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Samuel Butler did much more than write epic poems that attacked the evangelical host of his day. His turn about the most common of events had a barb concealed within not unlike the sheathed cat's claws.
It was about the middle Age of Night,
When half the Earth stood in the other's Light;
And Sleep, Death's Brother, yet a Friend to Life,
Gave weary'd Nature a Restorative;
When Puss, wrapt warm in his own native Furs,
Dreamt fondly of i's soft and warm Amours,
Of making Galantry in Gutter-tiles,
And sporting on delightful Fagot-piles;
Of bolting out of Bushes in the dark,
As Ladies use at Midnight in the Park;
Or seeking in tall Garrets an Alcove,
For Assignations in th' Affairs of Love.
At once his Passion was both false and true,
And the more false, the more in earnest grew.
He fancy'd, that he heard those amorous Charms,
That us'd to summon him to soft Alarms,
To which he always brought an equal Flame,
To fight a Rival, or to court a Dame:
And, as in Dreams Love's Raptures are more taking,
Than all their actual Enjoyments waking,
His amorous Passion grew to that Extream,
His Dream it self a wak'd him from his dream.
Though he, what Place is this! Or whither ar't
Thou vanish'd from me, Mistress of my Heart?
But now, I had her in this very Place,
Here, fast imprison'd in my glad Embrace,
And, while my Joys beyond themselves were rapt,
I know not how, nor whither thou'rt escap'd:
Stay, and I'll follow thee � With that he leap't
Up from the lazy Couch on which he slept;
And, wing'd with Passion through his known Purlieu,
Swift as an Arrow from a Bow, he flew,
Nor stop'd, until his Fire had him convey'd,
Where many Assignation h' had enjoy'd;
Where finding, what he sought, a mutual Flame,
That long had stay'd and call'd before he came,
Impatient of Delay, without one Word,
To lose no further Time, he fell aboard;
But grip'd so hard, he wounded what he lov'd;
While she, in Anger, thus his Heat reprov'd.
CAT --. Forbear, foul Ravisher, this rude Address,
Canst thou at once both injure and caress?
PUSS --. Thou hast bewitch'd me with thy pow'rful Charms,
And I, by drawing Blood, would cure my Harms.
CAT -- He, that does love, would set his Heart a Tilt,
Ere one Drop of his Lady's should be spilt.
PUSS --. Your Wounds are but without, and mine within;
You wound my Heart, and I but prick your Skin:
And while your Eyes pierce deeper than my Claws,
You blame th' Effect, of which you are the Cause.
CAT -- How could my guiltless Eyes your Heart invade,
Had it not first been your own betray'd?
Hence �tis, my greatest Crime has only been
(Not in mine Eyes, but yours) in being seen.
PUSS --. I hurt to love, but do not love to hurt.
CAT -- That's worse than making Cruelty a Sport.
PUSS --. Pain is the Foil of Pleasure, and Delight,
That sets it off to a more noble Height.
CAT -- He buys his Pleasure at a Rate too vain,
That takes it up beforehand of his Pain.
PUSS --. Pain is more dear than Pleasure, when �tis past.
CAT -- But grows intolerable, if it last.
PUSS --. Love is too ful of Honour, to regard
What it enjoys, but suffers, as reward.
What Knight durst ever own a Lover's Name,
That had not been half murther'd by his Flame?
Or Lady, that had never lain at Stake,
To Death, or force of Rivals for his Sake?
CAT -- When Love do's meet with Injury and Pain,
Disdain's the only Med'cine for Disdain.
PUSS --. At once I'm happy, and unhappy too,
In being please'd, and in displeasing you.
CAT -- Prepost'rous Way of Pleasure, and of Love,
That contrary to its own End would move!
�Tis rather Hate that covets to destroy;
Love's Business is to love, and to enjoy.
PUSS --. Enjoying and destroying are all one,
As Flames destroy that which they fed upon.
CAT -- He never lov'd at any gen'rous Rate,
That in th' Enjoyment found his Flame abate.
As Wine (the Friend of Love) is wont to make
The Thirst more violent, it pretends to slake;
So should Fruition do the Lovers fire,
Instead of lessening, inflame Desire.
PUSS --. What greater Proof, that Passion do's transport,
When what I would dye for, I'f forc'd to hurt?
CAT -- Death among Lovers is a Thing despis'd,
And far below a sullen Humour priz'd.
That is more scorn'd, and rail'd at than the Gods,
When they are crost in Love, or fall at odds.
But since you understand not what you do,
I am the Judge of what I feel, not you.
PUSS --. Passion begins indifferent to prove,
When Love considers any Thing but Love.
CAT -- The Darts of Love (like Lightning) would within,
And, though they pierce it, never hurt the Skin;
They leave o Marks behind them, where they fly,
Though through the tend'rest Part of all, the Eye;
But your sharp Claws have left enough to shew,
How tender I have been, how cruel you.
PUSS --. Pleasure is Pain, for when it is enjoy'd,
All it could wish for was but to b'allay'd.
CAT -- Force is a rugged Way of making Love.
PUSS --. What you like best, you always disapprove.
CAT -- He that will wrong his Love will not be nice,
T'excuse the Wrong he does, to wrong her twice.
PUSS --. Nothing is wrong, but that which is ill meant.
CAT -- Wounds are ill cured by a good intent.
PUSS --. When you mistake that for an Injury,
I never meant, you do the Wrong, not I.
CAT -- You do not feel yourself the Pain you give;
But �tis not that alone, for which I grieve;
But �tis you want of Passion that I blame,
That an be cruel, where you own a Flame.
PUSS --. �Tis you are guilty of that Cruelty,
Which you at once outdo, and blame in me:
For while you stifle and inflame Desire,
You burn, and starve me in the self-same Fire.
CAT -- It is not I, but you, that do the Hurt,
Who would yourself, and then accuse me for't:
As Thieves, that rob themselves �twixt Sun and Sun,
Make others pay for what themselves done.
Samuel Butler
This Poem is a satryical Banter upon those Heroic Plays which were so much in Vogue at the Time our Author lv'd. The Dialogues of which, having what they call'd Heroic Love for their Subject, are carried on exactly in this Strain, as any one may perceive, that will consult the Dramatick Pieces of Dryden, Settle, and others.
R. Thyer
THE GENUINE REMAINS IN VERSE AND PROSE of Mr. SAMUEL BUTLER. Author of HUDIBRAS, Published from the Original Manuscripts, formerly in the Posession of W. Longueville, Esq: With NOTES By R. THYER, Keeper of the Public Library at Manchester. IN TWO VOLUMES, LONDON, Printed by J. and R. Tonson, in the Strand,.MDCCLIX ****
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