"No Beams of softning Pity touch thy Breast, / Too vile a Cell to harbour such a Guest."
— Brown, Thomas (bap. 1663, d. 1704)
Place of Publication
London
Date
1715
Metaphor
"No Beams of softning Pity touch thy Breast, / Too vile a Cell to harbour such a Guest."
Metaphor in Context
Base sordid Monster! Mercenary Slave!
Thou Church-Yard Pimp, and Pander to the Grave,
Death's busy Factor, Son of Desolation,
Thy Country's Curse, and Grievance of the Nation.
Thou motly Lump of Ignorance and Pride,
In all the scoundrel Arts of Killing try'd;
How shall I tell thy Guilt, or how begin
To lash a Villain crusted o'er with Sin?
Sure in some Powder-mill, that hot-brain'd Sot
Thy Father in the Dog-days thee begot;
And some She-Bear, in horrid Woods alone,
Suckled thee young, and nurst thee for her own.
Hence thy sour brutal Temper first began,
The Beast was thinly plated with the Man.
No Beams of softning Pity touch thy Breast,
Too vile a Cell to harbour such a Guest.
Oh hadst thou liv'd in that curst Tyrant's Reign,
By whose Command the Innocents were slain,
Herod might then have sav'd his Men the Pains,
At Bethlem to knock out the Children's Brains.
Thy Pills alone the fatal Work had done,
And soon dispatch'd them, every Mother's Son.
Why with our Laws, vain Volumes do we fill,
If such as thou have privilege to kill?
Mean, lousy Felons, for less Crimes by far
Have oft receiv'd their Sentence at the Bar:
I'th' Face of Day, thou robb'st us of our Health,
And yet art never question'd for the Stealth.
Sure some dire Planet all thy Steps pursues,
Name All-kill, and a Sickness strait ensues.
Thro' thy destroying Skill Diseases reign,
Nor did a Blacksmith teach thee first in vain;
Not Sword, nor Plague, nor Famine ravage more,
Thou kill'st, and Fate has hardly Time to score.
Death, tho' unsought, waits on thy murdring Quill,
Attends each Dose, and lurks in every Pill.
With little Pains, and very little bribing,
Whole Nations might be kill'd by thy prescribing.
But know, dull Sot, the dreadful Hour's at Hand,
When before aweful Justice thou must stand.
The Muse her ancient Freedom does assume,
Then tremble, while she thus proclaims thy Doom.
Thou Church-Yard Pimp, and Pander to the Grave,
Death's busy Factor, Son of Desolation,
Thy Country's Curse, and Grievance of the Nation.
Thou motly Lump of Ignorance and Pride,
In all the scoundrel Arts of Killing try'd;
How shall I tell thy Guilt, or how begin
To lash a Villain crusted o'er with Sin?
Sure in some Powder-mill, that hot-brain'd Sot
Thy Father in the Dog-days thee begot;
And some She-Bear, in horrid Woods alone,
Suckled thee young, and nurst thee for her own.
Hence thy sour brutal Temper first began,
The Beast was thinly plated with the Man.
No Beams of softning Pity touch thy Breast,
Too vile a Cell to harbour such a Guest.
Oh hadst thou liv'd in that curst Tyrant's Reign,
By whose Command the Innocents were slain,
Herod might then have sav'd his Men the Pains,
At Bethlem to knock out the Children's Brains.
Thy Pills alone the fatal Work had done,
And soon dispatch'd them, every Mother's Son.
Why with our Laws, vain Volumes do we fill,
If such as thou have privilege to kill?
Mean, lousy Felons, for less Crimes by far
Have oft receiv'd their Sentence at the Bar:
I'th' Face of Day, thou robb'st us of our Health,
And yet art never question'd for the Stealth.
Sure some dire Planet all thy Steps pursues,
Name All-kill, and a Sickness strait ensues.
Thro' thy destroying Skill Diseases reign,
Nor did a Blacksmith teach thee first in vain;
Not Sword, nor Plague, nor Famine ravage more,
Thou kill'st, and Fate has hardly Time to score.
Death, tho' unsought, waits on thy murdring Quill,
Attends each Dose, and lurks in every Pill.
With little Pains, and very little bribing,
Whole Nations might be kill'd by thy prescribing.
But know, dull Sot, the dreadful Hour's at Hand,
When before aweful Justice thou must stand.
The Muse her ancient Freedom does assume,
Then tremble, while she thus proclaims thy Doom.
Categories
Provenance
Searching "cell" and "breast" in HDIS (Poetry)
Date of Entry
08/29/2005
