A POEM BY MARGARET CAVENDISH
Duchess of Newcastle and the First Scientific
Lady
A Dialogue Between Melancholy and Mirth
As I sat musing by myself alone,
My thoughts brought several things to work upon:
At last came two which were in various dress,
One Melancholy, the other did Mirth express.
Melancholy was all in black array,
And Mirth was drest in colours fresh and gay.
Mirth laughing came and, running to me, flung
Her fat white arms about my neck and hung,
Embraced and kissed me oft and stroked my cheek,
Saying she would no other lover seek.
"I'll sing you songs and please you every day,
Invent new sports to pass the time away,
I'll keep your heart and guard it from that thief
Dull melancholy care, or sadder grief:
And make your eyes with mirth to overflow,
And full with springing blood your cheeks shall grow.
Your legs shall nimble be, your body light,
And all your spirits rise like birds in flight:
Mirth shall digest your meat and make you strong,
Shall give you health and your short days prolong.
Refuse me not but take me to your wife,
For I shall make you happy all your life.
If you take Melancholy, she'll make you lean,
Your cheeks shall hollow grow, your jaws be seen:
Your eyes shall buried be within your head,
You'll look as pale as if you were quite dead.
She'll make you start at every noise you hear
And visions strange shall in your eyes appear,
Your stomach cold and raw, digesting naught:
Your liver dry: your heart with sorrow fraught.
Thus would it be if you to her were wed,
But better far 'twould be that you were dead.
Her voice is low and gives a hollow sound:
She hates the light, in darkness only found:
Or set with blinking lamps or tapers small,
Which various shadows make against the wall.
She loves nought else but noise that discords make,
As croaking frogs which dwell down in the lake,
The Raven's hoarse, the mandrake's hollow groan,
And shrieking owls in night which fly alone,
The tolling bell which for the dead rings out,
A mill where rushing water run about,
The roaring winds which shake the cedars tall,
Plough up the seas and beat the rocks withal.
She loves to walk in the still moonshine night,
Where in a thick dark grove she takes delight.
In hollow cave, house thatched or lowly cell,
She loves to live and all alone to dwell.
Her ears are stopped with thoughts, her eyes purblind,
For all she hears or sees is in the mind.
(Though in her mind luxuriously she lives,
Imagination several pleasures gives).
Then leave her to herself alone to dwell,
Let you and I with mirth and pleasure swell,
And drink long, lusty draughts from Bacchus' bowl,
Until our brains on vaporous waves do roll;
Let's 'joy ourselves in amorous delights,
There's none so happy as the carpet knights!"
Melancholy with sad and sober face,
Complexion pale but of a comely grace,
With modest countenance, soft speech, thus spake:
"May I so happy be your love to take?
True, I am dull, yet by me you shall know
More of yourself - so wiser you shall grow.
I search the depth and bottom of mankind,
Open the eye of ignorance that's blind:
I travel far and view the world about,
I walk with Reason's staff to find Truth out:
I watchful am all danger for to shun,
And do prepare 'gainst evils that may come:
I hang not on inconstant Fortune's wheel,
Nor yet with unresolving doubts do reel:
I shake not with the terror of vain fears,
Nor is my mind filled with unuseful cares:
I do not spend my time like idle Mirth,
Who only happy is just at her birth,
Who seldom lives so long as to be old,
And if she doth, can no affections hold;
For in short time she troublesome will grow:
Though at first she makes a pretty show,
She makes a constant noise and keeps a rout,
And with dislike most commonly goes out.
Mirth good-for-nothing is, like weeds she grows,
Such plants cause madness Reason never knows,
Her face with laughter crumples in a heap,
Which ploughs large furrows - wrinkles long and deep:
Her eyes do water and her skin turns red,
Her mouth doth gape, teeth bared like one that's dead:
She fulsome is and gluts the senses all,
Offers herself and comes before a call;
Seeks company out and hates to be alone,
Unwelcome guests affronts are thrown upon.
Her house is built upon the golden sands,
Yet on no true and safe foundation stands;
A palace 'tis, where comes a great resort,
It makes a noise and gives a loud report.
Yet underneath the roof disasters lie
That oft beat down the house and many kill thereby.
"I dwell in groves that gilt are with the sun,
Sit on the banks by which clear waters run;
In summers hot down in the shade I lie,
My music is the buzzing of a fly,
Which in the sunny beams doth dance all day,
And harmlessly doth pass the time away.
I walk in meadows soft with fresh green grass,
Or fields where corn is high, through which I pass,
Walk up the hills whence round I prospects see,
Where brushy woods and fairest champaign be;
Returning back, in the fresh pasture go,
And hear the bleatingf sheep, the cows to low,
They gently feed, no evil think upon,
Have no design to do each other wrong.
In winter cold when nipping frosts come on,
Then do I live in a small house alone;
Although 'tis plain yet cleanly 'tis within
Like to a soul that's pure and clear from sin.
And there I dwell in quiet and still peace,
Not filled with care my riches to increase;
I wish nor seek for vain and fruitless pleasures-
There is no wealth but what the Mind intreasures.
Thus am I solitary and live alone,
Yet better loved the more that I am known,
And though my face be ill favoured at first sight,
After acquaintance it shall give delight.
For I am like a shade; who sits in me
Shall not come wet, nor yet sun-burned be;
I keep off blustering storms from doing hurt,
When Mirth is often smutched with dust and dirt.
Refuse me not, for I shall constant be,
Maintain your credit and your dignity.
Graphics provided by:
Heartland Graphics
