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] |  |
Such was the dream that wak'd the sleeping knight,
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:
He lik'd to eat it so much over-done,
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.
'Twas strange that in that volume of divinity,
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 .
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;
But slumber soon did ev'ry sense entrap,
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;
But who, alas! in all things can be great?
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—
The world will certainly receive with glee,
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.’
MADAME PIOZZI
.
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 .
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.
BOZZY
.
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,
Knit stockings, or ingenious, take up stitches—
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!
MADAME PIOZZI.
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;
In the same alehouses together us'd,
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;
Beginning thus (in strains not form'd to flatter),
‘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.
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;
273
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.’
276
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.
277
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] | |