The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

A duke of Burgundy (I know not which)
Thus on a certain time address'd a poet:—
‘I'm much afraid of that same scribbling itch—
You've wit—but pray be cautious how you show it;
Say nothing in your rhimes about a king—
If praise, 'tis lies—if blame, a dangerous thing.’
That is, the duke believ'd the king, uncivil,
Might kick the saucy poet to the devil.
T. W.
Peter, there's odds 'twixt staring and stark mad—

P. P.
Who dares deny it?—So there is, eg ad!

323

T. W.
Thou thinkst no prince of common sense possest—

P. P.

Thomas, thou art mistaken, I protest—
On Stanislaus the muse could pour her strain,
Who, dying, sunk a sun upon Lorraine:
Too like the parted sun, with glory crown'd—
He fill'd with blushes deep th' horizon round.
Fred'rick the Great, who died the other day,
Had for himself, indeed, a deal to say:
We must not touch upon that king's belief—
Because I fear he seldom said his pray'rs—
Nor dare we say the hero was no thief,
Because he plunder'd ev'ry body's wares.
I'm told the emperor is vastly wise—
And hope that Madam Fame hath told no lies:
Yet, in his disputations with the Dutch,
The monarch's oratory was not much:
Full many a trope from bayonet and drum
He threaten'd—but, behold! 'twas all a hum.

Wise are our gracious q****'s superb relations,
The pride and envy of the German nations—
People of fashion, worship, wealth, and state—
Lo! what demand for them, in heav'n, of late!

Lo! with his knapsack, ev'n just now departed,
As fine a soldier, faith, as ever started—
Whom death did almost dread to lay his claws on—
Old captain what's his name?—Saxehilberghausen ;
For whom (with zeal, for folks of worship, burning)
We once again are black'ned up by mourning;
To show by glove, cloth, ribband, crape, and fan,
A peck of trouble for th' old gentleman.

324

Ah me! what dozens, dozens, dozens,
Our q**** hath got of uncles, aunts, and cousins!
Egad, if thus those folks continue dying,
Each Briton, doom'd to dismal black,
Must always bear a hearse-like back,
And, like Heraclitus, be always crying.

Great is the northern empress, I confess!
Much, in her humour, like our good Queen Bess;
Who keeps her fair court dames from getting drunk ;
And all so temperate herself, folks say,
She scarcely drinks a dozen drams a day;
And, in love matters, is a queen of spunk.

Yet like I not such woman for a wife—
Such heroines, in a matrimonial strife,
Might hammer from one's tender head hard notes:
I own my delicacy is so great,
I cannot, in dispute, with rapture, meet
Women who look like men in petticoats.

Oft in a learn'd dispute upon a cap,
By way of answer one might have a slap—
P'rhaps on a simple petticoat or gown—
Nay! possibly on madam's being kiss'd!
And really I would rather be knock'd down
By weight of argument, than weight of fist.

I like not dames whose conversation runs
On battles, sieges, mortars, and great guns—
The milder beauties win my soften'd soul,
Who look for fashions with desiring eyes:
Pleas'd when on têtes the conversations roll,
Cork rumps, and merry thoughts, and lovers' sighs.

Love! when I marry, give me not an ox—
I hate a woman, like a sentry-box;

325

Nor can I deem that dame a charming creature
Whose hard face holds an oath in ev'ry feature.

In woman—angel sweetness let me see—
No galloping horse-godmothers for me.
I own I cannot brook such manly belles
As Mademoiselle d'Eons, and Hannah Snells:
Yet men there are, (how strange are Love's decrees!)
Whose palates ev'n jack-gentlewomen please.

How diff'rent, Cynthia, from thy form so fair,
That triumph in a love-inspiring air;
Superior beaming ev'n where thousands shine—
Thy form!—where all the tender graces play,
And, blushing, seem in ev'ry smile to say,
‘Behold we boast an origin divine!’

See too the Queen of France—a gem I ween!
With rev'rence let me hail that charming queen,
Bliss to her king, and lustre to her race;
Though Venus gave of beauty half her store,
And all the graces bid a world adore—
Her smallest beauties are the charms of face.

T. W.
Heav'ns! why abroad for virtues must you roam?

P. P.
Because I cannot find them, Tom, at home.

Great uncle to our most gracious Q. He died in the emperor's service.

At an assembly at Petersburgh, some years since, which was honoured with the presence of the empress, one of the rules was, that no lady should come drunk into the room.