Trivia by John Gay

Author:John Gay
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241252307
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2015-12-30T05:00:00+00:00

Book III

OF WALKING THE STREETS BY NIGHT.

O Trivia, goddess, leave these low abodes,

And traverse o’er the wide ethereal roads,

Celestial queen, put on thy robes of light,

Now Cynthia nam’d, fair regent of the night.

At sight of thee, the villain sheaths his sword,

Nor scales the wall, to steal the wealthy hoard.

Oh! may thy silver lamp in Heav’n’s high bow’r

Direct my footsteps in the midnight hour.

The evening. When night first bids the twinkling stars appear,

Or with her cloudy vest inwraps the air,

Then swarms the busy street; with caution tread,

Where the shop-windows falling threat thy head;

Now lab’rers home return, and join their strength

To bear the tott’ring plank, or ladder’s length;

Still fix thy eyes intent upon the throng,

And as the passes open, wind along.

Of the pass of St. Clements. Where the fair columns of St. Clement stand,

Whose straiten’d bounds encroach upon the Strand;

Where the low penthouse bows the walker’s head,

And the rough pavement wounds the yielding tread;

Where not a post protects the narrow space,

And strung in twines, combs dangle in thy face;

Summon at once thy courage, rouse thy care,

Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware.

Forth issuing from steep lanes, the collier’s steeds

Drag the black load; another cart succeeds,

Team follows team, crouds heap’d on crouds appear,

And wait impatient, ’till the road grow clear.

Now all the pavement sounds with trampling feet,

And the mixt hurry barricades the street.

Entangled here, the waggon’s lengthen’d team

Crack the tough harness; here a pond’rous beam

Lies over-turn’d athwart; for slaughter fed,

Here lowing bullocks raise their horned head.

Now oaths grow loud, with coaches coaches jar,

And the smart blow provokes the sturdy war;

From the high box they whirl the thong around,

And with the twining lash their shins resound:

Their rage ferments, more dang’rous wounds they try,

And the blood gushes down their painful eye.

And now on foot the frowning warriors light,

And with their pond’rous fists renew the fight;

Blow answers blow, their cheeks are ’smear’d with blood,

’Till down they fall, and grappling roll in mud.

So when two boars, in wild ytene* bred,

Or on Westphalia’s fatt’ning chestnuts fed,

Gnash their sharp tusks, and rous’d with equal fire,

Dispute the reign of some luxurious mire;

In the black flood they wallow o’er and o’er,

’Till their arm’d jaws distill with foam and gore.

Of pick-pockets. Where the mob gathers, swiftly shoot along,

Nor idly mingle in the noisy throng.

Lur’d by the silver hilt, amid the swarm,

The subtil artist will thy side disarm.

Nor is thy flaxen wig with safety worn;

High on the shoulder, in the basket born,

Lurks the sly boy; whose hand to rapine bred,

Plucks off the curling honours of the head.

Here dives the skulking thief, with practis’d slight,

And unfelt fingers make thy pocket light.

Where’s now thy watch, with all its trinkets, flown?

And thy late snuff-box is no more thy own.

But lo! his bolder theftsome tradesman spies,

Swift from his prey the scudding lurcher flies;

Dext’rous he ’scapes the coach, with nimble bounds,

While ev’ry honest tongue ‘Stop thief ’ resounds.

So speeds the wily fox, alarm’d by fear,

Who lately filch’d the turkey’s callow care;

Hounds following hounds, grow louder as he flies,

And injur’d tenants joyn the hunter’s cries.

Breathless he stumbling falls: ill-fated

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