Le Lutrin/Canto I

by Nicolas Boileau-Despréaux

Le Lutrin:

AN

HEROICK POEM.

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Canto I.

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The ARGUMENT.

The Argument? what needs a Proëme,To vamp a Three-half-penny Poëme?No, Reader, No; 'twas never writtFor thy sake, but for little Chitt.St. George oth' back-side of the Horn-book,The Dragon kills, to Humour Scorn-book.And thus to wheddle in young Fops,The gilded Sign hangs o're the Shops:Miss won't come in to Buy, beforeShe spies the Knick-knacks at the Dore.Thus Queasie Madams meat forbearUntill they read, The Bill of Fare. Instead of Frontispiece, or Babbie,We plac't to please some puiney Rabbie,Who hates an Author that enlarges,And cons the Index to save charges.Discord, that Tearing, Hectoring Ranter,Provokes a Dean and his Arch-chanter,Who had liv'd friendly forty years,To fall together by the ears;A Rotten Pulpit plac'd i'th' QuireFurnished fewel to the Fire:Three swashing Blades, blind Fates agreeShould do the work: but who they bee,Pray ask the Canto, that can tellBetter than I: and so Farewell.Thus far the Porch, now view the House,Here is the Mountain, there's the Mouse. Immortal feuds, and more than Civil Warrs,And Fights thô fierce, disfigur'd with no Scarrs.I sing! And thee Great Prelate, who of late,Maugre the Chanter, and Reluctant FateDidst raise at length a Pulpit in the Quire,Th' immortal Trophee of thy Mortal Ire.Twice the Pragmatick Chanter, thô in vain,Presum'd to discompose thy peaceful Reign;Twice with Schismatick Pride did enterprizeTo force the Chapter in Rebellion rise;As oft the Dean him swoln with envious rage,Hurl'd Headlong from high hopes; and by the sage Sexton assisted, terrify'd the PeopleWho durst dispute the Title to his Steeple.Instruct me Muse, for thou canst tell, what ThirstOf sweet Revenge, thô Dire, engaged firstReligious Souls to break the Sacred TyeOf blessed Peace and heaven-born Amitie,To make old Friends new Rivals; can there restSuch bitter Gall in a Religious Breast?And thou Great Heroe, whose wise conduct stifledThe growing Schisme which else thy Church had rifled,With favour influence my Advent'rous Verse,Nor dare to laugh, whilest I thy Acts rehearse.In melting Pleasures of Fraternal PeaceAn ancient Abbey long had dwelt at ease,Whose Scarlet Prebends blear'd poor Mortals eyes,Whose Ermines, Winters Frost, and Snow defies;Basking in fat, and Wealth, themselves they BlessIn sweet Repose of Sacred Idleness:Thus Stretcht at length on downy Featherbeds,To chaunt their Matines ne're lift up their Heads,But before Dinner wak'd; for they could smellThe Kitchin Steams, though Deaf to th' Prayer-bell;When Eyes and Ears Nights leaden Key composes,Kind Sleep yet open left their subtle Noses;These alwaies Eat in Person, but did praiseTheir God by Proxie, in Harmonious Layes,Pawning the Chanters, and Poor Singing-boyesCondemn'd to those inferiour Drudgeries.When Discord dappled o're with thousand Crimes,The Villanies of our Debauched timesQuitting the humble Seat of Parish Churches,On a Magnificent Cathedral Perches,The hideous clang of her hate-bearing wingPeace trembled: whilst the Fiend arm'd with her Sting Allighting swift before the Pompous PileOf her proud Pallace, stood and paws'd a while.Thence with observing eye, her Empire viewing,Fomented Feuds and Warrs thereon ensuing,Hatred, and variance, her self she blesses,Applauds her Wit in these Atchiev'd successes;From Norwich there, and Bristol Coaches, sheLegions of Tories dear, arriv'd might see,And could her Vassals boast of all Degrees,Cittizens, Nobles, Clerks, Priests, Dignities;But above all her Feats renown'd in stories,In this she Prides her self, in this she Glories,That Troops of Barr-gowns rang'd under her BannerHad routed Themes, and now Triumph't on her;And yet she saw, and rag'd, and Griev'd to seeOne Church disturb this rare Felicity,One Church to brave her triumphs; one AloneThreaten to shake the firmness of her Throne,That amidst all these Herricanes and ScufflesNo breath of Stormy Wind it's Quiet ruffles.Needs must so Odious a sight as thisAwake her Rage, make all her Serpents hiss;With Stygian Aconite her mouth she fills,From glaring eyes she streams of Flame distills:"What? (said she with a tone made windows Quiver,)"Have I been able hitherto to Shiver"The Union 'twixt Cordeliers, Carmelites,"Dominicans, Franciscans, Minorites,"Betwixt the Molinists, the Celestines,"Jansenists, Jesuites, and Augustines?"Have I by secreet Arts, nourisht the Stickle"Between the Church-men, and the Contenticle?"And shall one Paultry Chappel dare to Brave me;"Nay hope in time to it's nice Laws t' inslave me? "And am I Discord still? who any more"With Incense will my Sacred Shrines Adore?Thus spoke the Hagg! And in a trice unseenOf an Old Chanter takes the shape and meen:A corner'd Cap her Snake-wigg'd Head did cover,Her rich Face sparkling Rubies studded over,Her Nose, emboss'd with Carbuncles DivineBefore her steps did like a Flamboy shine;Accoutred thus, with Red-coat Soldiers paceHaughty she march't to find the Prelates Grace.A Stately Bed, the Posts most richly Gilt,Cover'd with Sumptuous Crimson Damask Quilt,Enclos'd with Double Curtains, scorning lightOf mid-day Sun, and counterfeiting Night,Stood close in an Appartment like a CellWhere Sweet Repose and Silence chose to Dwell;The Tester was all fac'd with Looking-Glass,The rare Invention of this Golden Ass,Contriv'd mysteriously that he might peepAnd see how Blithe he lookt, when fast a-sleep.Here lay the Mitred Head! in slumber drown'd,Whilst gentle fumes his Dreaming Temples Crown'd;A Sprightly Air adorns his Youthful Face,His double Chin hangs down with goodly Grace;The Claret shin'd through the transparent Skin,A broad conjecture where he late had been;And his Fat comely Corps, so thick and shortMade the Soft Pillows groan under his Port:Here, in Sack-posset arm'd, without repiningHe waits in patience the blest hour of Dining.The Goddess entring, saw the Table spread,And all within doors rarely ordered,Then Softly marching to his lodging, took himProfoundly napping, and thus she bespoke him. "Sleep'st thou, Great Prelate? Sleep'st thou then Supine?"And to the Chanter mean'st thy Place Resign?"Whilst he sings Oremus, makes Grave Processions,"And hurls about by whole-sale Vows and Blessings?"Sleep'st thou securely, till the Chanter come,"And without Bull, or Brief procur'd from Rome,"Whilst thou'rt wrapt up in sloath, and free from Fears,"Rotchet and Surplice shall pluck o're thy Ears?"Sluggard, awake, arise, bestir thee quick,"Renounce thy Ease, or quit thy Bishoprick!She spoke; and from her Poysonous Mouth did flingInto his Soul the Zeal of Quarrelling.The Dean awakes; The choler in his breastFermented boils; yet he the Fury Blest!Have you not seen a Bull by Gad-fly stung,When his tormented pride flownc'd, kick't, and flung?The vexed Air, with Ecchoes frighted rings!Whilst he exhales his Rage in Bellowings!So storm'd the Prelate, with his Dream o're-heated,Poor Page, and Chambermaid were rudely treated;His mettle mov'd with conceiv'd Indignation,Needs will he go to'th' Quire before Collation.When Prudent Gilotin his AlmonerWith grave Advice stept into stint the Stir;Shews him the Danger of that Rash Design,How mad to go to Prayers, before he Dine;"What Rage (quoth he) is this? what head-strong crotchet?"Pray Sir, regard the Honour of your Rotchet!"He that for Chappel lets warm Dinner cool,"May think himself Devout, I'le think him Fool!"Does our Church consecrate Prelates to Pray?"For shame, this Zeal unseasonable allay!"Shall all your Learning e're make me believe,"That this is Lent, or any Saints dayes Eve? "Then Reassume your self, forbear to Doat,"Meat heated twice, is not worth half a Groat!Thus reason'd Gilotin, and very loathT' adjourn a Meal, bad 'em serve in the broath.The Prelate stood a while in deep suspence,He ey'd the Soupe with Holy Reverence;O'recome at last with Reason and good NatureHe yields, and sits him down to tast the Creature:'Yet inward Rage did all the while provoke him,Twas fear'd each Morsel would go near to choke him;Gilotin saw't, and sigh'd! in Zeal he risesT' acquaint his party with these Enterprises;Tells them with Grief of Heart, what rude AffrontersOf Lawn-sleev'd Grandeur were these Sawcy Chanters;Protests they'd vex't his Lordship so that dayHis Meat went down like Orts, or old chopt Hay!Nay I may safely say't without Presumption,This Course must bring him int' a Deep Consumption!Now might you see whole troops of Chanons, allTo Rendevouz in the great Pallace-hall!So have you seen perhaps Legions of Cranes,Marching on Wing o're Strymons Spacious plains,When the proud Pygmies, must'ring their warlike NationDesign against them an Unjust Invasion!Surpriz'd at sight of this great friendly Rabble,The Sweetned Prelate rises from the Table;Nodding he Touch't his Hat, to keep Decorum;Nor seem'd to slight, nor basely to Adore 'um!His face no longer shone with Orient Flame,But pleas'd, recalls the good Westphalia Ham;Then takes himself a lusty Beer-bowl brimmerOf Racy Claret, and Commends a SwimmerTo the good Company; they with joint consentFollow the Prelates gracious Precedent; And, whilst their circling Healths and Heads go round,Arnold and all his little Whigs, Confound!With Nectar, killing-thirst they will allay;The Voider comes, the Cloath is ta'ne away,The Prelate then with words expressing Grief,Unto his Confidents declaims in brief!"My brave Confederates, in all Intriegues,"Propping my Interest with your holy Leagues,"Whose Votes Unanimous once made me Dean,"What boots this Meagre Title? Honour Lean?"My Name but mention'd; Ay, and scarcely that,"Unless perhaps at the Magnificat;"How can you bear to see this Rascal Nose me,"And his Combined mates thus dare t'oppose me?"Invading all my Rights and Priviledges,"My Compeer th' Impudent, himself Alledges."Thus leaping o're all bounds of Law and Reason,"I think t'Indite the Rebel of High Treason;"For I have by me, or at least can get"Such Witnesses, be sure shall do the feat!"This very Morn ('tis no fond tale I tell thee,"A Goddess in a Dream shew'd what befell me)"This Insolent Upstart e're I was Dressing"Stept up into my Throne, and gave the Blessing;"And now to cut my Throat, the last of Harms,"The Villain would usurp my proper Arms.———More would he fain have said, but briny tearsMixt with redoubled sighs and inward fears,Did intercept his speech, cut short his Story,And spoil'd the Tenor of his Oratory.But Zealous Gilotin, who condol'd his Merits,Had one Device yet left to chear his Spirits:For marking how the Prelates speech did vary,He calls for a brisk Glass of old Canary. Mean time came Sidrac in, whom Age made slow,Limping upon his crutch, the News to know;Full fourscore years, this Dotard in the QuireHad practis'd; all the Customs of his Sire,All Ancient usages he could Describe,For he was Dad of all the singing Tribe;Him time preferr'd, when waving many another,From poor Church-warden to a Vestry-brother;He by the Prelates pale and fading colourHad quickly ghess't the nature of his dolour,And sweetly smiling, he Addresses thus:"And why, my Lord! so Pusillanimous?"Leave to the Chanter fruitless moans and tears,"Attend the wisdom of now fourscore years,"Enricht with large experience of affairs;"If of thy wrongs thou hopest for Repairs,"Then lend thy Ear attentive, Sir, be wise,"And put in practise what the Heavens Advise!"At th' end o'th' Quire where now the Haughty Knave"Enthron'd in borrowed lustre dares to Brave"Thy Soveraignty, upon that Iron Grate"Stood once a Pulpit square of Ancient date,"Behind this Machine, cover'd as with a skreen,"The Sneaking Chanter scarce could then be seen;"Whil'st on the opposite Seat, our Dean did shine"In Humane eyes with Majesty Divine;"How't came about I know not, but some Devil"I do conclude the Author of this Evil;"Whether some envious hand had pluckt it down"By Night; or Time, or rigid Fate had thrown"The Structure from it's Base, yet this is true,"One morn we found i'th Floor the Sacred Pew!"The Chanter I suppose might Plot with Heaven;"Be't so! we may with both in time be Even: "But down it came, and for the better Grace,"That Holy things might rest in Holy Place,"We lodg'd it in the Vestry straight, and there"'T has lyen despis'd in dust, these thirty year"Fighting with Worms and Spiders, who therein"Their curious Webbs do weave, and fine thred Spin;"And thirty more might lie, for use of Preaching,"Yet 'tis a Tool for this Rogues over-reaching."Now mark me Sir! no sooner shall the Night"His sable Wings spread o're the vanquisht Light,"But three out of our Number, without Ryot,"Will Slip into the Church, while all is quiet,"And under Covert of the darkness Strive"Once more the Ruinous Pulpit's Mass Revive:"And if next day the Chanter dares o'rethrow it,"By twenty Actions thou shalt make him know it,"What 'tis to rouze a sleeping Prelate! This"The Proper Glory of a Prelate is,"To Vindicate against Malignant People"The Jus Divinum of his Ancient Steeple;"To rescue from base Sacrilegious hands"His Tithes, his Offerings, Perquisites, and Lands;"This makes him Glorious to the present Age,"This future Immortality Presage:"What, wilt confine thy Glories to a Quire?"To Preach and Pray did Heaven award thy Hire?"Such Virtues might Adorn the dayes of Yore,"When Prelates only Humble, Pious, Poor,"Boasted in empty Epithetes; new Times"Require new Manners, suited to our Crimes;"Let Church-men now frequent the Barr and Plead,"And Cook and Littleton, not Fathers read;"The Law, the Law's thy work! then shall the Croud"Pressing thy Throne, with Prayers implore aloud "Thy Benedictions, which thou may'st Dispense"By dozens, scores, and Hundreds, and from thence"To his Regrett, the fretting envious Elf"Shall see thee thousands Bless; and hang himself!To see the Mighty Power of Eloquence,How little short 'tis of Omnipotence!Sidrac's discourse had charm'd their Ears and Heart,And Planet-strook the Dean stood for his part;Now on the Place before a foot they stirr,The Lot must tell whom Destinies preferrTo this important service; All pretendBoth Zeal, and Fitness for this Noble end;The Prelate then stroaking his Milk-white BeardWith Wisdom spoke, with Reverence was Heard:The Lot, my Masters! I ordain your Law;From Ʋrn Impartial each his Fortune draw:'Twas said, 'twas done; Now all leave off their Quibling,Each Mothers Son betakes himself to Scribling;Full thirty Names at least, in Tickets rolledWere reckon'd; And that none might be cajolled,William, a Novice 'mongst the singing boyes(Who serv'd in time of Need to make a Noise,)Must draw the Lots; And now from fatal BonnetEach man abides his Doom, what e're comes on it.Thrice had the Dean with hands lift up to HeavenUnto this Pious Work the Blessing given;His holy Hand thrice shakes the fatal Cap,And happy man he's Dole who has the Hap!Now William trembling to the Work Addresses,Him too the bounteous Dean All-to-be-Blesses;The Boy was newly shorn, of ruddy Hew,But when he came to't, the poore Lad look't Blew;And now he draws! first Brontin's Name appears,Thrice happy Name to cure the Prelates fears! For what less could that Thundring Name presage,Than that he'd prove The Terror of the Age?All's husht again; and for the second turnThe boy advanc'd his shaking hand to th' Urn;When the kind fates gave out th' Auspicious NameOf John the Clockmaker: A Cock oth' Game,This John had been, but now a jolly fellowHad yok'd himself to Nan, his dear Bed-fellow;This happy pair, (say they) before their MarriageHad guilty been of some unhandsome carriage,But after three years stealing secret pleasureThe Priest had joyn'd their hands, at least, together.A third remains; The Prelate takes the Urn,And to play fair gives it a double turn:Their fligg'ring Souls do now on Tiptoes stand,'Twixt fears and hopes for the deciding hand;How blithe wast thou, how Buxome, and how chicket,When once thy Name proclaimed by the Ticket,Past all the fear of Contingent Disaster,Appear'd before the face of thy great Master,Boirude (I mean) the Sexton? Some do say,Thy livid Front e're while as pale as Clay,Glow'd into Sanguine; and thy Rosy HewDid the Wan Sallow of thy Hide Subdue!Thy Gouty Legs and Toes benumm'd before,Ventur'd to cut three Capers on the Floor!Now might you hear the Crowd at chearful RatesApplaud the Justice of the Gentle Fates,Who by their peremptory strict commandsDispos'd the work into such able Hands;Faith with the Court Dissolves, all satisfi'd,And to their Quarters in great Triumph hy'd.The Dean alone, to cool his Zeal enraged,Slumber'd till a soft Supper might asswage it!