Mundus Foppensis (1691)

What dunces are our tonsors grown,
Where's their gold filings in an amber box,
To strew upon their master's locks,
And make 'em glitter in the sun?
Sure English Beaus may out-view Venus,
As well as Commodus, or Gallienus.
'Twas Goldilocks, my lovely boy,
Made Agamemnon ruin Troy.
I could produce ye Emperours
That sate in women's dress whole hours,
Expos'd upon the public stage
Their catamites, wives by marr'age.
Your old trunk-hose are laid aside,
For what-d'-ye-call-em's tail to hide;
So straight and close upon the skin,
As onely made for lady's eyne;
To see the shape of thighs and groin:
Hard case Priapus should be so restrain'd,
I'hat had whole orchards at command.

Bless us! what's there? 'tis something walks,
A piece of painting, and yet speaks:
Hard case to blame the ladies washes,
When men are come to mend their faces.
Yet some there are such women grown,
They can't be by their faces known:
Some would be like fair Adonis;
Some would be Hyacinthus cronies;
And then they study wanton use
Of Spanish red, and white ceruse;
The only painters to the life,
That seem with nature's self at strife;
As if she only the dead colours laid,
But they the picture perfect made.
What Zeuxis dare provoke these elves,
That to out-do him paint themselves?
For tho' the birds his painted grapes did crave,
These paint and all mankind deceive.
This sure must spend a world of morning,
More than the ladies quick adoring;
They have found out a shorter way,
Not as before, to wast the day;
They only comb, wash hands and face,
And streightway, with a comely grace,
On the admired Helmet goes,
As ready rigg'd as their lac'd shoes.
Far much more time men trifling waste,
E'er their bodies can be drest;
The looking-glass hangs just before,
And each o'th' legs requires an hour:
Now thereby, ladies, hangs a tale,
A story for your cakes and ale.
A certain Beau was lately dressing,
But sure, e'er he had crav'd heavens blessing;
When in comes friend, and finds him laid
In mournful plight, upon his bed.
Dear Tom, quoth he, such a mischance
As ne'er befell the foes of France;
Nay, I must tell thee, Fleury battle
Was ne'er to Europe half so fatal;
For by I know not what ill luck,
My glass this morn fell down and broke
Upon my shin, just in my rolling;
Now is not this worth thy condoling?
See stocking cut, and bloody shin,
Besides the charge of healing skin.
'Twas the only kindness of my fate,
It mist the solid piece, my pate.
Ladies, this was ill luck, but you
Have much the worser of the two;
The World is chang'd I know not how,
For men kiss men, not women now;
And your neglected lips in vain,
Of smugling Jack, and Tom complain:
A most unmanly nasty trick;
One man to lick the other's cheek;
And only what renews the shame
Of J. the first, and Buckingham:
He, true it is, his wives embraces fled
To slabber his lov'd Ganimede;
But to employ, those lips were made
For women in Gommorrha's trade;
Bespeaks the reason ill-design'd,
Of railing thus 'gainst woman-kind:
For who that loves as nature teaches,
That had not rather kiss the breeches
Of twenty women, than to lick
The bristles of one male dear Dick.

Dein Lied genas, beglückte Seele.
Nun lausch getrost: Der Wald begann.
Der Berge blauende Choräle
erdröhnen mächtig himmelan.

Im Tale, wo die Tannen düstern,
da fielen tiefre Stimmen ein;
und Brausen ward aus ihrem Flüstern.
Ein jeder Halm will Harfe sein.

Aus Schluchten quillts. Zum fernsten Grate
klingt es empor. Kaum dein bewußt,
fühlst du unendliche Kantate
als Widerklang in deiner Brust.

Hat dies flackernde Geflüster
meine Wiese so entzündet?
Ists der Mohn, der aus dem Düster
ungestüm sein Rot verkündet?

Immer wieder andre Stimmen,
um mich her und in den Schlünden.
Sind es Grillen nur und Immen,
die zum Worte sich verbünden?

Schwebend lösen sich Gestalten
aus den Abendschatten mählich,
locken leis, doch mit Gewalten,
in den Traum, unwiderstehlich.

Diese Landschaft war so lauter,
daß ihr Leuchten dich durchdrang;
und des Heimlichen Vertrauter,
zogst du schönsten Pfad entlang.

Du verließest heitre Tale,
gingst beflügelt hügelwärts.
Himmels diamantne Schale
überwölbte dir das Herz.

Wiesenblumen, Bach und Birke
grüßten dich wie längst bekannt.
Und in zaubrische Bezirke
warst, Erlöster, du gebannt.

Deiner Stunde Glanz entgleitet.
Blick umher, daß er sich gibt.
Sieh die Wiesen hingebreitet.
Liebender, du bist geliebt.

Mach die Ferne dir verbündet.
Sieh was nah sich regt und ruht.
In dem Halm bist du begründet.
Durch die Wipfel kreist dein Blut.

Nur im Unbegrenzten
wird dir Raum und Rast.
Zugetan beglänzten
Fernen, bist du Gast

bei den Magiermahlen,
schlürfst des Wissens Wein
aus erlesnen Schalen.
Sieh, dein Herz war klein.

Sich dem Wahn entwindend,
wuchs es im Verzicht.
Immer neu erblindend,
schaust du tiefres Licht.

I

In dieses Grün geschrieben
steht lodernd: Lerne lieben.

Ruf alle, die in Blindheit
entrieten ihrer Kindheit,

ruf, die ihr Herz verwirkten,
an diese gottumzirkten

Gelände. Sieh, beladen
gehn sie auf müden Pfaden.

Gib ihnen gute Worte.
Du bist ja schon im Horte.