Canto 4.
LE LUTRIN.
33
In your disturb'd Head; Melancholly Vapours
Careering in the Brain beget these Capers:
The Chaunter cross'd, storms, rages, and in choler
Leaps out of bed to mitigate his dolour;
Scorning with sorry Page to brawl, and quarrell,
He calls in hast for's Holy-day Apparell!
A fair silk Cassock, richly lin'd with Plush
Tho' dusty (Girot could not find the Brush,)
He first put on; next a silk Mohair Gown
Which to his heels with dragling train hung down;
A pair of Purple Gloves his proper badges,
A Rotchet which the Dean once gave as wages;
Yet jealous lest his Tail the ground should sweep,
The Shears had dockt it short, three Inches deep.
His corner'd Cap (for fear of cold) on's Head,
His Hood in's hand for hast, he hurried;
Away he speeds thus gorgeously equipped,
Never did seventy years so nimbly trip it!
He curst an old Sciatica that Stop'd him,
But yet his wooden Crutch most stoutly prop't him;
Rage added wings; inspir'd with Zealous Fire
(Whil'st others lagg'd) he first arriv'd i'th' Quire.
O Thou, who in a Rapture, tranc'd in Boggs,
Describ'st the Battel of the Mice and Froggs!
And Thou! whose curious Pencil drew to th' Life
All Italy for Goats-wooll fallen at strife;
Or rather thou, whose Muse did Pen the Stories
Of the sad Contrasts 'tween the Whiggs and Tories!
Lend me a Tongue that may express a Passion,
Of mixed Envy, Spight, Rage, Emulation,
First pale and dumb he stood, like one confounded;
As if ten thousand Furies him surrounded;
His Mass of Blood boils, all his Humours bubble;
Such power have Pulpits to create our trouble!
Careering in the Brain beget these Capers:
The Chaunter cross'd, storms, rages, and in choler
Leaps out of bed to mitigate his dolour;
Scorning with sorry Page to brawl, and quarrell,
He calls in hast for's Holy-day Apparell!
A fair silk Cassock, richly lin'd with Plush
Tho' dusty (Girot could not find the Brush,)
He first put on; next a silk Mohair Gown
Which to his heels with dragling train hung down;
A pair of Purple Gloves his proper badges,
A Rotchet which the Dean once gave as wages;
Yet jealous lest his Tail the ground should sweep,
The Shears had dockt it short, three Inches deep.
His corner'd Cap (for fear of cold) on's Head,
His Hood in's hand for hast, he hurried;
Away he speeds thus gorgeously equipped,
Never did seventy years so nimbly trip it!
He curst an old Sciatica that Stop'd him,
But yet his wooden Crutch most stoutly prop't him;
Rage added wings; inspir'd with Zealous Fire
(Whil'st others lagg'd) he first arriv'd i'th' Quire.
O Thou, who in a Rapture, tranc'd in Boggs,
Describ'st the Battel of the Mice and Froggs!
And Thou! whose curious Pencil drew to th' Life
All Italy for Goats-wooll fallen at strife;
Or rather thou, whose Muse did Pen the Stories
Of the sad Contrasts 'tween the Whiggs and Tories!
Lend me a Tongue that may express a Passion,
Of mixed Envy, Spight, Rage, Emulation,
First pale and dumb he stood, like one confounded;
As if ten thousand Furies him surrounded;
His Mass of Blood boils, all his Humours bubble;
Such power have Pulpits to create our trouble!
His
