Volume I Part 12 (1/2)
Yet what he beheld the fond boy More eagerly wish'd in his arms.
How can it thy dear image be Which fills thus my bosom with woe?
Can aught bear resemblance to thee Which grief and not joy can bestow?
This counterfeit s.n.a.t.c.h from my heart, Ye pow'rs, tho' with torment I rave, Tho' mortal will prove the fell smart: I then shall find rest in my grave.
Ah, see the dear nymph o'er the plain Come smiling and tripping along!
A thousand Loves dance in her train, The Graces around her all throng.
To meet her soft Zephyrus flies, And wafts all the sweets from the flowers, Ah, rogue I whilst he kisses her eyes, More sweets from her breath he devours.
My soul, whilst I gaze, is on fire: But her looks were so tender and kind, My hope almost reach'd my desire, And left lame despair far behind.
Transported with madness, I flew, And eagerly seized on my bliss; Her bosom but half she withdrew, But half she refused my fond kiss.
Advances like these made me bold; I whisper'd her--Love, we're alone.-- The rest let immortals unfold; No language can tell but their own.
Ah, Chloe, expiring, I cried, How long I thy cruelty bore!
Ah, Strephon, she blus.h.i.+ng replied, You ne'er was so pressing before.
Adams had been ruminating all this time on a pa.s.sage in Aeschylus, without attending in the least to the voice, though one of the most melodious that ever was heard, when, casting his eyes on f.a.n.n.y, he cried out, ”Bless us, you look extremely pale!”--”Pale! Mr Adams,” says she; ”O Jesus!” and fell backwards in her chair. Adams jumped up, flung his Aeschylus into the fire, and fell a-roaring to the people of the house for help. He soon summoned every one into the room, and the songster among the rest; but, O reader! when this nightingale, who was no other than Joseph Andrews himself, saw his beloved f.a.n.n.y in the situation we have described her, canst thou conceive the agitations of his mind? If thou canst not, waive that meditation to behold his happiness, when, clasping her in his arms, he found life and blood returning into her cheeks: when he saw her open her beloved eyes, and heard her with the softest accent whisper, ”Are you Joseph Andrews?”--”Art thou my f.a.n.n.y?”
he answered eagerly: and, pulling her to his heart, he imprinted numberless kisses on her lips, without considering who were present.
If prudes are offended at the lusciousness of this picture, they may take their eyes off from it, and survey parson Adams dancing about the room in a rapture of joy. Some philosophers may perhaps doubt whether he was not the happiest of the three: for the goodness of his heart enjoyed the blessings which were exulting in the b.r.e.a.s.t.s of both the other two, together with his own. But we shall leave such disquisitions, as too deep for us, to those who are building some favourite hypothesis, which they will refuse no metaphysical rubbish to erect and support: for our part, we give it clearly on the side of Joseph, whose happiness was not only greater than the parson's, but of longer duration: for as soon as the first tumults of Adams's rapture were over he cast his eyes towards the fire, where Aeschylus lay expiring; and immediately rescued the poor remains, to wit, the sheepskin covering, of his dear friend, which was the work of his own hands, and had been his inseparable companion for upwards of thirty years.
f.a.n.n.y had no sooner perfectly recovered herself than she began to restrain the impetuosity of her transports; and, reflecting on what she had done and suffered in the presence of so many, she was immediately covered with confusion; and, pus.h.i.+ng Joseph gently from her, she begged him to be quiet, nor would admit of either kiss or embrace any longer.
Then, seeing Mrs Slipslop, she curtsied, and offered to advance to her; but that high woman would not return her curtsies; but, casting her eyes another way, immediately withdrew into another room, muttering, as she went, she wondered who the creature was.
CHAPTER XIII.