At yon round table sprawls a rake,
A dissolute, belov’d by girls
Who cannot but great notice take
Of how that handsome flaunts his curls.
For nothing draws a maid like hair
On heads or chests or arms or cocks,
Or makes the fair sex wish him bare
So much as long and golden locks.
The lad kicks back and quaffs his wine
While ladies hasten to undress;
He’ll have them here if he’s inclined,
There’s not one craving he’ll suppress.
It’s almost midnight by the clocks
When he espies a spirited mare
Of ivory breast and ruddy hocks
And silken cheeks and ankle fair.
Soon thinks he of the sounds she’ll make
When once beneath him she’s supine:
Moans and sighs, she will not fake
The thrilling trembling down her spine.
But as he dreams, this other pearl—
Her hand maneuv’ring in his shirt
To toy with all his hairy swirls—
Does show herself a worthy flirt.
“You are some wench,” he says, “a fox,
I’d like you, both, I must confess,
And if I did not fear the pox,
‘Tis a desire I’d soon address.”
Thus Hogarth did with Beauty’s Line
Portray an Orgy for our Rake:
All youthful flesh, and joy divine,
And time well-spent for pleasure’s sake.
Why pass the time with other jocks
At checkers, horses, cards or chess?
This lad will say when old age knocks,
“I fondled girls, and thus, progressed.”
The poem, “On Hogarth’s…” was composed upon viewing Hogarth’s “The Orgy,” from his series, “A Rake’s Progress.” Susan Pashman’s first novel, “The Speed of Light,” was published in 1997. In addition to novels. she has also published stories and essays in such journals as The Texas Review, The Portland Review and Dan River Anthology.
