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Title: Upon A Cloak Lent Him By Mr. J. Ridsley
Author: Henry Vaughan [
More Titles by Vaughan]
Here, take again thy sackcloth! and thank heav'n
Thy courtship hath not kill'd me; Is't not even
Whether we die by piecemeal, or at once?
Since both but ruin, why then for the nonce
Didst husband my afflictions, and cast o'er
Me this forc'd hurdle to inflame the score?
Had I near London in this rug been seen
Without doubt I had executed been
For some bold Irish spy, and 'cross a sledge
Had lain mess'd up for their four gates and bridge.
When first I bore it, my oppressed feet
Would needs persuade me 'twas some leaden sheet;
Such deep impressions, and such dangerous holes
Were made, that I began to doubt my soles,
And ev'ry step--so near necessity--
Devoutly wish'd some honest cobbler by;
Besides it was so short, the Jewish rag
Seem'd circumcis'd, but had a Gentile shag.
Hadst thou been with me on that day, when we
Left craggy Biston, and the fatal Dee,
When beaten with fresh storms and late mishap
It shar'd the office of a cloak, and cap,
To see how 'bout my clouded head it stood
Like a thick turban, or some lawyer's hood,
While the stiff, hollow pleats on ev'ry side
Like conduit-pipes rain'd from the bearded hide:
I know thou wouldst in spite of that day's fate
Let loose thy mirth at my new shape and state,
And with a shallow smile or two profess
Some Saracen had lost the clouted dress.
Didst ever see the good wife--as they say--
March in her short cloak on the christ'ning day,
With what soft motions she salutes the church,
And leaves the bedrid mother in the lurch;
Just so jogg'd I, while my dull horse did trudge
Like a circuit-beast, plagu'd with a gouty judge.
But this was civil. I have since known more
And worser pranks: one night--as heretofore
Th' hast known--for want of change--a thing which I
And Bias us'd before me--I did lie
Pure Adamite, and simply for that end
Resolv'd, and made this for my bosom-friend.
O that thou hadst been there next morn, that I
Might teach thee new Micro-cosmo-graphy!
Thou wouldst have ta'en me, as I naked stood,
For one of the seven pillars before the flood.
Such characters and hieroglyphics were
In one night worn, that thou mightst justly swear
I'd slept in cere-cloth, or at Bedlam, where
The madmen lodge in straw. I'll not forbear
To tell thee all; his wild impress and tricks
Like Speed's old Britons made me look, or Picts;
His villanous, biting, wire-embraces
Had seal'd in me more strange forms and faces
Than children see in dreams, or thou hast read
In arras, puppet-plays, and gingerbread,
With angled schemes, and crosses that bred fear
Of being handled by some conjurer;
And nearer, thou wouldst think--such strokes were drawn--
I'd been some rough statue of Fetter-lane.
Nay, I believe, had I that instant been
By surgeons or apothecaries seen,
They had condemned my raz'd skin to be
Some walking herbal, or anatomy.
But--thanks to th' day!--'tis off. I'd now advise
Thee, friend, to put this piece to merchandise.
The pedlars of our age have business yet,
And gladly would against the Fair-day fit
Themselves with such a roof, that can secure
Their wares from dogs and cats rained in shower.
It shall perform; or if this will not do
'Twill take the ale-wives sure; 'twill make them two
Fine rooms of one, and spread upon a stick
Is a partition, without lime or brick.
Horn'd obstinacy! how my heart doth fret
To think what mouths and elbows it would set
In a wet day! have you for twopence ere
Seen King Harry's chapel at Westminster,
Where in their dusty gowns of brass and stone
The judges lie, and mark'd you how each one,
In sturdy marble-pleats about the knee,
Bears up to show his legs and symmetry?
Just so would this, that I think't weav'd upon
Some stiffneck'd Brownist's exercising loom.
O that thou hadst it when this juggling fate
Of soldiery first seiz'd me! at what rate
Would I have bought it then; what was there but
I would have giv'n for the compendious hut?
I do not doubt but--if the weight could please--
'Twould guard me better than a Lapland-lease.
Or a German shirt with enchanted lint
Stuff'd through, and th' devil's beard and face weav'd in't.
But I have done. And think not, friend, that I
This freedom took to jeer thy courtesy.
I thank thee for't, and I believe my Muse
So known to thee, thou'lt not suspect abuse.
She did this, 'cause--perhaps--thy love paid thus
Might with my thanks outlive thy cloak, and us.
[The end]
Henry Vaughan's poem: Upon A Cloak Lent Him By Mr. J. Ridsley
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