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

A great deal, my dear liege, depends
On having clever bards for friends—
What had Achilles been without his Homer?—
A tailor, woollen-draper, or a comber!
Fellows that have been dead a hundred year,
None but the Lord knows how or where.

In Poetry's rich grass how virtues thrive!—
Some when put in, so lean, seem scarce alive;
And yet, so speedily a bulk obtain,
That ev'n their owners know them not again.

Could you, indeed, have gain'd my muse of fire,
Great would your luck have been, indeed, great sire!—
Then had I prais'd your nobleness of spirit!—
Then had I boasted that myself,
Hight Peter, was the first blest, tuneful elf,
You ever gave a farthing to for merit.

Though money be a pretty handy tool;
Of mammon, lo! I scorn to be the fool!
If Fortune calls, she's welcome to my cot,
Whether she leaves a guinea or a groat;

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Whether she brings me from the butcher's shop
The whole sheep or a simple chop.

For lo! like Andrew Marvel, I can dine,
And deem a mutton-bone extremely fine—
Then, sir, how difficult the task, you see,
To bribe a moderate gentleman like me.

I will not swear, point blank, I shall not alter—
A saint —my namesake e'en was known to faulter.

Nay more—some clever men in opposition,
Whose souls did really seem in good condition;
Who made of Pitt such horrible complaint,
And damn'd him for the worst of knaves;
Alter'd their minds—became Pitt's abject slaves,
And publish'd their new patron for a saint.

And who is there that may not change his mind?
Where can you folks of that description find
Who will not sell their souls for cash,
That most angelic, diabolic trash!
E'en grave divines submit to glitt'ring gold!
The best of consciences are bought and sold:
As in a tale I'll show, most edifying,
And prove to all the world that I'm not lying.

Saint Peter.