Saveloy, a kind of sausage; French cervelas, from its containing brains.––Skeat.

64

VII. TO A BOY-POET OF THE DECADENCE.

[Showing curious reversal of epigram––‘La nature l’a fait sanglier; la civilisation l’a réduit à l’état de cochon.’]

But my good little man, you have made a mistake If you really are pleased to suppose That the Thames is alight with the lyrics you make; We could all do the same if we chose. From Solomon down, we may read, as we run, Of the ways of a man and a maid; There is nothing that’s new to us under the sun, And certainly not in the shade. The erotic affairs that you fiddle aloud Are as vulgar as coin of the mint; And you merely distinguish yourself from the crowd By the fact that you put ’em in print. 65 You’re a ’prentice, my boy, in the primitive stage, And you itch, like a boy, to confess: When you know a bit more of the arts of the age You will probably talk a bit less. For your dull little vices we don’t care a fig, It is this that we deeply deplore; You were cast for a common or usual pig, But you play the invincible bore.

66

VIII. TO JULIA IN SHOOTING TOGS
and a Herrickose vein.

Whenas to shoot my Julia goes, Then, then, (methinks) how bravely shows That rare arrangement of her clothes! So shod as when the Huntress Maid With thumping buskin bruised the glade, She moveth, making earth afraid. Against the sting of random chaff Her leathern gaiters circle half The arduous crescent of her calf. Unto th’ occasion timely fit, My love’s attire doth show her wit, And of her legs a little bit. 67 Sorely it sticketh in my throat, She having nowhere to bestow’t, To name the absent petticoat. In lieu whereof a wanton pair Of knickerbockers she doth wear, Full windy and with space to spare. Enlargéd by the bellying breeze, Lord! how they playfully do ease The urgent knocking of her knees! Lengthways curtailéd to her taste A tunic circumvents her waist, And soothly it is passing chaste. Upon her head she hath a gear Even such as wights of ruddy cheer Do use in stalking of the deer. Haply her truant tresses mock Some coronal of shapelier block, To wit, the bounding billy-cock. 68 Withal she hath a loaded gun, Whereat the pheasants, as they run, Do make a fair diversión. For very awe, if so she shoots, My hair upriseth from the roots, And lo! I tremble in my boots!