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] |  |
The crouching courtiers, that surround a throne,
And learn to speak and grin from one alone,
Who watch, like dancing dogs, their master's nod—
Are ready now, if horsewhipp'd from their places,
At Carlton House to show their supple faces,
And call the prince they vilify a God.
T. W.
Thinkst thou not Cæsar doth the arts possess?
P. P.
Arts in abundance!—Yes, Tom—yes, Tom—yes!
T. W.
Thinkst thou not Cæsar would each joy forego,
To make his children happy?
P. P.
No, Tom—no,
T. W.
What! not one bag, to bless a child, bestow?—
P. P.
And learn to speak and grin from one alone,
326
Are ready now, if horsewhipp'd from their places,
At Carlton House to show their supple faces,
And call the prince they vilify a God.
T. W.
Thinkst thou not Cæsar doth the arts possess?
P. P.
Arts in abundance!—Yes, Tom—yes, Tom—yes!
T. W.
Thinkst thou not Cæsar would each joy forego,
To make his children happy?
P. P.
No, Tom—no,
T. W.
What! not one bag, to bless a child, bestow?—
P. P.
Heav'n help thy folly!—no, Tom—no, Tom—no!
The sordid souls that avarice enslaves,
Would gladly grasp their guineas in their graves:
Like that old Greek—a miserable cur,
Who made himself his own executor.
The sordid souls that avarice enslaves,
Would gladly grasp their guineas in their graves:
Like that old Greek—a miserable cur,
Who made himself his own executor.
A cat is with her kittens much delighted;
She licks so lovingly their mouths and chins:
At ev'ry danger, lord! how puss is frighted—
She curls her back, and swells her tail, and grins,
Rolls her wild eyes, and claws the backs of curs
Who smell too curious to her children's furs.
She licks so lovingly their mouths and chins:
At ev'ry danger, lord! how puss is frighted—
She curls her back, and swells her tail, and grins,
Rolls her wild eyes, and claws the backs of curs
Who smell too curious to her children's furs.
This happens whilst her cats are young indeed;
But when grown up, alas! how chang'd their luck!
No more she plays, at bo-peep with her breed,
Lies down and, mewing, bids them come and suck:
But when grown up, alas! how chang'd their luck!
No more she plays, at bo-peep with her breed,
Lies down and, mewing, bids them come and suck:
327
No more she sports and pats them, frisks and purs:
Plays with their twinkling tails, and licks their furs;
But when they beg her blessing and embraces,
Spits, like a dirty vixen, in their faces.
Plays with their twinkling tails, and licks their furs;
But when they beg her blessing and embraces,
Spits, like a dirty vixen, in their faces.
Nay, after making the poor lambkins fly,
She watches the dear babes with squinting eye;
And if she spies them with a bit of meat,
Springs on their property, and steals their treat.—
She watches the dear babes with squinting eye;
And if she spies them with a bit of meat,
Springs on their property, and steals their treat.—
No more a tender love she seems to feel;—
The dev'l for her may eat 'em at a meal—
With all her soul;—the jade, so wondrous saving,
Cries, ‘Off! you now are at your own beard-shaving.’
The dev'l for her may eat 'em at a meal—
With all her soul;—the jade, so wondrous saving,
Cries, ‘Off! you now are at your own beard-shaving.’
So—to some k******s this evil doth belong;—
Th' intelligence is good, I make no doubt;
Who really love their offspring when they're young,
But lose that fond affection when they're stout;
Far off they send them—nor a sixpence give:
I wonder, Thomas, where such m******hs live!—
Th' intelligence is good, I make no doubt;
Who really love their offspring when they're young,
But lose that fond affection when they're stout;
Far off they send them—nor a sixpence give:
I wonder, Thomas, where such m******hs live!—
Should such a m******h, Thomas, cross thy way,
And for thy flatt'ry offer butts of sack;
Say plainly that he would disgrace thy lay;
And turning on him thy poetic back,
Bid, like a porcupine, thine anger bristle;
Nor damn thy precious soul to wet thy whistle.
And for thy flatt'ry offer butts of sack;
Say plainly that he would disgrace thy lay;
And turning on him thy poetic back,
Bid, like a porcupine, thine anger bristle;
Nor damn thy precious soul to wet thy whistle.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |