The Complete Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Chapter 343 : In vain I praise thee, Zoilus!In vain thou rail'st at me!Me no one credits, Zoilu

In vain I praise thee, Zoilus!

In vain thou rail'st at me!

Me no one credits, Zoilus!

And no one credits thee!

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 2, 1802. Adapted from a Latin Epigram 'In Zoilum,' by George Buchanan:

'Frustra ego te laudo, frustra Me, Zoile, laedis; Nemo mihi credit, Zoile, nemo, tibi.'

52

EPITAPH ON A MERCENARY MISER

A poor benighted Pedlar knock'd One night at SELL-ALL'S door, The same who saved old SELL-ALL'S life-- 'Twas but the year before!

And Sell-all rose and let him in, Not utterly unwilling, But first he bargain'd with the man, And took his only s.h.i.+lling!

That night he dreamt he'd given away his pelf, Walk'd in his sleep, and sleeping hung himself!

And now his soul and body rest below; And here they say his punishment and fate is To lie awake and every hour to know How many people read his tombstone GRATIS.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 9, 1802.

53

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN AUTHOR AND HIS FRIEND

_Author._ Come; your opinion of my ma.n.u.script!

_Friend._ Dear Joe! I would almost as soon be whipt.

_Author._ But I _will_ have it!

_Friend._ If it must be had--(_hesitating_) You write so ill, I scarce could read the hand--

_Author._ A mere evasion!

_Friend._ And you spell so bad, That what I read I could not understand.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802.

54

????s?f?a OR WISDOM IN FOLLY

Tom Slothful talks, as slothful Tom beseems, What he shall shortly gain and what be doing, Then drops asleep, and so prolongs his dreams And thus _enjoys_ at once what half the world are _wooing_.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802.

55

Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf!

He shews his _clothes_! Alas! he shews _himself_.

O that they knew, these overdrest self-lovers, What hides the body oft the mind discovers.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802.

56

FROM AN OLD GERMAN POET

That France has put us oft to rout With _powder_, which ourselves found out; And laughs at us for fools in _print_, Of which our genius was the Mint; All this I easily admit, For we have genius, France has wit.

But 'tis too bad, that blind and mad To Frenchmen's wives each travelling German goes, Expands his manly vigour by _their_ sides, Becomes the father of his country's foes And turns _their warriors_ oft to parricides.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802. Adapted from Wernicke's _Epigrams_ (Bk. VIII, No. 4), _Auf die Buhlerey der Deutschen in Frankreich_.

'Da.s.s Frankreich uns pflegt zu verwunden Durch Pulver, welches wir erfunden.'

57

ON THE CURIOUS CIRc.u.mSTANCE,

THAT IN THE GERMAN LANGUAGE THE SUN IS FEMININE, AND THE MOON IS MASCULINE

Our English poets, bad and good, agree To make the Sun a male, the Moon a she.

He drives HIS dazzling diligence on high, In verse, as constantly as in the sky; And cheap as blackberries our sonnets shew The Moon, Heaven's huntress, with HER silver bow; By which they'd teach us, if I guess aright, Man rules the day, and woman rules the night.

In Germany, they just reverse the thing; The Sun becomes a queen, the Moon a king.

Now, that the Sun should represent the women, The Moon the men, to me seem'd mighty humming; And when I first read German, made me stare.

Surely it is not that the wives are there As _common_ as the Sun, to lord and loon, And all their husbands _horned_ as the Moon.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802. Adapted from Wernicke's _Epigrams_ (Bk. VII, No. 15), _Die Sonne und der Mond_.

'Die Sonn' heisst die, der Mond heisst der In unsrer Sprach', und kommt daher, Weil meist die Fraun wie die _gemein_, Wie der _gehornt_ wir Manner sein.'

58

SPOTS IN THE SUN

My father confessor is strict and holy, _Mi Fili_, still he cries, _peccare noli_.

And yet how oft I find the pious man At Annette's door, the lovely courtesan!

Her soul's deformity the good man wins And not her charms! he comes to hear her sins!

Good father! I would fain not do thee wrong; But ah! I fear that they who oft and long Stand gazing at the sun, to count each spot, _Must_ sometimes find the sun itself too hot.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802.