An impossible thing. A tale

AN IMPOSSIBLE THING. A TALE. TO thee, Dear Dick, this Tale I ſend, Both as a Critick and a Friend. I tell it with ſome Variation (Not altogether a Tranſlation) From La Fontaine; an Author, Dick, Whoſe Muſe would touch thee to the quick. The Subject is of that ſame kind To which thy Heart ſeems moſt inclin'd: How Verſe may alter it, God knows, Thou lov'ſt it well, I'm ſure, in Proſe, So, without Preface, or Pretence, To hold thee longer in Suſpence, I ſhall proceed, as I am able, To the Recital of my Fable. A Goblin of the merry Kind, More black of Hue, than curſt of Mind, To help a Lover in Diſtreſs, Contriv'd a Charm with ſuch Succeſs; That in ſhort Space the cruel Dame Relented, and return'd his Flame. The Dargain made betwixt 'em both, Was bound by Honour and by Oath: The Lover laid down his Salvation, And Satan ſtak'd his Reputation. The Latter promis'd on his Part (To ſerve his Friend and ſhew his Art,) That Madam ſhou'd by twelve a Clock, Tho' hitherto as hard as Rock, Become as gentle as a Glove, And kiſs and coo like any Dove. In ſhort, the Woman ſhould be his, That is, upon Condition—Viz; That He, the Lover, after taſting What one wou'd wiſh were everlaſting; Should, in Return for ſuch Enjoyment, Supply the Fiend with freſh Employment: That's all, quoth Pug; my poor Requeſt Is, only never to have Reſt; You thought, 'tis like, with Reaſon too, That I ſhould have been ſerv'd, not You: But what? upon my Friend impoſe! No—tho' a Devil, none of thoſe. Your Buſineſs then, pray underſtand me, Is nothing more but to Command me. Of one thing only let me warn ye, Which ſomewhat nearly may concern ye: As ſoon as e'er one Work is done, Strait name a new one; and ſo on; Let each to other quick ſucceed, Or elſe—you know how 'tis agreed— For if thro' any Hums or Haws There haps an intervening Pauſe, In which, for Want of freſh Commands, Your Slave obſequious, Idle ſtands, Nor Soul nor Body ever more Shall ſerve the Nymph whom you adore; But both be laid at Satan's Feet, To be diſpos'd as he thinks meet. At once the Lover all approves: For who can heſitate that loves? And thus he argues in his Thought: Why, after all, I venture nought; What Myſtery is in Commanding? Does that require Much Underſtanding? Indeed, wer't my Part to Obey, He'd go the better of the Lay: But he muſt do what I think fit— Pſhaw, pſhaw, young Belzebub is bit. Thus pleas'd in Mind, he calls a Chair; Adjuſts, and combs, and courts the Fair: The Spell takes Place, and all goes right, And happy he, employs the Night In ſweet Embraces, balmy Kiſſes; And riots in the Bliſs of Bliſſes. O Joy, cry'd he, that haſt no Equal! But hold—no Raptures—mark the Sequel. For now, when near the Morning's Dawn, The Youth began as 'twere to yawn; His Eyes a ſilky Slumber ſeiz'd, Or would have done, if Pug had pleas'd: But that officious Demon, near, Now buzz'd for Buſineſs in his Ear; In Haſte, he names a thouſand Things: The Goblin plys his wicker Wings, And in a Trice returns to ask Another and another Task. Now, Palaces are built and Tow'rs, The Work of Ages in few Hours. Then, Storms are in an Inſtant rais'd, Which the next Moment are appeas'd. Now Show'rs of Gold and Gems are rain'd, As if each India had been drain'd: And He, in one aſtoniſh'd View, Sees both Golconda and Peru. Theſe Things, and ſtranger Things than theſe, Were done with equal Speed and Eaſe. And now to Rome poor Pug he'll ſend: And Pug ſoon reach'd his Journey's End. And ſoon return'd with ſuch a Pack Of Bulls and Pardons at his Back, That now, the Squire (who had ſome Hope In holy Water and the Pope,) Was out of Heart, and at a Stand What next to wiſh, and what command; Invention flags, his Brain grows muddy, And black Deſpair ſucceeds brown Study. In this Diſtreſs the woful Youth Acquaints the Nymph with all the Truth, Begging her Counſel, for whoſe Sake Both Soul and Body were at Stake. And is this all? replys the Fair; Let me alone to cure this Care. When next your Demon ſhall appear, Pray give him—look, what I hold here. And bid him labour, ſoon or late, To lay theſe Ringlets lank and ſtrait. Then, ſomething ſcarcely to be ſeen, Her Finger and her Thumb between She held, and ſweetly ſmiling, cry'd, Your Goblin's Skill ſhall now be try'd. She ſaid; and gave—what ſhall I call That Thing ſo ſhining, criſp and ſmall, Which round his Finger ſtrove to twine? A Tendril of the Cyprian Vine? Or Sprig from Cytherea's Grove; Shade of the Labyrinth of Love! With Awe, he now takes from her Hand That Fleece-like Flow'r of fairy Land: Leſs precious, whilom, was the Fleece Which drew the Argonauts from Greece; Or that, which modern Ages ſee The Spur and Prize of Chivalry, Whoſe Curls of kindred Texture, grace Heroes and Kings of Spaniſh Race. The Spark prepar'd, and Pug at Hand, He iſſues, thus, his ſtrict Command. This Line, thus Curve and thus Orbicular, Render direct, and perpendicular; But ſo direct, that in no ſort It ever may in Rings retort. See me no more 'till this be done: Hence, to thy Task—avaunt, be gone. Away the Fiend like Lightning flys, And all his Wit to Work applys: Anvils and Preſſes he employs, And dins whole Hell with hamm'ring Noiſe. In vain: he to no Terms can bring One Twire of that reluctant Thing; Th' elaſtic Fibre mocks his Pains, And it's firſt ſpiral Form retains. New Stratagems the Sprite co •… ves, And down the Depths of Sea he dives: This Sprunt its Pertneſs ſure will loſe When laid (ſaid he) to ſoak in Ooze. Poor fooliſh Fiend! he little knew Whence Venus and her Garden grew. Old Ocean, with paternal Waves The Child of his own Bed receives; Which oft as dipt new Force exerts, And in more vig'rous Curls reverts. So, when to Earth, Alcides flung The huge Antëus, whence he ſprung, From ev'ry Fall freſh Strength he gain'd, And with new Life the Fight maintain'd. The bafled Goſlin grows perplex'd, Nor knows what Sleight to practiſe next: The more he trys, the more he fails; Nor Charm, nor Art, nor Force avails. But all concur his Shame to ſhow, And more exaſperate the Foe. And now he penſive turns and ſad, And looks like melancholick mad. He rolls his Eyes now off, now on That wonderful Phenomenon. Sometimes he twiſts and twirls it round, Then, pauſing, meditates profound: No End he ſees of his Surprize, Nor what it ſhould be can deviſe: For never yet was Wooll or Feather, That cou'd ſtand buff againſt all Weather; And unrelax'd like this, reſiſt Both Wind and Rain, and Snow and Miſt. What Stuff, or whence, or how 'twas made, What Spinſter Witch could ſpin ſuch Thread, He nothing knew; but to his Coſt Knew all his Fame and Labour loſt. Subdu'd, abaſh'd, he gave it o'er; 'Tis ſaid, he bluſh'd; 'tis ſure, he ſwore Not all the Wiles that Hell could hatch Could conquer that SUPERB MUSTACH. Defeated thus, thus diſcontent, Back to the Man the Demon went: I grant, quoth he, our Contract null, And give you a Diſcharge in full. But tell me now, in Name of Wonder, (Since I ſo candidly knock under,) What is this Thing? Where could it grow? Pray take it—'tis in Statu quo. Much Good may't do you; for my Part, I waſh my Hands of't from my Heart. In Truth, Sir Goblin or Sir Fairy, Replys the Lad, you're too ſoon weary. What, leave this trifling Task undone! And think'ſt Thou this the only one? Alas! were this ſubdu'd, thou'dſt find Millions of more ſuch ſtill behind, Which might employ, ev'n to Eternity, Both you and all your whole Fraternity.