University of Virginia Library


23

ODE VIII.

Peter abuseth Mr. and Mrs. Cosway.

Fie, Cosway! I'm asham'd to say
Thou own'st the title of R. A.—
I fear, to damn thee 'twas the Devil's sending;
Some honest calling quickly find,
And bid thy wife her kitchen mind,
Or shirts and shifts be making, or be mending.
If madam cannot make a shirt,
Or mend, or from it wash the dirt,
Better than paint—the poet for thee feels—
Or take a stitch up in thy stocking
(Which for a wife is very shocking),
I pity the condition of thy heels.
What vanity was in your skulls,
To make you act so like two fools,
T'expose your daubs, tho' made with wondrous pains out?
Could Raphael's angry ghost arise,
And on the figures cast his eyes,
He'd catch a pistol up, and blow your brains out.
Muse, in this criticism, I fear,
Thou really hast been too severe:
Cosway paints miniature with truth and spirit,
And Mrs. Cosway boasts a fund of merit.
Be more like courtly Horace's thy page;
And shun of furious Juvenal the rage,
Of whom old Scaliger asserts—‘qui jugulat:—
Id est—the fellow would not murder boggle at.
This Scaliger employs, too, the word trucidat:
That is, the bard would dash through thick and thin,
And, like a ruffian, would so use ye, that
He would not leave a whole bone in your skin.