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] |  |
17
ODE V.
Peter quarrelleth with Fat—Proveth its fatal Inconveniences —Accounteth for the Leanness and Rags of the Muses—Displayeth Military Science—Telleth a wonderful Story of a Spanish Marquis—Talketh sensibly of a Greyhound, a Hawk, and a Race-horse—Pointeth out the proper Subjects for Grease.
Painters and Poets never should be sat—
Sons of Apollo! listen well to that.
Fat is foul weather—dims the fancy's sight:
In poverty, the wits more nimbly muster:
Thus stars, when pinch'd by frost, cast keener lustre
On the black blanket of old mother night.
Sons of Apollo! listen well to that.
Fat is foul weather—dims the fancy's sight:
In poverty, the wits more nimbly muster:
Thus stars, when pinch'd by frost, cast keener lustre
On the black blanket of old mother night.
Your heavy fat, I will maintain,
Is perfect birdlime of the brain;
And, as to goldfinches the birdlime clings—
Fat holds ideas by the legs and wings.
Is perfect birdlime of the brain;
And, as to goldfinches the birdlime clings—
Fat holds ideas by the legs and wings.
Fat flattens the most brilliant thoughts,
Like the buff-stop on harpsichords, or spinets—
Muffling their pretty little tuneful throats,
That would have chirp'd away like linnets.
Like the buff-stop on harpsichords, or spinets—
Muffling their pretty little tuneful throats,
That would have chirp'd away like linnets.
Not only fat is hurtful to the arts,
But Love, at fat—ev'n Love almighty starts—
Love hates large, lubberly, fat, clumsy fellows,
Panting and blowing like a blacksmith's bellows.
But Love, at fat—ev'n Love almighty starts—
Love hates large, lubberly, fat, clumsy fellows,
Panting and blowing like a blacksmith's bellows.
In Parliament, amidst the various chat,
What eloquence of North's is lost by fat!
Mute in his head-piece on his bosom hung,
How many a speech has slept upon his tongue.
What eloquence of North's is lost by fat!
Mute in his head-piece on his bosom hung,
How many a speech has slept upon his tongue.
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So far Apollo's right, I needs must own,
To keep his sons and daughters high in bone:
The Nine too, as from history we glean,
Are, like Don Quixote's Rosinante, lean;
To keep his sons and daughters high in bone:
The Nine too, as from history we glean,
Are, like Don Quixote's Rosinante, lean;
Who likewise fancy all incumbrance bad,
And therefore travel very thinly clad;
Looking like damsels just escap'd from jails,
With backs al fresco, and with tatter'd tails.
And therefore travel very thinly clad;
Looking like damsels just escap'd from jails,
With backs al fresco, and with tatter'd tails.
How, with large rolls of fat, would act
A soldier, or a sailor?
And 'tis a well-attested fact,
Apollo was as nimble as a tailor.
How could he else have caught that handsome flirt,
Miss Daphne, racing through the pools and dirt?
A soldier, or a sailor?
And 'tis a well-attested fact,
Apollo was as nimble as a tailor.
How could he else have caught that handsome flirt,
Miss Daphne, racing through the pools and dirt?
The Marquis of Cerona, of great parts,
Could scarce support himself, he was so big;
He starv'd—drank vinegar by pints and quarts,
And got down to a Christian—from a pig.
Some author says, his skin (but some will doubt him)
Would fold a half-a-dozen times about him.
Could scarce support himself, he was so big;
He starv'd—drank vinegar by pints and quarts,
And got down to a Christian—from a pig.
Some author says, his skin (but some will doubt him)
Would fold a half-a-dozen times about him.
Reader!—of lie I urge not an iöta:
His skin would really round his body come,
Though tight before as parchment on a drum—
Just like a Portuguese capota.
His skin would really round his body come,
Though tight before as parchment on a drum—
Just like a Portuguese capota.
Yes, yes—indeed, I solemnly repeat,
Painters and bards should very little eat:
No matter, verily, how slight their fare;
Nay, though camelion-like, they fed on air.
Painters and bards should very little eat:
No matter, verily, how slight their fare;
Nay, though camelion-like, they fed on air.
Else they're like ladies much inclin'd to feeding—
Who, often when they fatten, leave off breeding;
Or, like the hen, facetious Æsop's story,
So known, I shall not lay the tale before ye.
Who, often when they fatten, leave off breeding;
Or, like the hen, facetious Æsop's story,
So known, I shall not lay the tale before ye.
You would not load with fat a running-horse,
Or greyhound you design'd to course;
Nor would you fatten up the hawk,
You mean to nimble birds to talk.
Or greyhound you design'd to course;
Nor would you fatten up the hawk,
You mean to nimble birds to talk.
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Then pray, young brushmen, if you wish to thrive,
And keep your genius, and the art alive,
Gobble not quantities of flesh and fish up:
Beings who can no harm from fat receive,
May feast securely—then for Heaven's sake leave
Grease to an alderman, a hog, or bishop.
And keep your genius, and the art alive,
Gobble not quantities of flesh and fish up:
Beings who can no harm from fat receive,
May feast securely—then for Heaven's sake leave
Grease to an alderman, a hog, or bishop.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |