The toast An heroick poem: In four Books, Written originally in Latin, by Frederick Scheffer: Now done into English, and illustrated with Notes and Observations, by Peregrine Odonald [i.e. William King] |
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ODE TO MYRA |
 | The toast |  |
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ODE TO MYRA
[_]
(To which the Note on Verse 194. Book III. refers) In imitation of Horace's Ode to Canidia. Lib. Ep. Od. 17.
Jam jam efficaci do manus scientiæ, &c.
Cease! thy direful Vengeance cease!
Mighty Sorc'ress, give me Ease!
Like thy self a Convert grown,
Now thy Magic Power I own.
See the Bard with supp'lant Hands
Meanest Slave of thy Commands!
Mighty Sorc'ress, give me Ease!
Like thy self a Convert grown,
Now thy Magic Power I own.
See the Bard with supp'lant Hands
Meanest Slave of thy Commands!
Be thou pleas'd! my Voice I'll raise,
Tune my Lyre to sound thy Praise;
I will form thee all Divine;
And no Muse shall lie like mine.
Tune my Lyre to sound thy Praise;
I will form thee all Divine;
And no Muse shall lie like mine.
By thy sacred Self I'll swear,
Thou art fairest of the Fair;
That thy Morn-or Evening Face
Modest shines with native Grace;
Thy Complexion, when 'tis Pale,
Shews the Lilies of the Vale;
When thy Cheeks are over-spread
With a bright Vermilion-red,
Greater Beauties they disclose,
Charming, as the op'ning Rose.
Thou art fairest of the Fair;
That thy Morn-or Evening Face
Modest shines with native Grace;
Thy Complexion, when 'tis Pale,
Shews the Lilies of the Vale;
When thy Cheeks are over-spread
With a bright Vermilion-red,
Greater Beauties they disclose,
Charming, as the op'ning Rose.
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Then thy Tresses I'll display;
Swear, they are unmixt with grey:
That thy hollow Eyes are Jet,
Brilliant Di'monds, tho' ill set:
Or, low Similes to shun,
Either Orb shall be a Sun.
With thy Rays, like Cupid's Darts,
Thou shalt pierce the stoutest Hearts;
Change us, when thy Work is done,
(Like Medusa) into Stone.
Swear, they are unmixt with grey:
That thy hollow Eyes are Jet,
Brilliant Di'monds, tho' ill set:
Or, low Similes to shun,
Either Orb shall be a Sun.
With thy Rays, like Cupid's Darts,
Thou shalt pierce the stoutest Hearts;
Change us, when thy Work is done,
(Like Medusa) into Stone.
Next I'll smooth thy wrinkled Skin,
Paint, without a Beard, thy Chin;
Swear, thy Breath (which never fails)
Is as sweet as spicy Gales:
That thy Teeth are all thy own,
('Tis a Set that's newly grown)
But I think I shall not Lie,
If I swear, they're Ivory.
Paint, without a Beard, thy Chin;
Swear, thy Breath (which never fails)
Is as sweet as spicy Gales:
That thy Teeth are all thy own,
('Tis a Set that's newly grown)
But I think I shall not Lie,
If I swear, they're Ivory.
Then a well turn'd Neck I'll shew,
Whiter than the falling Snow:
And each Breast shall be as small,
Round, and hard, as Billiard-ball.
Whiter than the falling Snow:
And each Breast shall be as small,
Round, and hard, as Billiard-ball.
Then I'll mould thy muckle Waist,
Shape it to a Critick's Taste:
If he fancies, 'tis too wide
To be compass'd with an Hide;
Let him measure, as did Dido;
Or else let him lie, as I do:
For I'll with a Span surround it;
Swear, that Venus' Girdle bound it.
Shape it to a Critick's Taste:
If he fancies, 'tis too wide
To be compass'd with an Hide;
Let him measure, as did Dido;
Or else let him lie, as I do:
For I'll with a Span surround it;
Swear, that Venus' Girdle bound it.
Wou'd the modest Fair excuse
Some few Freedoms in the Muse;
I'd unveil a nobler Part,
Touch it with Dan Ovid's Art;
Not compare it, like a Sloven,
To a Furnace, or an Oven;
To a Bushel, or a Bowl,
Large as thy capacious Soul:
But a Figure I'd devise,
Which shou'd dignify my Lies,
By neat Metaphors express'd,
In a Virgin's Likeness dress'd;
Such as Anch'rets wou'd inspire;
Reconcile the angry Frier;
Teach an Irish King to love,
And even make a Bull of Jove.
Some few Freedoms in the Muse;
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Touch it with Dan Ovid's Art;
Not compare it, like a Sloven,
To a Furnace, or an Oven;
To a Bushel, or a Bowl,
Large as thy capacious Soul:
But a Figure I'd devise,
Which shou'd dignify my Lies,
By neat Metaphors express'd,
In a Virgin's Likeness dress'd;
Such as Anch'rets wou'd inspire;
Reconcile the angry Frier;
Teach an Irish King to love,
And even make a Bull of Jove.
But ah! then a Damp I'd cast;
For I'd swear, that thou art chaste;
True to every Husband's Bed,
To their Mem'ry, when they're dead:
That thou never had'st Affair
With a Porter, or a Player;
With the Bully Chevalier,
Or with Centry Grenadier;
Pam or Piercy P--- or Gore;
With—about an hundred more,
Whom the saucy People name,
Eccho'd by that Brazen Fame.
For I'd swear, that thou art chaste;
True to every Husband's Bed,
To their Mem'ry, when they're dead:
That thou never had'st Affair
With a Porter, or a Player;
With the Bully Chevalier,
Or with Centry Grenadier;
Pam or Piercy P--- or Gore;
With—about an hundred more,
Whom the saucy People name,
Eccho'd by that Brazen Fame.
Then I'll falsify Report,
Standing Jest of Viceroy's Court;
Fabled in the Comic Play,
Tattled over Cards and Tea;
Always whisper'd with a Sneer,
When thy Frow and thou art near.
What if Sappho was so naught?
I'll deny, that thou hast taught
How to pair the Female Doves,
How to practise Lesbian Loves:
But when little Al is spread
In her Grove, or on thy Bed,
I will swear, 'tis Nature's Call,
'Tis exalted Friendship all.
Standing Jest of Viceroy's Court;
Fabled in the Comic Play,
Tattled over Cards and Tea;
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When thy Frow and thou art near.
What if Sappho was so naught?
I'll deny, that thou hast taught
How to pair the Female Doves,
How to practise Lesbian Loves:
But when little Al is spread
In her Grove, or on thy Bed,
I will swear, 'tis Nature's Call,
'Tis exalted Friendship all.
Then, because I'm often told,
Mighty Sorc'ress, thou grow'st old;
That, few Bards in Days of Yore
Fancied Beauties of Threescore;
I'll unbend the Work of Time,
I'll restore thee to thy Prime,
Feign, that now thou art as young,
As when am'rous G---ville sung.
Mighty Sorc'ress, thou grow'st old;
That, few Bards in Days of Yore
Fancied Beauties of Threescore;
I'll unbend the Work of Time,
I'll restore thee to thy Prime,
Feign, that now thou art as young,
As when am'rous G---ville sung.
Then I'll strike an higher String,
And thy matchless Virtues sing;
Singing swear, that thou art Just,
Grateful, Faithful to thy Trust:
That thy Piety excels
All that Romish Legend tells;
That thou'rt Disciplin'd with Rods,
Tho' thou hast abjur'd thy Gods:
That thy Purse, and—eke thy Door
Ever opens to the Poor;
That thou givest without Measure,
In exchange for heav'nly Treasure.
And thy matchless Virtues sing;
Singing swear, that thou art Just,
Grateful, Faithful to thy Trust:
That thy Piety excels
All that Romish Legend tells;
That thou'rt Disciplin'd with Rods,
Tho' thou hast abjur'd thy Gods:
That thy Purse, and—eke thy Door
Ever opens to the Poor;
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In exchange for heav'nly Treasure.
Then to prove thy Truth and Wit,
I'll repeat what thou hast writ;
In my Numbers Both shall shine,
And be priz'd as much as—mine.
I'll repeat what thou hast writ;
In my Numbers Both shall shine,
And be priz'd as much as—mine.
Indian Priests avert all Evil,
By cajoling angry Devil;
Praise his Beauty, and his Youth,
Give him Virtue, Wit and Truth;
Flatter, sacrifice and lie,
And old Satan deify:
So let me thy Wrath appease!
So do thou thy Vengeance cease!
Soften'd by my lying Lyre,
Gracious imitate thy Sire;
And at least such Favour shew,
As the Devil wou'd bestow.
By cajoling angry Devil;
Praise his Beauty, and his Youth,
Give him Virtue, Wit and Truth;
Flatter, sacrifice and lie,
And old Satan deify:
So let me thy Wrath appease!
So do thou thy Vengeance cease!
Soften'd by my lying Lyre,
Gracious imitate thy Sire;
And at least such Favour shew,
As the Devil wou'd bestow.
| The toast | |