  In the old town of Coventry, so people say, Dwelt a Peer who was utterly lacking in pity; Universally loathed for the rigorous way That he burdened the rates of the City. By his merciless methods of petty taxation, The poor were reduced to the verge of starvation. But the Earl had a wife, whom the people adored, For her kindness of heart even more than her beauty, And her pitiless lord she besought and implored To remit this extortionate “duty”; But he answered: “My dear, pray reflect at your leisure, What you deem a ‘duty,’ to me is a pleasure!” At the heart of her spouse she continued to storm, And she closed her entreaties, one day, by exclaiming:— “If you take off the tax, I will gladly perform Any task that you like to be naming!” “Well, if that be the case,” said the nobleman, “I’ve a Good mind just to test you, my Lady Godiva! “To your wishes, my dear, I will straight acquiesce, On the single condition—I give you fair warning— That you ride through the City, at noon, in the dress That you wear in your bath of a morning!” “Very well!” she replied. “Be it so! Though you drive a Hard bargain, my lord,” said the Lady Godiva. So she slipped off her gown, and her shoulders lay bare, Gleaming white like the moon on Aonian fountains; When about them she loosened her curtain of hair, ’Twas like Night coming over the mountains! And she blushed, ’neath the veil of her wonderful tresses, As blushes the Morn ’neath the Sun’s first caresses! Then she went to the stable and saddled her steed, Who erected his ears, till he looked like a rabbit, He was somewhat surprised, as he might be, indeed, At the lady’s unusual “habit”; But allowed her to mount in the masculine way, For he couldn’t say “No,” and he wouldn’t say “Neigh!” So she rode through the town, in the heat of the sun, For the weather was (luckily) warm as the Tropics, And the people all drew down their blinds—except one, On the staff of the local “Town Topics.” (Such misconduct produced in the eyes of this vile one A cataract nearly as large as the Nile one!) Then Godiva returned, and the Earl had to yield, (And the paralyzed pressman dictated his cable;) The tax was remitted, the bells were repealed, And the horse was returned to the stable; While banners were waved from each possible quarter, Except from the flat of the stricken reporter. Now the Moral is this—if I’ve fathomed the tale (Though it needs a more delicate pen to explain it):— You can get whatsoever you want, without fail, If you’ll sacrifice all to obtain it. You should try to avoid unconventional capers, And be sure you don’t write for Society papers. “At the heart of her spouse she continued to storm” |
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