Horace in London Consisting of imitations of the first two books of the odes of Horace. By the authors of the rejected addresses, or the new theatrum poetarum [Horace and James Smith] |
 | I. |
| II. |
 | Horace in London |  |
37
ODE VIII. To HUNTINGDON, the Preacher.
Lydia dic per omnes.
By those locks so lank and sable,
Which adown thy shoulders hang,
By thy phiz right lamentable,
And thy humming nasal twang;
Which adown thy shoulders hang,
By thy phiz right lamentable,
And thy humming nasal twang;
Huntingdon, thou queer fanatic,
Tell me why thy love and grace,
Thus invade my servant's attic,
To unfit him for his place.
Tell me why thy love and grace,
Thus invade my servant's attic,
To unfit him for his place.
For the new light ever pining,
Thomas groans, and hums and ha's;
But alas! the light is shining,
Only through his lanthorn jaws.
Thomas groans, and hums and ha's;
But alas! the light is shining,
Only through his lanthorn jaws.
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May-pole pranks and fiddle scrapers
In his eye sight change their hue,
Lowering Athanasian vapours,
Cloud his brain with devils blue.
In his eye sight change their hue,
Lowering Athanasian vapours,
Cloud his brain with devils blue.
From his fellows far asunder,
Tom enjoys his morning stave:
Works are but a heathen blunder;
Faith alone has power to save.
Tom enjoys his morning stave:
Works are but a heathen blunder;
Faith alone has power to save.
From young Hal the tavern waiter,
Oft the boxing prize he'd carry;
Now the pious gladiator,
Wrestles only with Old Harry.
Oft the boxing prize he'd carry;
Now the pious gladiator,
Wrestles only with Old Harry.
Potent once at quoits and cricket,
Head erect and heart elate,
Now, alas! he heeds no wicket,
Save John Bunyan's wicket gate.
Head erect and heart elate,
Now, alas! he heeds no wicket,
Save John Bunyan's wicket gate.
As some clown in listing season,
Blinds himself to shun the ranks;
Tom, because he blinds his reason,
Thinks to play his pious pranks.
Blinds himself to shun the ranks;
Tom, because he blinds his reason,
Thinks to play his pious pranks.
39
But if such his holy rage is
Let it be its own reward;
I'll no longer pay his wages;
Me he serves not, but the Lord.
Let it be its own reward;
I'll no longer pay his wages;
Me he serves not, but the Lord.
| Horace in London | |