 | The Problem, "That My Lord Berkeley Stinks When He is in Love"
by Jonathan Swift  /  poetry  /  27 Oct 2007
Did ever problem thus perplex, Or more employ the female sex? So sweet a passion who would think, Jove ever form'd to make a stink? The ladies vow and swear, they'll try, Whether it be a truth or lie. Love's fire, it seems, like inward heat, Works in my lord by stool and sweat, Which brings a stink from every pore, And from behind and from before; Yet what is wonderful to tell it, None but the favourite nymph can smell it. But now, to solve the natural cause By sober philosophic laws; Whether all passions, when in ferment, Work out as anger does in vermin; So, when a weasel you torment, You find his passion by his scent. We read of kings, who, in a fright, Though on a throne, would fall to sh--. Beside all this, deep scholars know, That the main string of Cupid's bow, Once on a time was an a-- gut; Now to a nobler office put, By favour or desert preferr'd From giving passage to a t--; But still, though fix'd among the stars, Does sympathize with human a--. Thus, when you feel a hard-bound breech, Conclude love's bow-string at full stretch, Till the kind looseness comes, and then, Conclude the bow relax'd again. And now, the ladies all are bent, To try the great experiment, Ambitious of a regent's heart, Spread all their charms to catch a f-- Watching the first unsavoury wind, Some ply before, and some behind. My lord, on fire amid the dames, F--ts like a laurel in the flames. The fair approach the speaking part, To try the back-way to his heart. For, as when we a gun discharge, Although the bore be none so large, Before the flame from muzzle burst, Just at the breech it flashes first; So from my lord his passion broke, He f--d first and then he spoke. The ladies vanish in the smother, To confer notes with one another; And now they all agreed to name Whom each one thought the happy dame. Quoth Neal, whate'er the rest may think, I'm sure 'twas I that smelt the stink. You smell the stink! by G--d, you lie, Quoth Ross, for I'll be sworn 'twas I. Ladies, quoth Levens, pray forbear; Let's not fall out; we all had share; And, by the most I can discover, My lord's a universal lover.
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