{"id":8842,"date":"2011-02-14T01:49:38","date_gmt":"2011-02-14T01:49:38","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/?p=8842"},"modified":"2011-02-14T01:49:38","modified_gmt":"2011-02-14T01:49:38","slug":"the-choise-of-valentines-or-the-merie-ballad-of-nash-his-dildo","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/2011\/02\/14\/the-choise-of-valentines-or-the-merie-ballad-of-nash-his-dildo\/","title":{"rendered":"The Choise of Valentines, Or the Merie Ballad of Nash His Dildo"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"nash.jpg\"<\/a><\/p>\n

My little dilldo shall suply their kinde:
\nA knaue, that moues as light as leaues by winde;
\nThat bendeth not, nor fouldeth anie deale,
\nBut stands as stiff as he were made of steele;<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

A salacious post for chocolate-and-roses day. There’s a degree of confusion around this work and its author, an Elizabethan poet, playwright and pamphleteer. The poem, which was distributed privately, dates from around 1593 and has a variety of titles, while its author is variously credited as Thomas Nashe or Thomas Nash. Despite the bawdy reputation of the Elizabethan era Nash’s contemporaries were sufficiently scandalised by the poem for it to remain unpublished, with the result that it survives imperfectly in a few handwritten copies. It’s a lengthy piece so let’s go to Wikipedia for a pr\u00e9cis:<\/p>\n

It describes the visit of a young man named “Tomalin” to the brothel where his girlfriend Frances (“Frankie”) is employed. Having paid ten gold pieces for her favours, Tomalin is embarrassed to find that merely lifting her skirts makes him lose his erection. She perseveres in arousing him however and they make love, but to her disappointment he has an orgasm before her. Frankie then decides to take matters into her own hands: hence the informal title by which the poem was known, Nashe’s Dildo<\/em>.<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

The Oxford English Dictionary credits Nash with the first appearance in English of the word “dildo”, a term “of obscure origin” we’re told, whose usage here predates John Florio’s Worlde of Wordes<\/em> (1598), Ben Jonson’s The Alchemist<\/em> (1610), and Shakespeare’s A Winter’s Tale<\/em> (1611). Nash’s achievement is something of a cheat since his poem wasn’t actually published until 1899, and then in a private edition. As usual the Internet Archive has the book in question<\/a>, and it’s their version which follows, albeit without the copious footnotes.<\/p>\n

The Renaissance English Literature<\/a> site has more about Thomas Nash (or Nashe), his life and his work.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

THE CHOOSING OF VALENTINES.<\/p>\n

It was the merie moneth of Februarie,
\nWhen yong men, in their iollie roguerie,
\nRose earelie in the morne fore breake of daie,
\nTo seeke them valentines soe trimme and gaie;<\/p>\n

With whom they maie consorte in summer sheene,
\nAnd dance the haidegaies on our toune-greene,
\nAs alas at Easter, or at Pentecost,
\nPerambulate the fields that flourish most;<\/p>\n

And goe to som village abbordring neere,
\nTo taste the creame and cakes and such good cheere;
\nOr see a playe of strange moralitie,
\nShewen by Bachelrie of Maningtree.<\/p>\n

Where to, the contrie franklins flock-meale swarme,
\nAnd Jhon and Jone com marching arme in arme.
\nEuen on the hallowes of that blessed Saint
\nThat doeth true louers with those ioyes acquaint,<\/p>\n

I went, poore pilgrime, to my ladies shrine,
\nTo see if she would be my valentine;
\nBut woe, alass, she was not to be found,
\nFor she was shifted to an upper ground:<\/p>\n

Good Justice Dudgeon-haft, and crab-tree face,
\nWith bills and staues had scar’d hir from the place;
\nAnd now she was compel’d, for Sanctuarie,
\nTo flye unto a house of venerie.<\/p>\n

Thither went I, and bouldlie made enquire
\nIf they had hackneis to lett-out to hire,
\nAnd what they crau’d, by order of their trade,
\nTo lett one ride a iournie on a iade.<\/p>\n

Therwith out stept a foggy three-chinnd dame,
\nThat us’d to take yong wenches for to tame,
\nAnd ask’t me if I ment as I profest,
\nOr onelie ask’t a question but in iest.<\/p>\n

“In iest?” quoth I; “that terme it as you will;
\nI com for game, therefore give me my Jill.”
\n“Why Sir,” quoth shee, “if that be your demande,
\nCom, laye me a Gods-pennie in my hand;<\/p>\n

For, in our oratorie siccarlie,
\nNone enters heere, to doe his nicarie,
\nBut he must paye his offertorie first,
\nAnd then, perhaps, wee’le ease him of his thirst.”<\/p>\n

I, hearing hir so ernest for the box,
\nGave hir hir due, and she the dore unlocks.
\nIn am I entered: “venus be my speede!
\nBut where’s this female that must do this deed”?<\/p>\n

By blinde meanders, and by crankled wayes,
\nShee leades me onward, (as my Aucthor saies),
\nVntill we came within a shadie loft
\nWhere venus bounsing vestalls skirmish oft;<\/p>\n

And there shee sett me in a leather chaire,
\nAnd brought me forth, of prettie Trulls, a paire,
\nTo chuse of them which might content myne eye;
\nBut hir I sought, I could nowhere espie.<\/p>\n

I spake them faire, and wisht them well to fare\u2014
\n“Yet soe yt is, I must haue fresher ware;
\nWherefore, dame Bawde, as daintie as you bee,
\nFetch gentle mistris Francis forth to me.”<\/p>\n

“By Halliedame,” quoth she, “and Gods oune mother,
\nI well perceaue you are a wylie brother;
\nFor if there be a morsell of more price,
\nYou’ll smell it out, though I be nare so nice.<\/p>\n

As you desire, so shall you swiue with hir,
\nBut think, your purse-strings shall abye-it deare;
\nFor, he that will eate quailes must lauish crounes,
\nAnd Mistris Francis, in her veluett gounes,<\/p>\n

And ruffs and perwigs as fresh as Maye,
\nCan not be kept with half a croune a daye.”
\n“Of price, good hostess, we will not debate,
\nThough you assize me at the highest rate;<\/p>\n

Onelie conduct me to this bonnie bell.
\nAnd tenne good gobbs I will unto thee tell,
\nOf golde or siluer, which shall lyke thee best,
\nSo much doe I hir companie request.”<\/p>\n

Awaie she went: so sweete a thing is golde,
\nThat (mauger) will inuade the strongest holde.
\n“Hey-ho! she coms, that hath my hearte in keepe
\nSing Lullabie, my cares, and falle a-sleepe.”<\/p>\n

Sweeping she coms, as she would brush the ground;
\nHir ratling silkes my sences doe confound.
\n“Oh, I am rauisht: voide the chamber streight;
\nFor I must neede’s upon hir with my weight.”<\/p>\n

“My Tomalin,” quoth shee, and then she smilde.
\n“I, I,” quoth I, “soe more men are beguild
\nWith smiles, with flatt’ring wordes, and fained cheere,
\nWhen in their deedes their falsehood doeth appeare.”<\/p>\n

“As how, my lambkin,” blushing, she replide,
\n“Because I in this dancing schoole abide?
\nIf that it be, that breede’s this discontent,
\nWe will remoue the camp incontinent:<\/p>\n

For shelter onelie, sweete heart, came I hither,
\nAnd to auoide the troblous stormie weather;
\nBut now the coaste is cleare, we will be gonne,
\nSince, but thy self, true louer I haue none.”<\/p>\n

With that she sprung full lightlie to my lips,
\nAnd fast about the neck me colle’s, and clips;
\nShe wanton faints, and falle’s vpon hir bedd,
\nAnd often tosseth too and fro hir head;<\/p>\n

She shutts hir eyes, and waggles with her tongue:
\n“Oh, who is able to abstaine so long?”
\n“I com! I com! sweete lyning be thy leaue:”
\nSoftlie my fingers up theis curtaine heaue,<\/p>\n

And make me happie, stealing by degreese.
\nFirst bare hir leggs, then creepe up to hir kneese;
\nFrom thence ascend unto her mannely thigh\u2014
\n(A pox on lingring when I am so nighe!).<\/p>\n

Smock, climbe a-pace, that I maie see my ioyes;
\nOh heauen and paradize are all but toyes
\nCompar’d with this sight I now behould,
\nWhich well might keepe a man from being olde.<\/p>\n

A prettie rysing wombe without a weame,
\nThat shone as bright as anie siluer streame;
\nAnd bare out like the bending of an hill,
\nAt whose decline a fountaine dwelleth still;<\/p>\n

That hath his mouth besett with uglie bryers,
\nResembling much a duskie nett of wyres;
\nA loftie buttock, barrd with azure veines,
\nWhose comelie swelling, when my hand distreines,<\/p>\n

Or wanton checketh with a harmlesse stype,
\nIt makes the fruites of loue oftsoone be rype,
\nAnd pleasure pluckt too tymelie from the stemme
\nTo dye ere it hath seene Jerusalem.<\/p>\n

O Gods! that euer anie thing so sweete,
\nSo suddenlie should fade awaie, and fleete!
\nHir armes are spread, and I am all unarm’d,
\nLyke one with Ouid’s cursed hemlocke charm’d;<\/p>\n

So are my Limms unwealdlie for the fight
\nThat spend their strength in thought of hir delight.
\nWhat shall I doe to shewe my self a man?
\nIt will not be for ought that beawtie can.<\/p>\n

I kisse, I clap, I feele, I view at will,
\nYett dead he lyes, not thinking good or ill.
\n“Unhappie me,” quoth shee, “and wilt’ not stand?
\nCom, lett me rubb and chafe it with my hand!<\/p>\n

Perhaps the sillie worme is labour’d sore,
\nAnd wearied that it can doe noe more;
\nIf it be so, as I am greate a-dread,
\nI wish tenne thousand times that I were dead.<\/p>\n

How ere it is, no meanes shall want in me,
\nThat maie auaile to his recouerie.”
\nWhich saide, she tooke and rould it on hir thigh,
\nAnd when she look’t on’t, she would weepe and sighe;<\/p>\n

She dandled it, and dancet it up and doune,
\nNot ceasing till she rais’d it from his swoune.
\nAnd then he flue on hir as he were wood,
\nAnd on hir breeche did hack and foyne a-good;<\/p>\n

He rub’d, and prickt, and pierst her to the bones,
\nDigging as farre as eath he might for stones;
\nNow high, now lowe, now stryking shorte and thicke;
\nNow dyuing deepe, he toucht hir to the quicke;<\/p>\n

Now with a gird he would his course rebate,
\nStraite would he take him to a statlie gate;
\nPlaie while him list, and thrust he neare so hard,
\nPoore pacient Grissill lyeth at hir warde,<\/p>\n

And giue’s, and takes, as blythe and free as Maye,
\nAnd ere-more meete’s him in the midle waye.
\nOn him hir eyes continualy were fixt;
\nWith hir eye-beames his melting looke’s were mixt,<\/p>\n

Which, like the Sunne, that twixt two glasses plaies,
\nFrom one to th’ other cast’s rebounding rayes.
\nHe, lyke a starre that, to reguild his beames
\nSucks-in the influence of Phebus streames,<\/p>\n

Imbathes the lynes of his descending light
\nIn the bright fountaines of hir clearest sight.
\nShe, faire as fairest Planet in the skye,
\nHir puritie to noe man doeth denye;<\/p>\n

The verie chamber that enclouds her shine
\nLookes lyke the pallace of that God deuine,
\nWho leades the daie about the Zodiake,
\nAnd euerie euen discends to th’oceane lake;<\/p>\n

So fierce and feruent is her radiance,
\nSuch fyrie stakes she darts at euerie glance
\nAs might enflame the icie limmes of age,
\nAnd make pale death his seignedrie to aswage;<\/p>\n

To stand and gaze upon her orient lamps,
\nWhere Cupid all his chiefest ioyes encamps,
\nAnd sitts, and playes with euery atomie
\nThat in hir Sunne-beames swarme aboundantlie.<\/p>\n

Thus gazing, and thus striuing, we perseuer:
\nBut what so firme that maie continue euer?
\n“Oh not so fast,” my rauisht Mistriss cryes,
\n“Leaste my content, that on thy life relyes,<\/p>\n

Be brought too-soone from his delightfull seate,
\nAnd me unwares of hoped bliss defeate.
\nTogether lett us marche unto content,
\nAnd be consumed with one blandishment.”<\/p>\n

As she prescrib’d so kept we crotchet-time,
\nAnd euerie stroake in ordre lyke a chyme,
\nWhilst she, that had preseru’d me by hir pittie,
\nUnto our musike fram’d a groaning dittie.<\/p>\n

“Alass! alass! that loue should be a sinne!
\nEuen now my blisse and sorrowe doeth beginne.
\nHould wyde thy lapp, my louelie Danae,
\nAnd entretaine the golden shoure so free,<\/p>\n

That trikling falles into thy treasurie.
\nAs Aprill-drops not half so pleasant be,
\nNor Nilus overflowe to \u00c6gipt plaines
\nAs this sweet-streames that all hir ioints imbaynes.<\/p>\n

With “Oh!” and “Oh!” she itching moues hir hipps,
\nAnd to and fro full lightlie starts and skips:
\nShe ierkes hir leggs, and sprauleth with hir heeles;
\nNo tongue maie tell the solace that she feeles,<\/p>\n

“I faint! I yeald! Oh, death! rock me a-sleepe!
\nSleepe! sleepe desire! entombed in the deepe!”
\n“Not so, my deare,” my dearest saint replyde,
\n“For, from us yett, thy spirit maie not glide<\/p>\n

Untill the sinnowie channels of our blood
\nWithout their source from this imprisoned flood;
\nAnd then will we (that then will com too soone),
\nDissolued lye, as though our dayes were donne.”<\/p>\n

The whilst I speake, my soule is fleeting hence,
\nAnd life forsakes his fleshie residence.
\nStaie, staie sweete ioye, and leaue me not forlorne
\nWhy shouldst thou fade that art but newelie borne?<\/p>\n

“Staie but an houre, an houre is not so much:
\nBut half an houre; if that thy haste is such,
\nNaie, but a quarter\u2014I will aske no more\u2014
\nThat thy departure (which torments me sore),<\/p>\n

Maie be alightned with a little pause,
\nAnd take awaie this passions sudden cause.”
\nHe heare’s me not; hard-harted as he is,
\nHe is the sonne of Time, and hates my blisse.<\/p>\n

Time nere looke’s backe, the riuers nere returne;
\nA second springe must help me or I burne.
\nNo, no, the well is drye that should refresh me,
\nThe glasse is runne of all my destinie:<\/p>\n

Nature of winter learneth nigardize
\nWho, as he ouer-beares the streame with ice
\nThat man nor beaste maie of their pleasance taste,
\nSo shutts she up hir conduit all in haste,<\/p>\n

And will not let hir Nectar ouer-flowe,
\nLeast mortall man immortall ioyes should knowe.
\nAdieu! unconstant loue, to thy disporte
\nAdieu! false mirth, and melodie too short;<\/p>\n

Adieu! faint-hearted instrument of lust;
\nThat falselie hath betrayde our equale trust.
\nHence-forth no more will I implore thine ayde,
\nOr thee, or man of cowardize upbrayde.<\/p>\n

My little dilldo shall suply their kinde:
\nA knaue, that moues as light as leaues by winde;
\nThat bendeth not, nor fouldeth anie deale,
\nBut stands as stiff as he were made of steele;<\/p>\n

And playes at peacock twixt my leggs right blythe,
\nAnd doeth my tickling swage with manie a sighe.
\nFor, by saint Runnion! he’le refresh me well;
\nAnd neuer make my tender bellie swell.<\/p>\n

Poore Priapus! whose triumph now must falle,
\nExcept thou thrust this weakeling to the walle.
\nBehould! how he usurps, in bed and bowre
\nAnd undermines thy kingdom euerie howre;<\/p>\n

How slye he creepes betwixt the barke and tree,
\nAnd sucks the sap, whilst sleepe detaineth thee.
\nHe is my Mistris page at euerie stound,
\nAnd soone will tent a deepe intrenched wound.<\/p>\n

He wayte’s on Courtlie Nimphs that be so coye,
\nAnd bids them skorne the blynd-alluring boye.
\nHe giues yong guirls their gamesome sustenance,
\nAnd euerie gaping mouth his full sufficeance.<\/p>\n

He fortifies disdaine with forraine artes,
\nAnd wanton-chaste deludes all loving hartes.
\nIf anie wight a cruell mistris serue’s,
\nOr, in dispaire, (unhappie) pines and staru’s,<\/p>\n

Curse Eunuke dilldo, senceless counterfet
\nWho sooth maie fill, but never can begett.
\nBut, if revenge enraged with dispaire,
\nThat such a dwarf his wellfare should empaire,<\/p>\n

Would faine this womans secretarie knowe,
\nLett him attend the markes that I shall showe:
\nHe is a youth almost two handfulls highe,
\nStreight, round, and plumb, yett hauing but one eye,<\/p>\n

Wherein the rhewme so feruentlie doeth raigne,
\nThat Stigian gulph maie scarce his teares containe;
\nAttired in white veluet, or in silk,
\nAnd nourisht with whott water, or with milk,<\/p>\n

Arm’d otherwhile in thick congealed glasse,
\nWhen he, more glib, to hell be lowe would passe.
\nVpon a charriot of five wheeles he rydes,
\nThe which an arme strong driuer stedfast guides,<\/p>\n

And often alters pace as wayes growe deepe,
\n(For who, in pathes unknowne, one gate can keepe?)
\nSometimes he smoothlie slideth doune the hill;
\nAnother while, the stones his feete doe kill;<\/p>\n

In clammie waies he treaddeth by and by,
\nAnd plasheth and sprayeth all that be him nye.
\nSo fares this iollie rider in his race,
\nPlunging and sousing forward in lyke case,<\/p>\n

He dasht, and spurted, and he plodded foule,
\nGod giue thee shame, thou blinde mischapen owle!
\nFy-fy, for grief: a ladies chamberlaine,
\nAnd canst not thou thy tatling tongue refraine?<\/p>\n

I reade thee beardles blab, beware of stripes,
\nAnd be aduised what thou vainelie pipes;
\nThou wilt be whipt with nettles for this geare
\nIf Cicelie shewe but of thy knauerie heere.<\/p>\n

Saint Denis shield me from such female sprites!
\nRegarde not, Dames, what Cupids Poete writes:
\nI pennd this storie onelie for my selfe,
\nWho, giuing suck unto a childish Elfe,<\/p>\n

And quitte discourag’d in my nurserie,
\nSince all my store seemes to hir penurie.
\nI am not as was Hercules the stout,
\nThat to the seaventh iournie could hould out;<\/p>\n

I want those hearbe’s and rootes of Indian soile,
\nThat strengthen wearie members in their toile\u2014
\nDruggs and Electuaries of new devise,
\nDoe shunne my purse, that trembles at the price.<\/p>\n

Sufficeth all I haue, I yeald hir hole
\nWhich, for a poore man, is a princelie dole,
\nI paie our hostess scott and lott at moste,
\nAnd looke as leane and lank as anie ghoste;<\/p>\n

What can be added more to my renowne?
\nShe lyeth breathlesse; I am taken doune;
\nThe waves doe swell, the tydes climbe or’e the banks;
\nJudge, gentlemen! if I deserue not thanks?<\/p>\n

And so, good night! unto you euer’ie one;
\nFor loe, our thread is spunne, our plaie is donne.<\/p>\n

_Claudito iam vinos Priapa, sat prata biberunt_ [sic[j]].<\/em><\/p>\n

Tho. Nash.<\/em><\/p>\n

Previously on { feuilleton }
\n\u2022 The fascinating phallus<\/a>
\n\u2022 The Triumph of the Phallus<\/a>
\n\u2022 Le Phallus ph\u00e9nom\u00e9nal<\/a>
\n\u2022 Phallic bibelots<\/a>
\n\u2022 The New Love Poetry<\/a>
\n\u2022 Phallic worship<\/a>
\n\u2022 The art of ejaculation<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

My little dilldo shall suply their kinde: A knaue, that moues as light as leaues by winde; That bendeth not, nor fouldeth anie deale, But stands as stiff as he were made of steele; A salacious post for chocolate-and-roses day. There’s a degree of confusion around this work and its author, an Elizabethan poet, playwright … Continue reading “The Choise of Valentines, Or the Merie Ballad of Nash His Dildo”<\/span><\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":false,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2}},"categories":[42],"tags":[2278,2277,2257,500],"class_list":["post-8842","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-books","tag-ben-jonson","tag-john-florio","tag-thomas-nash","tag-william-shakespeare"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_featured_media_url":"","jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pq7rV-2iC","jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8842","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=8842"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/8842\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=8842"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=8842"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.johncoulthart.com\/feuilleton\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=8842"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}