A Beautiful young Nymph going to
bed
Jonathan Swift, Poem analysis
She takes a bolus ere she sleeps;
Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane, And then between two blankets creeps.
For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain; With pains of love tormented lies;
Never did Covent Garden boast Or if she chance to close her eyes,
So bright a batter'd, strolling Toast; Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,
No drunken Rake to pick her up, And feels the lash, and faintly screams;
No Cellar where on Tick to sup; Or, by a faithless bully drawn,
Returning at the Midnight Hour; At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn;
Four Stories climbing to her Bow'r; Or to Jamaica seems transported,
Then, seated on a three-legg'd Chair, Alone, and by no planter courted;
Takes off her artificial Hair: Or, near Fleet-Ditch’s oozy brinks,
Now, picking out a Crystal Eye, Surrounded with a hundred stinks,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by. Belated, seems on watch to lie,
Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse's Hide, And snap some cully passing by;
Stuck on with Art on either Side, Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs
Pulls off with Care, and first displays 'em, On watchmen, constables and duns,
Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays 'em. From whom she meets with frequent rubs;
Now dextrously her Plumpers draws, But, never from religious clubs;
That serve to fill her hollow Jaws. Whose favor she is sure to find,
Untwists a Wire; and from her Gums Because she pays ’em all in kind.
A Set of Teeth completely comes. Corinna wakes. A dreadful sight!
Pulls out the Rags contriv'd to prop Behold the ruins of the night!
Her flabby Dugs and down they drop. A wicked rat her plaster stole,
Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess Half eat, and dragged it to his hole.
Unlaces next her Steel-Rib'd Bodice; The crystal eye, alas, was missed;
Which by the Operator's Skill, And puss had on her plumpers pissed.
Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill, A pigeon picked her issue-peas;
Up hoes her Hand, and off she slips And Shock her tresses filled with fleas.
The Bolsters that supply her Hips. The nymph, tho’ in this mangled plight,
Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane Must ev’ry morn her limbs unite.
With gentlest touch, she next explores But how shall I describe her arts
Her shankers, issues, running sores, To recollect the scattered parts?
Effects of many a sad disaster; Or shew the anguish, toil, and pain,
And then to each applies a plaister. Of gath’ring up herself again?
But must, before she goes to bed, The bashful muse will never bear
Rub off the dawbs of white and red; In such a scene to interfere.
And smooth the furrows in her front Corinna in the morning dizened,
With greasy paper stuck upon’t. Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison’d.
bed
Jonathan Swift, Poem analysis
She takes a bolus ere she sleeps;
Corinna, Pride of Drury-Lane, And then between two blankets creeps.
For whom no Shepherd sighs in vain; With pains of love tormented lies;
Never did Covent Garden boast Or if she chance to close her eyes,
So bright a batter'd, strolling Toast; Of Bridewell and the Compter dreams,
No drunken Rake to pick her up, And feels the lash, and faintly screams;
No Cellar where on Tick to sup; Or, by a faithless bully drawn,
Returning at the Midnight Hour; At some hedge-tavern lies in pawn;
Four Stories climbing to her Bow'r; Or to Jamaica seems transported,
Then, seated on a three-legg'd Chair, Alone, and by no planter courted;
Takes off her artificial Hair: Or, near Fleet-Ditch’s oozy brinks,
Now, picking out a Crystal Eye, Surrounded with a hundred stinks,
She wipes it clean, and lays it by. Belated, seems on watch to lie,
Her Eye-Brows from a Mouse's Hide, And snap some cully passing by;
Stuck on with Art on either Side, Or, struck with fear, her fancy runs
Pulls off with Care, and first displays 'em, On watchmen, constables and duns,
Then in a Play-Book smoothly lays 'em. From whom she meets with frequent rubs;
Now dextrously her Plumpers draws, But, never from religious clubs;
That serve to fill her hollow Jaws. Whose favor she is sure to find,
Untwists a Wire; and from her Gums Because she pays ’em all in kind.
A Set of Teeth completely comes. Corinna wakes. A dreadful sight!
Pulls out the Rags contriv'd to prop Behold the ruins of the night!
Her flabby Dugs and down they drop. A wicked rat her plaster stole,
Proceeding on, the lovely Goddess Half eat, and dragged it to his hole.
Unlaces next her Steel-Rib'd Bodice; The crystal eye, alas, was missed;
Which by the Operator's Skill, And puss had on her plumpers pissed.
Press down the Lumps, the Hollows fill, A pigeon picked her issue-peas;
Up hoes her Hand, and off she slips And Shock her tresses filled with fleas.
The Bolsters that supply her Hips. The nymph, tho’ in this mangled plight,
Corinna, pride of Drury-Lane Must ev’ry morn her limbs unite.
With gentlest touch, she next explores But how shall I describe her arts
Her shankers, issues, running sores, To recollect the scattered parts?
Effects of many a sad disaster; Or shew the anguish, toil, and pain,
And then to each applies a plaister. Of gath’ring up herself again?
But must, before she goes to bed, The bashful muse will never bear
Rub off the dawbs of white and red; In such a scene to interfere.
And smooth the furrows in her front Corinna in the morning dizened,
With greasy paper stuck upon’t. Who sees, will spew; who smells, be poison’d.
