Lloyd, Evan (1734-1776). The Methodist. A Poem. By [Evan Lloyd]. Author of The Powers of the Pen, and The Curate. London: Printed for the author; and sold by Richardson and Urquhart [etc.], 1766.
|Categories||Weather → Tempest|
One may "discompose the tide, / On which Ideas wont to ride" by fermenting "it with a yeasty Storm" or deforming is "with high Floods of Wine"
|Metaphor in Context|
Virtue, of constitution nice,
Quickly degen'rates into Vice;
Change but the Person, Place, and Time,
And what was Merit turns to Crime.
Wisdom, which men with so much pain,
With so much weariness attain,
May in a little moment quit,
And abdicate the throne of Wit,
And leave, a vacant seat, the brain,
For Folly to usurp and reign.
Should you but discompose the tide,
On which Ideas wont to ride,
Ferment it with a yeasty Storm,
Or with high Floods of Wine deform;
Altho' Sir Oracle is he,
Who is as wise, as wise can be,
In one short minute we shall find
The wise man gone, a fool behind.
Courage, that is all nerve and heart,
That dares confront Death's brandish'd dart,
That dares to single Fight defy
The stoutest Hector of the sky,
Whose mettle ne'er was known to slack,
Nor wou'd on thunder turn his back;
How small a matter may controul,
And sooth the fury of his soul!
Shou'd this intrepid Mars, his clay
Dilute with nerve-relaxing Tea,
Thin broths, thin whey, or water-gruel,
He is no longer fierce and cruel,
But mild and gentle as a dove,
The Hero's melted down to Love.
The juices soften'd, (here we note
More on the juices than the Coat
Depends, to make a valiant Mars
Rich in the heraldry of scars)
The Man is soften'd too, and shews
No fondness for a bloody nose.
When Georgy S**k***le shunn'd the Fray,
He'd swill'd a little too much Tea.
Chastity melts like sun-kiss'd snow,
When Lust's hot wind begins to blow.
Let but that horrid Creature, Man,
Breathe on a lady thro' her fan,
Her Virtue thaws, and by and bye
Will of the falling Sickness die.
Lo! Beauty, still more transitory,
Fades in the mid-day of its glory!
For Nature in her kindness swore,
That she who kills, shall kill no more;
And in pure mercy does erase
Each killing feature in the face;
Plucks from the cheek the damask rose,
E'en at the moment that it blows;
Dims the bright lustre of those eyes
To which the Gods wou'd sacrifice;
Dries the moist lip, and pales its hue,
And brushes off its honied dew;
Flattens the proudly swelling chest,
Furrows the round elastic breast,
And all the Loves that on it play'd,
Are in a tomb of wrinkles laid;
Recalls those charms, which she design'd
To please, and not bewitch Mankind;
But with too delicate a touch,
Heightening the Ornaments too much,
She finds her daughters can convert
Blessings to curses, good to hurt,
Proof of parental love to give,
She blots them out that Man may live.
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