Analysis of The Dove
In Virgil's Sacred Verse we find,
That Passion can depress or raise
The Heav'nly, as the Human Mind:
Who dare deny what Virgil says?
But if They shou'd; what our Great Master
Has thus laid down, my Tale shall prove.
Fair Venus wept the sad Disaster
Of having lost her Fav'rite Dove.
In Complaisance poor Cupid mourn'd;
His Grief reliev'd his Mother's Pain;
He vow'd he'd leave no Stone unturn'd,
But She shou'd have her Dove again.
Tho' None, said He, shall yet be nam'd,
I know the Felon well enough:
But be She not, Mamma, condemn'd
Without a fair and legal Proof.
With that, his longest Dart he took,
As Constable wou'd take his Staff:
That Gods desire like Men to look,
Wou'd make ev'n Heraclitus laugh.
Loves Subaltern, a Duteous Band,
Like Watchmen round their Chief appear:
Each had his Lanthorn in his Hand:
And Venus mask'd brought up the Rear.
Accouter'd thus, their eager Step
To Cloe's Lodging They directed:
(At once I write, alas! and weep,
That Cloe is of Theft suspected.)
Late They set out, had far to go:
St. Dunstan's, as They pass'd, struck One.
Cloe, for Reasons good, You know,
Lives at the sober End o'th' Town.
With one great Peal They rap the Door,
Like Footmen on a Visiting-Day.
Folks at Her House at such an Hour!
Lord! what will all the Neighbours say?
The Door is open'd: up They run:
Nor Prayers, nor Threats divert their Speed:
Thieves, Thieves! cries Susan; We're undone;
They'll kill my Mistress in her Bed.
In Bed indeed the Nymph had been
Three Hours: for all Historians say,
She commonly went up at Ten,
Unless Picquet was in the Way.
She wak'd, be sure, with strange Surprize.
O Cupid, is this Right or Law,
Thus to disturb the brightest Eyes,
That ever slept, or ever saw?
Have You observ'd a sitting Hare,
List'ning, and fearful of the Storm
Of Horns and Hounds, clap back her Ear,
Afraid to keep, or leave her Form?
Or have You mark'd a Partridge quake,
Viewing the tow'ring Faulcon nigh?
She cuddles low behind the Brake:
Nor wou'd she stay: nor dares she fly.
Then have You seen the Beauteous Maid;
When gazing on her Midnight Foes,
She turn'd each Way her frighted Head,
Then sunk it deap beneath the Cloaths.
Venus this while was in the Chamber
Incognito: for Susan said,
It smelt so strong of Myrrh and Amber—
And Susan is no lying Maid.
But since We have no present Need
Of Venus for an Episode;
With Cupid let us e'en proceed;
And thus to Cloe spoke the God:
Hold up your Head: hold up your Hand:
Wou'd it were not my Lot to show ye
This cruel Writ, wherein you stand
Indicted by the Name of Cloe:
For that by secret Malice stirr'd,
Or by an emulous Pride invited,
You have purloin'd the fav'rite Bird,
In which my Mother most delighted.
Her blushing Face the lovely Maid
Rais'd just above the milk-white Sheet.
A Rose-Tree in a Lilly Bed,
Nor glows so red, nor breathes so sweet.
Are You not He whom Virgins fear,
And Widows court? Is not your Name
Cupid? If so, pray come not near—
Fair Maiden, I'm the very same.
Then what have I, good Sir, to say,
Or do with Her, You call your Mother?
If I shou'd meet Her in my Way,
We hardly court'sy to each other.
Diana Chaste, and Hebe Sweet,
Witness that what I speak is true:
I wou'd not give my Paroquet
For all the Doves that ever flew.
Yet, to compose this Midnight Noise,
Go freely search where-e'er you please:
(The Rage that rais'd, adorn'd Her Voice)
Upon yon' Toilet lie my Keys.
Her Keys He takes; her Doors unlocks;
Thro' Wardrobe, and thro' Closet bounces;
Peeps into ev'ry Chest and Box;
Turns all her Furbeloes and Flounces.
But Dove, depend on't, finds He none;
So to the Bed returns again:
And now the Maiden, bolder grown,
Begins to treat Him with Disdain.
I marvel much, She smiling said,
Your Poultry cannot yet be found:
Lies he in yonder Slipper dead,
Or, may be, in the Tea-pot drown'd?
No, Traytor, angry Love replies,
He's hid somewhere about Your Breast;
A Place, nor God, nor Man denies,
For Venus' Dove the proper Nest.
Search then, She said, put in your Hand,
And Cynthia, dear Protectress, guard Me:
As guilty I, or free may stand,
Do Thou, or punish, or reward Me.
But ah! what Maid to Love can trust?
He scorns, and breaks all Legal Power:
Into her Breast his Hand He thrust;
And in a Moment forc'd it lower.
O, whither do those Fingers rove,
Cries Cloe, treacherous Urchin, whither?
O Venus! I shall find thy Dove,
Says He; for sure I to
Scheme | ABAXCXCDXEXFXXXXGHGHIJIJ XKXKLMLXXNCNMOMPXNFNBQRQXSXS TUTUVXPBCPCVOXOXIWILXKXKVYPY JZJZNCNCY1 A1 X2 X2 B3 X3 MFXEP4 P4 R5 R5 IWIW6 C6 CXCD1 |
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Poetic Form | |
Metre | 0110111 11010111 0110101 11011101 1111110110 11111111 110101010 1101011 011101 11011101 11111101 11110101 11111111 11010101 11111001 01010101 11110111 11001111 110101111 111111 11011 11011101 1111011 01011101 111101 11101010 11110101 11111010 11111111 1111111 1110111 1101011111 11111101 11101001 110111110 1111011 01110111 11110111 11110101 11110001 01010111 1101101001 11001111 0111001 1111111 11011111 11010101 11011101 11010101 11010101 11011101 01111101 11110101 10011101 1110101 11111111 1111011 1101011 1111011 11110101 101110010 00101101 111111010 01011101 11111101 1101110 110111101 0111101 11111111 110111111 11010111 01010111 11110101 11111010 1101011 011101010 01010101 11010111 01100101 11111111 11111101 01011111 10111111 11010101 11111111 111011110 11110011 110111110 0101011 10111111 111111 11011101 1101111 110111011 01110101 01110111 0111011 11011010 1011101 1101010 110111111 11010101 01010101 01111101 11011101 11010111 11010101 11100111 1110101 1110111 01111101 11010101 11111011 01001111 11011111 111101011 11111111 110111010 01011111 000101110 11011101 111001010 11011111 111111 |
Closest metre | Iambic tetrameter |
Characters | 4,242 |
Words | 807 |
Sentences | 47 |
Stanzas | 5 |
Stanza Lengths | 24, 28, 28, 28, 16 |
Lines Amount | 124 |
Letters per line (avg) | 27 |
Words per line (avg) | 7 |
Letters per stanza (avg) | 662 |
Words per stanza (avg) | 161 |
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Submitted on May 13, 2011
Modified on March 05, 2023
- 4:17 min read
- 89 Views
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"The Dove" Poetry.com. STANDS4 LLC, 2024. Web. 23 May 2024. <https://www.poetry.com/poem-analysis/27432/the-dove>.
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