The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] ... With a Copious Index. To which is prefixed Some Account of his Life. In Four Volumes |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
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BOZZY AND PIOZZI, OR THE BRITISH BIOGRAPHERS,
A TOWN ECLOGUE.
------ Arcades ambo,
Et cantare pares, et respondere, parati!
VIRGIL.
Et cantare pares, et respondere, parati!
VIRGIL.
254
THE ARGUMENT.
On the Death of Doctor Johnson, a Number of People, ambitious of being distinguished from the mute Part of their Species, set about relating and printing Stories and Bons Mots of that celebrated Moralist. Amongst the most zealous, though not the most enlightened, appeared Mr. Boswell and Madame Piozzi, the Hero and Heroine of our Eclogue. They are supposed to have in contemplation the Life of Johnson; and to prove their biographical Abilities, appeal to Sir John Hawkins for his Decision on their respective Merits, by Quotations from their printed Anecdotes of the Doctor. Sir John hears them with uncommon Patience, and determines very properly on the Pretensions of the contending Parties.
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[PART I.]
When Johnson sought (as Shakspeare says) that bourn,
From whence, alas! no travellers return;
In humbler English, when the Doctor died,
Apollo whimper'd, and the Muses cried;
Parnassus mop'd for days, in business slack,
And like a hearse, the hill was hung with black;
Minerva, sighing for her fav'rite son,
Pronounc'd, with lengthen'd face, the world undone;
Her owl too, hooted in so loud a style,
That people might have heard the bird a mile;
Jove wip'd his eyes so red, and told his wife,
He ne'er made Johnson's equal in his life;
And that 'twould be a long, long time, if ever,
His art could form a fellow half so clever;
Venus, of all the little Doves the dam,
With all the Graces, sobb'd for brother Sam:
Such were the heav'nly howlings for his death,
As if Dame Nature had resign'd her breath.
Nor less sonorous was the grief, I ween,
Amidst the natives of our earthly scene:
From beggars, to the great who hold the helm,
One Johnso-mania rag'd through all the realm!
From whence, alas! no travellers return;
In humbler English, when the Doctor died,
Apollo whimper'd, and the Muses cried;
Parnassus mop'd for days, in business slack,
And like a hearse, the hill was hung with black;
Minerva, sighing for her fav'rite son,
Pronounc'd, with lengthen'd face, the world undone;
Her owl too, hooted in so loud a style,
That people might have heard the bird a mile;
Jove wip'd his eyes so red, and told his wife,
He ne'er made Johnson's equal in his life;
And that 'twould be a long, long time, if ever,
His art could form a fellow half so clever;
Venus, of all the little Doves the dam,
With all the Graces, sobb'd for brother Sam:
Such were the heav'nly howlings for his death,
As if Dame Nature had resign'd her breath.
Nor less sonorous was the grief, I ween,
Amidst the natives of our earthly scene:
From beggars, to the great who hold the helm,
One Johnso-mania rag'd through all the realm!
256
‘Who,’ cry'd the world, ‘can match his prose or rhime?
O'er wits of modern days he tow'rs sublime!
An oak, wide spreading o'er the shrubs below,
That round his roots, with puny foliage, blow;
A pyramid, amidst some barren waste,
That frowns o'er huts, the sport of ev'ry blast;
A mighty Atlas, whose aspiring head
O'er distant regions casts an awful shade.
By kings and beggars, lo! his tales are told,
And ev'ry sentence glows a grain of gold!
Blest! who his philosophic phiz can take,
Catch ev'n his weaknesses—his noddle's shake,
The lengthen'd lip of scorn, the forehead's scowl,
The low'ring eye's contempt, and bear-like growl.
In vain, the critics aim their toothless rage!
Mere sprats, that venture war with whales to wage:
Unmov'd he stands, and feels their force no more
Than some huge rock amidst the wat'ry roar,
That calmly bears the tumults of the deep,
And howling tempests, that as well may sleep.’
O'er wits of modern days he tow'rs sublime!
An oak, wide spreading o'er the shrubs below,
That round his roots, with puny foliage, blow;
A pyramid, amidst some barren waste,
That frowns o'er huts, the sport of ev'ry blast;
A mighty Atlas, whose aspiring head
O'er distant regions casts an awful shade.
By kings and beggars, lo! his tales are told,
And ev'ry sentence glows a grain of gold!
Blest! who his philosophic phiz can take,
Catch ev'n his weaknesses—his noddle's shake,
The lengthen'd lip of scorn, the forehead's scowl,
The low'ring eye's contempt, and bear-like growl.
In vain, the critics aim their toothless rage!
Mere sprats, that venture war with whales to wage:
Unmov'd he stands, and feels their force no more
Than some huge rock amidst the wat'ry roar,
That calmly bears the tumults of the deep,
And howling tempests, that as well may sleep.’
Strong, 'midst the Rambler's cronies, was the rage,
To fill with Sam's bons mots and tales the page:
Mere flies, that buzz'd around his setting ray,
And bore a splendor, on their wings away:
Thus round his orb the pigmy planets run,
And catch their little lustre from the sun.
To fill with Sam's bons mots and tales the page:
Mere flies, that buzz'd around his setting ray,
And bore a splendor, on their wings away:
Thus round his orb the pigmy planets run,
And catch their little lustre from the sun.
At length, rush'd forth two candidates for fame;
A Scotchman one, and one a London dame;
That, by th' emphatic Johnson, christ'ned Bozzy;
This, by the bishop's license, Dame Piozzi;
Whose widow'd name, by topers lov'd, was Thrale,
Bright in the annals of election ale;
A name, by marriage, that gave up the ghost!
In poor Pedocchio ,—no!—Piozzi, lost!
Each seiz'd with ardour wild, the grey goose quill;
Each sat to work the intellectual mill;
That pecks of bran so coarse began to pour,
To one poor solitary grain of flour.
A Scotchman one, and one a London dame;
That, by th' emphatic Johnson, christ'ned Bozzy;
This, by the bishop's license, Dame Piozzi;
Whose widow'd name, by topers lov'd, was Thrale,
Bright in the annals of election ale;
A name, by marriage, that gave up the ghost!
In poor Pedocchio ,—no!—Piozzi, lost!
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Each sat to work the intellectual mill;
That pecks of bran so coarse began to pour,
To one poor solitary grain of flour.
Forth rush'd to light their books—but who should say,
Which bore the palm of anecdote away?
This, to decide, the rival wits agreed
Before Sir John their tales and jokes to read,
And let the knight's opinion in the strife,
Declare the prop'rest pen to write Sam's life:
Sir John, renown'd for musical palavers ;
The prince, the king, the emperor of quavers!
Sharp in solfeggi, as the sharpest needle;
Great in the noble art of tweedle-tweedle;
Of music's college form'd to be a fellow,
Fit for Mus. D. or Maestro di Capella:
Whose volume, though it here and there offends,
Boasts German merit—makes by bulk amends.
High plac'd the venerable quarto sits,
Superior frowning o'er octavo wits
And duodecimos, ignoble scum!
Poor prostitutes to ev'ry vulgar thumb!
Whilst undefil'd by literary rage,
He bears a spotless leaf from age to age.
Which bore the palm of anecdote away?
This, to decide, the rival wits agreed
Before Sir John their tales and jokes to read,
And let the knight's opinion in the strife,
Declare the prop'rest pen to write Sam's life:
Sir John, renown'd for musical palavers ;
The prince, the king, the emperor of quavers!
Sharp in solfeggi, as the sharpest needle;
Great in the noble art of tweedle-tweedle;
Of music's college form'd to be a fellow,
Fit for Mus. D. or Maestro di Capella:
Whose volume, though it here and there offends,
Boasts German merit—makes by bulk amends.
High plac'd the venerable quarto sits,
Superior frowning o'er octavo wits
And duodecimos, ignoble scum!
Poor prostitutes to ev'ry vulgar thumb!
Whilst undefil'd by literary rage,
He bears a spotless leaf from age to age.
Like school-boys, lo! before a two-arm'd chair
That held the knight wise judging, stood the pair:
Or like two ponies on the sporting ground,
Prepar'd to gallop when the drum should sound,
The couple rang'd—for vict'ry, both as keen,
As for a tott'ring bishopric, a dean,
Or patriot Burke, for giving glorious bastings
To that intolerable fellow Hastings.
Thus with their songs contended Virgil's swains,
And make the valleys vocal with their strains,
Before some grey-beard sage whose judgment ripe,
Gave goats for prizes to the prettiest pipe.
That held the knight wise judging, stood the pair:
Or like two ponies on the sporting ground,
Prepar'd to gallop when the drum should sound,
The couple rang'd—for vict'ry, both as keen,
As for a tott'ring bishopric, a dean,
Or patriot Burke, for giving glorious bastings
To that intolerable fellow Hastings.
Thus with their songs contended Virgil's swains,
And make the valleys vocal with their strains,
258
Gave goats for prizes to the prettiest pipe.
‘Alternately in anecdotes go on;
But first, begin you, Madam,’ cry'd Sir John:
The thankful dame low curt'sied to the chair,
And thus, for vict'ry panting, read the fair:
MADAME PIOZZIBut first, begin you, Madam,’ cry'd Sir John:
The thankful dame low curt'sied to the chair,
And thus, for vict'ry panting, read the fair:
Sam Johnson was of Michael Johnson born;
Whose shop of books did Litchfield town adorn:
Wrong-headed, stubborn as a halter'd ram;
In short, the model of our hero Sam:
Inclin'd to madness too—for when his shop
Fell down, for want of cash to buy a prop,
For fear the thieves might steal the vanish'd store,
He duly went each night and lock'd the door!
Whose shop of books did Litchfield town adorn:
Wrong-headed, stubborn as a halter'd ram;
In short, the model of our hero Sam:
Inclin'd to madness too—for when his shop
Fell down, for want of cash to buy a prop,
For fear the thieves might steal the vanish'd store,
He duly went each night and lock'd the door!
BOZZY
Whilst Johnson was in Edinburgh, my wife,
To please his palate, studied for her life:
With ev'ry rarity she fill'd her house,
And gave the doctor, for his dinner, grouse.
To please his palate, studied for her life:
With ev'ry rarity she fill'd her house,
And gave the doctor, for his dinner, grouse.
MADAME PIOZZI
Dear Doctor Johnson was in size an ox;
And from his uncle Andrew learn'd to box:
A man to wrestlers and to bruisers dear,
Who kept the ring in Smithfield a whole year.
The doctor had an uncle too, ador'd
By jumping gentry, call'd Cornelius Ford;
Who jump'd in boots, which jumpers never choose
Far as a famous jumper jump'd in shoes.
And from his uncle Andrew learn'd to box:
A man to wrestlers and to bruisers dear,
Who kept the ring in Smithfield a whole year.
The doctor had an uncle too, ador'd
By jumping gentry, call'd Cornelius Ford;
Who jump'd in boots, which jumpers never choose
Far as a famous jumper jump'd in shoes.
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At supper rose a dialogue on witches,
When Crosbie said, there could not be such b*tch*s;
And that 'twas blasphemy to think such hags
Could stir up storms, and on their broomstick nags
Gallop along the air with wondrous pace,
And boldly fly in God Almighty's face:
But Johnson answer'd him, ‘There might be witches,
Nought prov'd the non-existence of the b*tch*s.’
When Crosbie said, there could not be such b*tch*s;
And that 'twas blasphemy to think such hags
Could stir up storms, and on their broomstick nags
Gallop along the air with wondrous pace,
And boldly fly in God Almighty's face:
But Johnson answer'd him, ‘There might be witches,
Nought prov'd the non-existence of the b*tch*s.’
MADAME PIOZZI.
When Thrale, as nimble as a boy at school,
Leap'd, though fatigu'd with hunting, o'er a stool;
The doctor, proud the same grand feat to do,
His pow'rs exerted, and jump'd over too;
And though he might a broken back bewail,
He scorn'd to be eclips'd by Mr. Thrale.
Leap'd, though fatigu'd with hunting, o'er a stool;
The doctor, proud the same grand feat to do,
His pow'rs exerted, and jump'd over too;
And though he might a broken back bewail,
He scorn'd to be eclips'd by Mr. Thrale.
BOZZY.
At Ulinish, our friend, to pass the time,
Regal'd us with his knowledges sublime;
Show'd that all sorts of learning fill'd his nob,
And that in butch'ry he could bear a bob.
He sagely told us of the diff'rent feat
Employ'd to kill the animals we eat:
‘An ox,’ says he, ‘in country and in town,
Is by the butchers constantly knock'd down;
As for that lesser animal, a calf,
The knock is really not so strong by half;
The beast is only stunn'd; but, as for goats,
And sheep, and lambs, the butchers cut their throats.
Those fellows only want to keep them quiet,
Not choosing that the brutes should breed a riot.’
Regal'd us with his knowledges sublime;
Show'd that all sorts of learning fill'd his nob,
And that in butch'ry he could bear a bob.
He sagely told us of the diff'rent feat
Employ'd to kill the animals we eat:
‘An ox,’ says he, ‘in country and in town,
Is by the butchers constantly knock'd down;
As for that lesser animal, a calf,
The knock is really not so strong by half;
The beast is only stunn'd; but, as for goats,
And sheep, and lambs, the butchers cut their throats.
Those fellows only want to keep them quiet,
Not choosing that the brutes should breed a riot.’
MADAME PIOZZI.
When Johnson was a child, and swallow'd pap,
'Twas in his mother's old maid Cath'rine's lap;
There, whilst he sat, he took in wondrous learning;
For much his bowels were for knowledge yearning;
There heard the story which we Britons brag on,
The story of St. George and eke the Dragon.
'Twas in his mother's old maid Cath'rine's lap;
260
For much his bowels were for knowledge yearning;
There heard the story which we Britons brag on,
The story of St. George and eke the Dragon.
Bozzy.
When Foote his leg, by some misfortune, broke,
Says I to Johnson, all by way of joke,
‘Sam, sir, in paragraph, will soon be clever,
And take off Peter better now than ever.’
On which, says Johnson, without hesitation,
‘George will rejoice at Foote's depeditation.’
On which, says I, a penetrating elf!
‘Doctor, I'm sure you coin'd that word yourself.’
On which he laugh'd, and said, I had divin'd it,
For, bonâ fidê, he had really coin'd it.
‘And yet, of all the words I've coin'd,’ says he,
‘My Dictionary, sir, contains but three.’
Says I to Johnson, all by way of joke,
‘Sam, sir, in paragraph, will soon be clever,
And take off Peter better now than ever.’
On which, says Johnson, without hesitation,
‘George will rejoice at Foote's depeditation.’
On which, says I, a penetrating elf!
‘Doctor, I'm sure you coin'd that word yourself.’
On which he laugh'd, and said, I had divin'd it,
For, bonâ fidê, he had really coin'd it.
‘And yet, of all the words I've coin'd,’ says he,
‘My Dictionary, sir, contains but three.’
MADAME PIOZZI.
The doctor said, ‘in literary matters,
‘A Frenchman goes not deep—he only smatters:’
Then ask'd, what could be hop'd for from the dogs;
Fellows that liv'd eternally on frogs.
‘A Frenchman goes not deep—he only smatters:’
Then ask'd, what could be hop'd for from the dogs;
Fellows that liv'd eternally on frogs.
BOZZY.
In grave procession to St. Leonard's College,
Well stuff'd with ev'ry sort of useful knowledge,
We stately walk'd, as soon as supper ended:
The landlord and the waiter both attended:
The landlord, skill'd a piece of grease to handle,
Before us march'd and held a tallow candle;
A lantern (some fam'd Scotsman its creator)
With equal grace was carried by the waiter:
Next morning, from our beds we took a leap,
And found ourselves much better for our sleep.
Well stuff'd with ev'ry sort of useful knowledge,
We stately walk'd, as soon as supper ended:
The landlord and the waiter both attended:
The landlord, skill'd a piece of grease to handle,
Before us march'd and held a tallow candle;
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With equal grace was carried by the waiter:
Next morning, from our beds we took a leap,
And found ourselves much better for our sleep.
MADAME PIOZZI.
In Lincolnshire, a lady show'd our friend
A grotto, that she wish'd him to commend;
Quoth she, ‘How cool in summer this abode!’
‘Yes Madam (answer'd Johnson), for a toad.’
A grotto, that she wish'd him to commend;
Quoth she, ‘How cool in summer this abode!’
‘Yes Madam (answer'd Johnson), for a toad.’
BOZZY.
Between old Scalpa's rugged isle and Rasay's,
The wind was vastly boist'rous in our faces:
'Twas glorious Johnson's figure to set sight on—
High in the boat, he look'd a noble Triton!
But, lo! to damp our pleasure Fate concurs,
For Joe, the blockhead, lost his master's spurs:
This for the Rambler's temper was a rubber,
Who wonder'd Joseph could be such a lubber.
The wind was vastly boist'rous in our faces:
'Twas glorious Johnson's figure to set sight on—
High in the boat, he look'd a noble Triton!
But, lo! to damp our pleasure Fate concurs,
For Joe, the blockhead, lost his master's spurs:
This for the Rambler's temper was a rubber,
Who wonder'd Joseph could be such a lubber.
MADAME PIOZZI.
I ask'd him if he knock'd Tom Osborn
down;
As such a tale was current through the town—
Says I, ‘Do tell me, doctor, what befell.’—
‘Why, dearest lady, there is nought to tell:
I ponder'd on the prop'rest mode to treat him—
The dog was impudent, and so I beat him!
Tom, like a fool, proclaim'd his fancied wrongs;
Others that I belabour'd, held their tongues.’
As such a tale was current through the town—
Says I, ‘Do tell me, doctor, what befell.’—
‘Why, dearest lady, there is nought to tell:
I ponder'd on the prop'rest mode to treat him—
The dog was impudent, and so I beat him!
Tom, like a fool, proclaim'd his fancied wrongs;
Others that I belabour'd, held their tongues.’
Did any one, that he was happy, cry—
Johnson would tell him plumply, 'twas a lie:
A lady told him she was really so;
On which he sternly answer'd, ‘Madam no!
Sickly you are, and ugly—foolish, poor;
And therefore can't be happy, I am sure.
'Twould make a fellow hang himself, whose ear
Were, from such creatures, forc'd such stuff to hear,’
Johnson would tell him plumply, 'twas a lie:
A lady told him she was really so;
On which he sternly answer'd, ‘Madam no!
Sickly you are, and ugly—foolish, poor;
And therefore can't be happy, I am sure.
262
Were, from such creatures, forc'd such stuff to hear,’
BOZZY.
Lo! when we landed on the Isle of Mull,
The megrims got into the doctor's skull:
With such bad humours he began to fill,
I thought he would not go to Icolmkill:
But, lo! those megrims (wonderful to utter!)
Were banish'd all by tea and bread and butter!
The megrims got into the doctor's skull:
With such bad humours he began to fill,
I thought he would not go to Icolmkill:
But, lo! those megrims (wonderful to utter!)
Were banish'd all by tea and bread and butter!
MADAME PIOZZI.
Quoth I to Johnson—Doctor, tell me true,
Who was the best man that you ever knew?
He answer'd me at once, George Psalmanazar!
Keen in the English language as a razor.
Such was the strange, the strangest of replies,
That rais'd the whites of both my wond'ring eyes;
As this same George, in imposition strong,
Beat the first liars that e'er wagg'd a tongue.
Who was the best man that you ever knew?
He answer'd me at once, George Psalmanazar!
Keen in the English language as a razor.
Such was the strange, the strangest of replies,
That rais'd the whites of both my wond'ring eyes;
As this same George, in imposition strong,
Beat the first liars that e'er wagg'd a tongue.
BOZZY.
I wonder'd yesterday, that one John Hay.
Who serv'd as Ciceroné on the way,
Should fly a man of war—a spot so blest—
A fool! nine months, too, after he was prest.
Quoth Johnson, ‘No man, sir, would be a sailor,
With sense to scrape acquaintance with a jailor.’
Who serv'd as Ciceroné on the way,
Should fly a man of war—a spot so blest—
A fool! nine months, too, after he was prest.
Quoth Johnson, ‘No man, sir, would be a sailor,
With sense to scrape acquaintance with a jailor.’
MADAME PIOZZI.
I said, I lik'd not goose, and mention'd why:—
One smells it roasting on the spit, quoth I:—
‘You, madam,’ cry'd the doctor, with a frown,
‘Are always gorging—stuffing something down:
Madam, 'tis very nat'ral to suppose,
If in the pantry you will poke your nose,
Your maw with ev'ry sort of victuals swelling,
That you must want the bliss of dinner smelling.’
One smells it roasting on the spit, quoth I:—
‘You, madam,’ cry'd the doctor, with a frown,
‘Are always gorging—stuffing something down:
Madam, 'tis very nat'ral to suppose,
If in the pantry you will poke your nose,
263
That you must want the bliss of dinner smelling.’
BOZZY.
As at Argyle's grand house my hat I took,
To seek my alehouse, thus began the duke:
‘Pray, Mr. Boswell, won't you have some tea?’
To this I made my bow, and did agree—
Then to the drawing-room we both retreated,
Where Lady Betty Hamilton was seated
Close by the duchess, who, in deep discourse,
Took no more notice of me than a horse.
Next day, myself and Doctor Johnson took
Our hats, to go and wait upon the duke.—
Next to himself the duke did Johnson place,
But I, thank God, sat second to his grace.
The place was due most surely to my merits—
And, faith, I was in very pretty spirits:
I plainly saw (my penetration such is)
I was not yet in favour with the duchess.
Thought I, I am not disconcerted yet—
Before we part, I'll give her grace a sweat—
Then looks of intrepidity I put on,
And ask'd her, if she'd have a plate of mutton.
This was a glorious deed must be confess'd!
I knew I was the duke's, and not her guest!
Knowing—as I'm a man of tip-top breeding,
That great folks drink no healths while they are feeding;
I took my glass, and looking at her grace,
I star'd her like a devil in the face;
And in respectful terms, as was my duty,
Said I, my Lady Duchess, I salute ye:
Most audible, indeed, was my salute,
For which some folks will say I was a brute;
But faith, it dash'd her, as I knew it wou'd;
But then I knew that I was flesh and blood.
MADAME PIOZZI .
Once at our house, amidst our attic feasts,
We liken'd our acquaintances to beasts:
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And some to bears, and monkeys, cats and dogs;
We said (which charm'd the doctor much, no doubt),
His mind was like of elephants, the snout,
That could pick pins up, yet possess'd the vigour
For trimming well the jacket of a tiger.
BOZZY .
August the fifteenth, Sunday, Mr. Scott
Did breakfast with us—when upon the spot;
To him, and unto Doctor Johnson, lo!
Sir William Forbes, so clever, did I show;
A man that doth not after roguery hanker;
A charming Christian, though by trade a banker;
Made too, of good companionable stuff,
And this, I think, is saying full enough;
And yet it is but justice to record,
That when he had the measles—'pon my word,
The people seem'd in such a dreadful fright,
His house was all surrounded day and night,
As if they apprehended some great evil,
A general conflagration, or the devil.
And when he better'd—oh! 'twas grand to see 'em
Like mad folks dance, and hear 'em sing te deum.
MADAME PIOZZI .
Quoth Johnson, ‘Who d'ye think my life will write.”
‘Goldsmith,’ said I—quoth he, ‘The dog's vile spite,
Besides the fellow's monstrous love of lying,
Would doubtless make the book not worth the buying.’
BOZZY .
That worthy gentleman, good Mr. Scott,
Said, 'twas our Socrates's luckless lot
To have the waiter, a sad nasty blade,
To make, poor gentleman, his lemonade;
265
Put with his paws the sugar in the dish:
The doctor vex'd at such a filthy fellow,
Began, with great propriety to bellow;
Then up he took the dish, and nobly flung
The liquor out of window on the dung.
And Doctor Scott declar'd, that, by his frown,
He thought he would have knock'd the fellow down.
MADAME PIOZZI .
Dear Doctor Johnson left off drinks fermented;
With quarts of chocolate and cream contented;
Yet often down his throat's prodigious gutter,
Poor man! he pour'd a flood of melted butter!
BOZZY.
With glee the doctor did my girl behold;
Her name Veronica, just four months old;
This name Veronica, a name though quaint,
Belong'd originally to a saint;
But to my old great grandam it was giv'n;
As fine a woman as e'er went to heav'n;
And what must add to her importance much,
This lady's genealogy was Dutch.
The man who did espouse this dame divine,
Was Alexander, Earl of Kincardine;
Who pour'd along my body like a sluice,
The noble, noble, noble blood of Bruce!
And who that own'd this blood could well refuse
To make the world acquainted with the news?
But to return unto my charming child:—
About our Doctor Johnson she was wild;
And when he left off speaking, she would flutter,
Squawl for him to begin again, and sputter!
And to be near him a strong wish express'd,
Which proves he was not such a horrid beast.
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On which I loud exclaim'd, in language stately,
Nay, if I recollect aright, I swore,
I'd to her fortune add five hundred more!
MADAME PIOZZI .
One day, as we were all in talking lost,
My mother's fav'rite spaniel stole the toast;
On which, immediately, I scream'd ‘Fie on her,—
Fie, Belle,’ said I, ‘you us'd to be on honour.’—
‘Yes,’ Johnson cry'd; ‘but, madam, pray be told,
The reason for the vice is—Belle grows old’
But Johnson never could the dog abide,
Because my mother wash'd and comb'd his hide.
The truth on't is—Belle was not too well bred,
Who always would insist on being sed;
And very often too, the saucy slut
Insisted upon having the first cut.
BOZZY.
Last night much care for Johnson's cold was us'd,
Who, hitherto, without his nightcap snooz'd;
That nought might treat so wonderful a man ill,
Sweet Miss M'Leod did make a cap of flannel;
And after putting it about his head,
She gave him brandy as he went to bed.
MADAME PIOZZI .
One night we parted at the doctor's door,
When thus I said, as I have said before,
‘Don't forget Dicky, doctor;—mind poor Dick.’
On which he turn'd round on his heels so quick,
‘Madam,’ quoth he, ‘and when I've serv'd that elf,
‘I guess I then may go and hang myself.’
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At night, well soak'd with rain, and wondrous weary,
We got as wet as shags to Inverary,
We supp'd most royally—were vastly frisky,
When Johnson order'd up a gill of whisky:
Taking the glass, says I, ‘Here's Mrs. Thrale.’—
‘Drink her in whisky not,’ said he, ‘but ale.’
MADAME PIOZZI .
The doctor had a cat, and christen'd Hodge,
That at his house in Fleet-street us'd to lodge—
This Hodge grew old, and sick, and us'd to wish
That all his dinners might be form'd of fish;
To please poor Hodge, the doctor, all so kind,
Went out, and bought him oysters to his mind;
This every day he did—nor ask'd black Frank ,
Who deem'd himself of much too high a rank,
With vulgar fish-fags to be forc'd to chat,
And purchase oysters for a mangy cat.
SIR JOHN.
For God's sake stay each anecdotic scrap;
Let me draw breath, and take a trifling nap;
With one half hour's reflecting slumber blest,
And Heav'n's assistance, I may bear the rest. Aside]
—What have I done, inform me, gracious Lord,
That thus my ears with nonsense should be bor'd?
Oh! if I do not in the trial die,
The devil and all his brimstone I defy,
No punishment in other worlds I fear,
My crimes will all be expiated here.
Ah! ten times happier was my lot of yore,
When, rais'd to consequence that all adore,
I sat, each session, king-like, in the chair,
Aw'd ev'ry rank, and made the million stare:
268
In causes, with a Turkish sway, deciding!
Yes, like a noble bashaw, of three tails,
I spread a fear and trembling through the jails!
Blest, have I brow-beaten each thief and strumpet.
And blasted on them like the last day's trumpet.
I know no paltry weakness of the soul—
No sniv'ling pity dares my deeds control—
Asham'd, the weakness of my king I hear;
Who, childish, drops on ev'ry death a tear.
Return , return again, thou glorious hour,
That to my grasp once gav'st my idol, pow'r;
When at my feet the humble knaves would fall;
The thund'ring Jupiter of Hicks' Hall.
The knight, thus finishing his speech so fair,
Sleep pull'd him gently backwards in his chair;
Op'd wide the mouth that oft on jail-birds swore,
Then rais'd his nasal organ to a roar.
That actually surpass'd in tone and grace,
The grumbled ditties of his fav'rite base .
Sleep pull'd him gently backwards in his chair;
Op'd wide the mouth that oft on jail-birds swore,
Then rais'd his nasal organ to a roar.
That actually surpass'd in tone and grace,
The grumbled ditties of his fav'rite base .
The author was nearly committing a blunder—fortunate, indeed, was his recollection; as Pedocchio signifies, in the Italian language, that most contemptible of animals, a louse.
Such is the report concerning his most tender-hearted majesty when he suffers the law to take its course on criminals. How unlike the Great Frederic of Prussia, who delights in a hanging.
269
II. PART II.
Now from his sleep the knight, affrighted, sprung,Whilst on his ear the words of Johnson rung;
For, lo! in dreams, the surly Rambler rose,
And wildly staring, seem'd a man of woes.
‘Wake, Hawkins,’ (growl'd the doctor, with a frown)
‘And knock that fellow and that woman down—
Bid them with Johnson's life proceed no further—
Enough already they have dealt in murther—
Say, to their tales that little truth belongs—
If fame they mean me—bid them hold their tongues.
In vain at glory gudgeon Boswell snaps—
His mind's a paper kite—compos'd of scraps;
Just o'er the tops of chimneys form'd to fly;
Not with a wing sublime to mount the sky.
Say to the dog, his head's a downright drum
Unequal to the history of Tom Thumb:
Nay tell of anecdote that thirsty leech,
He is not equal to a Tyburn speech .
To draw her immortality from porter;
Give up her anecdotical inditing,
And study housewifery instead of writing:
Bid her a poor biography suspend;
Nor crucify through vanity, a friend.—
I know no business women have with learning;
I scorn, I hate the mole-ey'd half discerning;
270
And make eternal horsewhips for his back.
Tell Peter Pindar, should you chance to meet him,
I like his genius—should be glad to greet him—
Yet let him know, crown'd heads are sacred things,
And bid him rev'rence more the best of kings ;
Still on his Pegasus continue jogging,
And give that Boswell's back another flogging.’
This is a strange and almost incredible speech from Johnson's mouth, as not many years ago, when the age of a certain great personage became the subject of debate, the doctor broke in upon the conversation with the following question:—‘Of what importance to the present company is his age?—Of what importance would it have been to the world if he had never existed?’ If we may judge likewise from the following speech, he deemed the present possessor of a certain throne, as much an usurper as King William, whom, according to Mr. Boswell's account, he bescoundrels. The story is this—An acquaintance of Johnson's asked him if he could not sing. He replied, ‘I know but one song; and that is, “The king shall enjoy his own again.”
And op'd again his eyes upon the light—
Who, mindless of old Johnson and his frown
And stern commands to knock the couple down,
Resolv'd to keep the peace—and, in a tone
Not much unlike a mastiff o'er a bone,
He grumbled, that, enabled by the nap,
He now could meet more biographics c
Then nodding with a magistratial air,
To farther anecdote he call'd the fair.
MADAME PIOZZI .
Dear Doctor Johnson lov'd a leg of pork,
And hearty on it would his grinders work:
271
That one might shake the flesh from off the bone.
A veal pie too, with sugar cramm'd and plums,
Was wondrous grateful to the doctor's gums,
Though us'd from morn to night on fruit to stuff,
He vow'd his belly never had enough.
BOZZY .
One Thursday morn did Doctor Johnson wake,
And call out ‘Lanky, Lanky,’ by mistake—
But recollecting—‘Bozzy, Bozzy,’ cry'd—
For in contractions Johnson took a pride!
MADAME PIOZZI .
Whene'er our friend would read in bed by night,
Poor Mr. Thrale and I were in a fright;
For blinking on his book too near the flame,
Lo! to the fore-top of his wig it came!
Burnt all the hairs away, both great and small,
Down to the very net-work, named the caul.
BOZZY .
At Corrachatachin's, in hoggism sunk,
I got with punch, alas! confounded drunk:
Much was I vex'd that I could not be quiet,
But, like a stupid blockhead, breed a riot—
I scarcely knew how 'twas I reel'd to bed—
Next morn I wak'd with dreadful pains of head,
And terrors too, that of my peace did rob me—
For much I fear'd the Moralist would mob me.
But as I lay along a heavy log,
The doctor, ent'ring, call'd me drunken dog.
Then up rose I with apostolic air,
And read in Dame M'Kinnon's book of pray'r,
In hopes for such a sin to be forgiv'n,—
And make, if possible, my peace with Heav'n.
272
I op'd the twentieth Sunday after Trinity,
And read these words—‘Pray be not drunk with wine,
Since drunkenness doth make a man a swine.’
‘Alas!’ says I, ‘the sinner that I am!’
And having made my speech, I took a dram.
MADAME PIOZZI .
One day, with spirits low, and sorrow fill'd,
I told him that I had a cousin kill'd:
‘My dear,’ quoth he, ‘for Heav'n's sake hold your canting;
Were all your cousins kill'd, they'd not be wanting;
Though death on each of them should set his mark;
Though ev'ry one were spitted like a lark;
Roasted, and giv'n that dog there for a meal,
The loss of them the world would never feel—
Trust me, dear madam, all your dear relations
Are nits—are nothings in the eye of nations.’
I told him that I had a cousin kill'd:
‘My dear,’ quoth he, ‘for Heav'n's sake hold your canting;
Were all your cousins kill'd, they'd not be wanting;
Though death on each of them should set his mark;
Though ev'ry one were spitted like a lark;
Roasted, and giv'n that dog there for a meal,
The loss of them the world would never feel—
Trust me, dear madam, all your dear relations
Are nits—are nothings in the eye of nations.’
Again
, says I, one day—‘I do believe,
A good acquaintance that I have will grieve
To hear her friend hath lost a large estate.’—
‘Yes,’ answer'd he, ‘lament as much her fate,
As did your horse (I freely will allow)
To hear of the miscarriage of your cow.’
A good acquaintance that I have will grieve
To hear her friend hath lost a large estate.’—
‘Yes,’ answer'd he, ‘lament as much her fate,
As did your horse (I freely will allow)
To hear of the miscarriage of your cow.’
BOZZY .
At Enoch, at M'Queen's, we went to bed;
A colour'd handkerchief wrapp'd Johnson's head;
He said, ‘God bless us both—good night;’—and then,
I, like a parish clerk, pronounc'd Amen!
My good companion soon by sleep was seiz'd—
But I, by lice and fleas was sadly teas'd—
Methought a spider with terrific claws,
Was striding from the wainscoat to my jaws;
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And so I sunk into the sweetest nap.
MADAME PIOZZI .
Trav'ling in Wales, at dinner-time we got on
Where, at Leweny, lives Sir Robert Cotton.
At table, our great moralist to please,—
Says I, ‘dear doctor, arn't those charming peas?’
Quoth he, to contradict and run his rig,
‘Madam, they possibly might please a pig,’
BOZZY .
Of thatching, well the doctor knew the art;
And with his threshing wisdom made us start:
Described the greatest secrets of the Mint,
And made folks fancy that he had been in't.
Of hops and malt 'tis wondrous what he knew;
And well as any brewer he could brew.
MADAME PIOZZI .
In ghosts the doctor strongly did believe,
And pinn'd his faith on many a liar's sleeve—
He said to doctor Lawrence, ‘Sure I am,
I heard my poor dear mother call out, ‘Sam.’
‘I'm sure,’ said he, ‘that I can trust my ears
And yet, my mother had been dead for years.’
BOZZY .
When young ('twas rather silly I allow)
Much was I pleas'd to imitate a cow.
One time, at Drury Lane, with Doctor Blair
My imitations made the playhouse stare!
So very charming was I in my roar,
That both the galleries clapp'd, and cry'd ‘Encore.’
Blest by the general plaudit and the laugh—
I try'd to be a jackass and a calf;
274
In short, I met a terrible defeat;
So vile I bray'd and bellow'd, I was hiss'd—
Yet all who knew me, wonder'd that I miss'd.
Blair whisper'd me, ‘You've lost your credit now;
Stick, Boswell, for the future, to the cow.’
MADAME PIOZZI .
Th' affair of blacks when Johnson would discuss,
He always thought they had not souls like us;
And yet, whene'er his family would fight,
He always said black Frank was in the right.
BOZZY .
I must confess that I enjoy'd a pleasure
In bearing to the North so great a treasure—
Thinks I, I'm like a bull-dog or a hound,
Who, when a lump of liver he hath found,
Runs to some corner, to avoid a riot,
To gobble down his piece of meat in quiet:
I thought this good as all Joe Miller's jokes;
And so I up, and told it to the folks.—
MADAME PIOZZI .
Some of our friends wish'd Johnson would compose
The lives of authors who had shone in prose;
As for his pow'r, no mortal man could doubt it—
Sir Richard Musgrove, he was warm about it;
Got up, and sooth'd, entreated, begg'd and pray'd,
Poor man, as if he had implor'd for bread.—
‘Sir Richard,’ cry'd the doctor, with a frown,
‘Since you're got up, I pray you, Sir, sit down.’
BOZZY.
Of doctor Johnson, having giv'n a sketch,
Permit me, reader, of myself, to preach—
275
The slightest bit of history of me.
Think of a gentleman of ancient blood!
Prouder of title than of being good—
A gentleman just thirty-three years old;
Married four years, and as a tiger bold;
Whose bowels yearn'd Great Britain's foes to tame,
And from the canon's mouth to swallow flame;
To get his limbs by broad-swords carv'd in wars,
Like some old bedstead, and to boast his scars;
And, proud immortal actions to achieve,
See his hide bor'd by bullets like a sieve,
But, lo! his father, a well-judging judge,
Forbade his son from Edinburgh to budge—
Resolv'd the French should not his b---side claw;
So bound his son apprentice to the law.
This gentleman had been in foreign parts,
And, like Ulysses, learnt a world of arts:
Much wisdom his vast travels having brought him,
He was not half the fool the people thought him—
Of prudence, this same gentleman was such,
He rather had too little than too much.
Bright was this gentleman's imagination,
Well calculated for the highest station:
Indeed so lively, give the dev'l his due,
He ten times more would utter than was true;
Which forc'd him frequently, against his will,
Poor man to swallow many a bitter pill—
One bitter pill amongst the rest he took,
Which was to cut some scandal from his book.—
By Doctor Johnson he is well portray'd:
Quoth Sam, ‘Of Bozzy it may well be said,
That through the most inhospitable scene,
One never can be troubl'd with the spleen,
Nor ev'n the greatest difficulties chafe at,
Whilst such an animal is near to laugh at.’
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For me, in Latin, Doctor Johnson wrote
Two lines upon Sir Joseph Banks's goat;
A goat! that round the world so curious went—
A goat! that now eats grass that grows in Kent!
BOZZY .
To lord Monboddo a few lines I wrote,
And by the servant, Joseph, sent this note—
And by the servant, Joseph, sent this note—
‘Thus far, my lord, from Edinburgh, my home,
With Mr. Samuel Johnson, I am come—
This night, by us, must certainly be seen,
The very handsome town of Aberdeen.
For thoughts of Johnson, you'll be not applied to—
I know your lordship likes him less than I do.
So near we are—to part, I can't tell how,
Without so much as making him a bow:
Besides, the Rambler says, to see Monbodd,
He'd go at least two miles out of his road,
Which shows that he admires (whoever rails)
The pen which proves that men are born with tails;
Hoping that as to health your lordship does well,
I am your servant at command,
JAMES BOSWELL.’
With Mr. Samuel Johnson, I am come—
This night, by us, must certainly be seen,
The very handsome town of Aberdeen.
For thoughts of Johnson, you'll be not applied to—
I know your lordship likes him less than I do.
So near we are—to part, I can't tell how,
Without so much as making him a bow:
Besides, the Rambler says, to see Monbodd,
He'd go at least two miles out of his road,
Which shows that he admires (whoever rails)
The pen which proves that men are born with tails;
Hoping that as to health your lordship does well,
I am your servant at command,
JAMES BOSWELL.’
MADAME PIOZZI .
On Mr. Thrale's old hunter Johnson rode,
Who with prodigious pride the beast bestrode;
As on Brighton Downs he dash'd away,
Much was he pleas'd to hear a sportsman say,
That at a chase he was as tight a hand
As e'er a sporting lubber in the land.
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One morning Johnson, on the Isle of Mull,
Was of his politics excessive full:—
Quoth he, ‘That Pulteney was a rogue 'tis plain—
Besides, the fellow was a Whig in grain.’
Then to his principles he gave a banging,
And swore no Whig was ever worth a hanging,
‘'Tis wonderful,’ says he, ‘and makes one stare,
To think the livery chose John Wilkes Lord May'r;
A dog, of whom the world could nurse no hopes—
Prompt to debauch their girls, and rob their shops.’
MADAME PIOZZI.
Sir, I believe that anecdote a lie;
But grant that Johnson said it—by the by,
As Wilkes unhappily your friendship shar'd,
The dirty anecdote might well be spar'd.
BOZZY.
Madam, I stick to truth as much as you,
And damme if the story be not true.
What you have said of Johnson and the larks,
As much the Rambler for a savage marks.
'Twas scandalous ev'n candour must allow,
To give the hist'ry of the horse and cow:
What but an enemy to Johnson's fame,
Dar'd his vile prank at Litchfield playhouse name?
Where, without ceremony he thought fit
To fling the man and chair into the pit—
Who would have register'd a speech so odd
On the dead Stay-maker and Doctor Dodd?
MADAME PIOZZI.
Sam Johnson's threshing knowledge and his thatching,
May be your own inimitable hatching.
Pray of his wisdom can't you tell more news?
Could not he make a shirt, and cobble shoes,
278
Draw teeth, dress wigs, or make a pair of breeches?
You prate too of his knowledge of the Mint,
As if the Rambler really had been in't—
Who knows but you will tell us (truth forsaking)
That each bad shilling is of Johnson's making;
His each vile sixpence that the world hath cheated—
And his, the art that ev'ry guinea sweated.
About his brewing knowledge you will prate too,
Who scarcely knew a hop from a potatoe—
And though of beer he joy'd in hearty swigs,
I'd pit against his taste my husband's pigs.
BOZZY.
How could your folly tell, so void of truth,
That miserable story of the youth,
Who, in your book, of Doctor Johnson begs
Most seriously to know if cats laid eggs!
MADAME PIOZZI.
Who told of Mrs. Montague the lie—
So palpable a falsehood?—Bozzy, fy!
BOZZY.
Who, madd'ning with an anecdotic itch,
Declar'd that Johnson call'd his mother b*t*ch?
MADAME PIOZZI.
Who, from M'Donald's rage to save his snout,
Cut twenty lines of defamation out?
BOZZY.
Who would have said a word about Sam's wig;
Or told the story of the peas and pig?
Who would have told a tale so very flat,
Of Frank the Black, and Hodge the mangy cat!
279
Good me! you're grown at once confounded tender—
Of Doctor Johnson's fame a fierce defender:
I'm sure you've mention'd many a prettys tory
Not much redounding to the doctor's glory.
Now for a saint upon us you would palm him—
First murder the poor man and then embalm him!
BOZZY.
Why truly, madam, Johnson cannot boast—
By your acquaintance, he hath rather lost.
His character so shockingly you handle—
You've sunk your comet to a farthing candle.
Your vanities contriv'd the sage to hitch in,
And brib'd him with your cellar and your kitchen;
But luckless Johnson play'd a losing game—
Though beef and beer he won—he lost his fame.
MADAME PIOZZI.
One quarter of your book had Johnson read,
Fist-criticism had rattl'd round your head.
Yet let my satire not too far pursue—
It boasts some merit, give the Dev'l his due.
Where grocers and where pastry-cooks reside,
Thy book, with triumph, may indulge its pride;
Preach to the patty-pans sententious stuff—
And hug that idol of the nose, call'd snuff:
With all its stories cloves and ginger please,
And pour its wonders to a pound of cheese!
BOZZY.
Madam, your irony is wondrous fine!
Sense in each thought, and wit in ev'ry line;
Yet, madam, when the leaves of my poor book,
Visit the grocer or the pastry-cook,
Your's, to enjoy of fame the just reward,
May aid the trunk-maker of Paul's Church-yard;
280
By the same fingers they may be amus'd—
The greasy snuffers your's, perchance may wipe,
Whilst mine, high honour'd, lights a toper's pipe,
The praise of Courtenay my book's fame secures—
Now, who the devil, madam, praises your's?
MADAME PIOZZI.
Thousands, you blockhead—no one now can doubt it;
For not a soul in London is without it.
The folks were ready Cadell to devour,
Who sold the first edition in an hour—
So!—Courtenay's praises save you!—ah! that 'squire
Deals, let me tell you, more in smoke than fire.
BOZZY.
Zounds! he has prais'd me in the sweetest line—
MADAME PIOZZI.
Ay! aye! the verse and subject equal shine.
Few are the mouths that Courtenay's wit rehearse—
Mere cork in politics, and lead in verse.
BOZZY.
Well, ma'am! since all that Johnson said or wrote,
You hold so sacred—how have you forgot
To grant the wonder-hunting world a reading
Of Sam's Epistle, just before your wedding;
281
‘MADAM,
If that most ignominious matter
Be not concluded’—
Farther shall I say?
No—we shall have it from yourself some day,
To justify your passion for the youth,
With all the charms of eloquence and truth.
MADAME PIOZZI.
What was my marriage, sir, to you or him?
He tell me what to do!—a pretty whim!
He, to propriety (the beast) resort!
As well might elephants preside at court.
Lord! let the world to damn my match agree;
Good God! James Boswell, what's that world to me?
The folks who paid respects to Mrs. Thrale,
Fed on her pork, poor souls! and swill'd her ale,
May sicken at Piozzi, nine in ten—
Turn up the nose of scorn—good God! what then?
For me, the dev'l may fetch their souls so great;
They keep their homes, and I, thank God, my meat.
When they, poor owls! shall beat their cage, a jail—
I, unconfin'd, shall spread my peacock tail;
Free as the birds of air, enjoy my ease,
Choose my own food, and see what climes I please.
I suffer only—if I'm in the wrong:
So, now, you prating-puppy, hold your tongue.
SIR JOHN.
For shame! for shame! for Heav'n's sake both be quiet—
Not Billingsgate exhibits such a riot;
Behold, for scandal you have made a feast,
And turn'd your idol, Johnson, to a beast:
'Tis plain that tales of ghosts are arrant lies,
Or instantaneously would Johnson's rise;
Make you both eat your paragraphs so evil;
And for your treatment of him, play the devil.
Just like two Mohawks on the man you fall;
No murd'rer is worse serv'd at Surgeon's Hall.
Instead of adding splendor to his name,
Your books are downright gibbets to his fame.
Of those, your anecdotes—may I be curst,
If I can tell you, which of them is worst.
You never with posterity can thrive—
'Tis by the Rambler's death alone you live;
Like wrens (that in some volume I have read)
Hatch'd by strange fortune in a horse's head.
Poor Sam was rather fainting in his glory,
But now his fame lies foully dead before ye:
Thus to some dying man (a frequent case)
Two doctors come and give the coup de grace.
Zounds! madam, mind the duties of a wife,
And dream no more of Doctor Johnson's life;
A happy knowledge in a pie or pudding
Will more delight your friends than all your studying;
One cut from ven'son to the heart can speak
Stronger than ten quotations from the Greek;
One fat sirloin possesses more sublime
Than all the airy castles built by rhime.
One nipperkin of stingo with a toast
Beats all the streams the Muses' fount can boast;
Blest, in one pint of porter, lo! my belly can
Find raptures not in all the floods of Helicon,
Enough those anecdotes your pow'rs have shown;
Sam's life, dear ma'am, will only damn your own.
Not Billingsgate exhibits such a riot;
Behold, for scandal you have made a feast,
And turn'd your idol, Johnson, to a beast:
'Tis plain that tales of ghosts are arrant lies,
Or instantaneously would Johnson's rise;
Make you both eat your paragraphs so evil;
And for your treatment of him, play the devil.
282
No murd'rer is worse serv'd at Surgeon's Hall.
Instead of adding splendor to his name,
Your books are downright gibbets to his fame.
Of those, your anecdotes—may I be curst,
If I can tell you, which of them is worst.
You never with posterity can thrive—
'Tis by the Rambler's death alone you live;
Like wrens (that in some volume I have read)
Hatch'd by strange fortune in a horse's head.
Poor Sam was rather fainting in his glory,
But now his fame lies foully dead before ye:
Thus to some dying man (a frequent case)
Two doctors come and give the coup de grace.
Zounds! madam, mind the duties of a wife,
And dream no more of Doctor Johnson's life;
A happy knowledge in a pie or pudding
Will more delight your friends than all your studying;
One cut from ven'son to the heart can speak
Stronger than ten quotations from the Greek;
One fat sirloin possesses more sublime
Than all the airy castles built by rhime.
One nipperkin of stingo with a toast
Beats all the streams the Muses' fount can boast;
Blest, in one pint of porter, lo! my belly can
Find raptures not in all the floods of Helicon,
Enough those anecdotes your pow'rs have shown;
Sam's life, dear ma'am, will only damn your own.
For thee, James Boswell, may the hand of fate
Arrest thy goose-quill and confine thy prate;
Thy egotisms the world disgusted hears—
Then load with vanities no more our ears,
Like some lone puppy, yelping all night long,
That tires the very echoes with his tongue.
Yet, should it lie beyond the pow'rs of fate
To stop thy pen, and still thy darling prate;
To live in solitude, oh! be thy luck,
A chattering magpie on the Isle of Muck.
Arrest thy goose-quill and confine thy prate;
Thy egotisms the world disgusted hears—
Then load with vanities no more our ears,
Like some lone puppy, yelping all night long,
That tires the very echoes with his tongue.
Yet, should it lie beyond the pow'rs of fate
To stop thy pen, and still thy darling prate;
To live in solitude, oh! be thy luck,
A chattering magpie on the Isle of Muck.
283
Thus spoke the Judge; then leaping from the chair,
He left, in consternation lost, the fair:
Black Frank he sought on anecdote to cram,
And vomit first a life of surly Sam.
Shock'd at the little manners of the knight,
The rivals marv'ling mark'd his sudden flight,
Then to their pens and paper rush'd the twain
To kill the mangled Rambler o'er again.
He left, in consternation lost, the fair:
Black Frank he sought on anecdote to cram,
And vomit first a life of surly Sam.
Shock'd at the little manners of the knight,
The rivals marv'ling mark'd his sudden flight,
Then to their pens and paper rush'd the twain
To kill the mangled Rambler o'er again.
The lively rattle of the House of Commons—indeed its Momus: who seems to have been selected by his constituents more for the purposes of laughing at the misfortunes of his country, than healing the wounds. He is the author of a poem lately published, that endeavours, totis viribus, to prove that Doctor Johnson was a brute as well as a moralist!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |