatsoe'er we may,
Our headstrong spouses still will have their way!





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