"Oh, woman!" Sir Walter observes, "when the brow 's wrung with pain, what a minist'ring Angel art thou!" Thou'rt a "minist'ring Angel" in no less degree, I can boldly assert, when the pain's in the knee; And medical friction Is, past contradiction, Much better performed by a She than a He. A fact which, indeed, comes within my own knowledge, For I well recollect, when a youngster at College, And, therefore, can quote A surgeon of note, Mr. Grosvenor of Oxford, who not only wrote On the subject a very fine treatise, but, still as his Patients came in, certain soft-handed Phyllises Were at once set to work on their legs, arms, and backs, And rubbed out their complaints in a couple of cracks.— Now, they say, To this day, When sick people can't pay On the Continent, many of this kind of nurses Attend, without any demand on their purses; And these females, some old, others still in their teens, Some call "Sisters of Charity," others "Beguines." They don't take the vows; but, half-Nun and half-Lay, Attend you; and when you've got better, they say, "You're exceedingly welcome! There's nothing to pay. Our task is now done. You are able to run. We never take money; we cure you for fun!" Then they drop you a court'sy, and wish you good day, And go off to cure somebody else the same way. —A great many of these, at the date of my tale, In Namur walked the hospitals, workhouse, and jail.
Among them was one, A most sweet Demi-nun. Her cheek pensive and pale; tresses bright as the Sun,— Not carroty—no; though you'd fancy you saw burn Such locks as the Greeks lov'd, which moderns call auburn. These were partially seen through the veil which they wore all; Her teeth were of pearl, and her lips were of coral; Her eyelashes silken; her eyes, fine large blue ones, Were sapphires (I don't call these similes new ones; But, in metaphors, freely confess I've a leaning To such, new or old, as convey best one's meaning).— Then, for figure? In faith it was downright barbarity To muffle a form Might an anchorite warm In the fusty stuff gown of a Sœur de la Charité; And no poet could fancy, no painter could draw One more perfect in all points, more free from a flaw, Than her's who now sits by the couch of St. Foix, Chafing there, With such care, And so dove-like an air, His leg, till her delicate fingers are charr'd With the Steer's opodeldoc, joint-oil, and goulard; —Their Dutch appellations are really too hard To be brought into verse by a transmarine Bard.—
Now you'll see, And agree, I am certain, with me, When a young man's laid up with a wound in his knee: And a Lady sits there, On a rush-bottom'd chair, To hand him the mixtures his doctors prepare, And a bit of lump-sugar to make matters square; Above all, when the Lady's remarkably fair, And the wounded young man is a gay Mousquetaire, It's a ticklish affair, you may swear, for the pair, And may lead on to mischief before they're aware.
I really don't think, spite of what friends would call his "Penchant for liaisons," and graver men "follies," (For my own part, I think planting thorns on their pillows, And leaving poor maidens to weep and wear willows, Is not to be classed among mere peccadillos,) His "faults," I should say—I don't think François Xavier Entertain'd any thoughts of improper behaviour Tow'rds his nurse, or that once to induce her to sin he meant While superintending his draughts and his liniment. But, as he grew stout, And was getting about, Thoughts came into his head that had better been out; While Cupid's an urchin. We know deserves birching, He's so prone to delude folks, and leave them the lurch in. 'Twas doubtless his doing That absolute ruin Was the end of all poor dear Therèse's shampooing.— 'Tis a subject I don't like to dwell on: but such Things will happen—ay, e'en 'mongst the phlegmatic Dutch.
"When Woman," as Goldsmith declares, "stoops to folly, And finds out too late that false man can betray," She is apt to look dismal, and grow "melan-choly," And, in short, to be anything rather than gay.
He goes on to remark that "to punish her lover, Wring his bosom, and draw the tear into his eye, There is but one method" which he can discover That's likely to answer—that one is "to die!"
He's wrong—the wan and withering cheek; The thin lips, pale, and drawn apart; The dim yet tearless eyes, that speak The misery of the breaking heart;
The wasted form, th' enfeebled tone That whispering mocks the pitying ear; Th' imploring glances heaven-ward thrown, As heedless, helpless, hopeless here;
These wring the false one's heart enough, If "made of penetrable stuff." And poor Therèse Thus pines and decays, Till, stung with remorse, St. Foix takes a post-chaise, With, for "wheelers," two bays, And, for "leaders," two greys, And soon reaches France, by the help of relays, Flying shabbily off from the sight of his victim, And driving as fast as if Old Nick had kick'd him.
She, poor sinner, Grows thinner and thinner, Leaves off eating breakfast, and luncheon, and dinner, Till you'd really suppose she could have nothing in her.— One evening—'twas just as the clock struck eleven— They saw she'd been sinking fast ever since seven,— She breath'd one deep sigh, threw one look up to Heaven, And all was o'er!— Poor Therèse was no more— She was gone!—the last breath that she managed to draw Escaped in one half-utter'd word—'twas "St. Foix!"