Page 95 - The Language of Humour
P. 95

82 WRITTEN TEXTS—LITERATURE


              So well-bred spaniels civilly delight
              In mumbling of the game they dare not bite.
              Eternal smiles his emptiness betray,
              As shallow streams run dimpling all the way,
              Whether in florid impotence he speaks,
              And, as the prompter breathes, the puppet squeaks;
              Or at the ear of Eve, familiar toad!
              Half froth, half venom, spits himself abroad,
              In puns, or politics, or tales, or lies,
              Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies.

            Sporus is described in animal imagery: ‘this bug’, ‘well-bred spaniels’,
            ‘familiar toad’. The images have negative connotations and the point is
            given more force by the use of rhyming couplets and a neatly balanced
            structure: ‘This painted child of dirt, that stinks and stings;/Whose buzz
            the witty and  the fair annoys/Yet  wit ne’er tastes, and beauty  ne’er
            enjoys.’ Sporus’s surface pleasantries are captured in the image: ‘Eternal
            smiles his emptiness  betray,/As shallow  streams  run dimpling  all the
            way.’  Yet Pope is criticising Sporus’s own tendency to destroy with
            words:  ‘Half froth,  half venom, spits  himself abroad,/In puns, or
            politics, or tales, or lies,/Or spite, or smut, or rhymes, or blasphemies.’

                                  Activity with text

            This modern poem by Adèle Geras—apparently a letter from Helen of
            Troy—may seem to be more innocuously humorous. Comment on how
            humour is created by the anachronistic register. Is there any target for
            the humour?



                   A Letter from Helen of Troy
                   Menelaus, darling
                 I do think this is all a bit excessive!
                 I can see you from the walls, you know,
                 don’t think I can’t,
                 beseiging away like mad, down on the plain.
                 Ye Gods, I thought, watch out, the gang’s all here:
                 Hector and Agamemnon and Achilles
                 and that young man of his whose name escapes me,
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