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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ODE TO A DISTRESSED BEAUTY. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ODE TO A DISTRESSED BEAUTY.
SWEET girl, forbear to droop thy head with shame—
What though the parson did not tie the knot?
What though the boy should come?—he'll bring thee fame—
The world's an ass, and custom is a sot—
Hold up thy head, and meet mankind with pride,
And throw thy blushes and thy fears aside.
What though the parson did not tie the knot?
What though the boy should come?—he'll bring thee fame—
The world's an ass, and custom is a sot—
Hold up thy head, and meet mankind with pride,
And throw thy blushes and thy fears aside.
Eve had no parson—for no priest was Adam,
And yet not out of countenance was madam;
Her modesty receiv'd no grievous shocks,
When Master Cain was put upon the stocks;
Nor when, t'increase the number at her table,
She set about the frame of Master Abel.
And yet not out of countenance was madam;
Her modesty receiv'd no grievous shocks,
When Master Cain was put upon the stocks;
Nor when, t'increase the number at her table,
She set about the frame of Master Abel.
Once more, then, do not be afraid;
Without thy boy, a wonder may be missing—
A likeness of my charming maid,
The boy may do a credit to thy kissing.
Without thy boy, a wonder may be missing—
A likeness of my charming maid,
The boy may do a credit to thy kissing.
Thou putt'st me of the morning much in mind,
Who seems afraid to peep upon mankind—
So slow her motions! all so very slow!
And then her cheeks so deep with crimson glow:
Who seems afraid to peep upon mankind—
So slow her motions! all so very slow!
And then her cheeks so deep with crimson glow:
But safe deliver'd of her boy, the sun,
The lusty lad, so proud his race to run,
Mounts high exulting in his birth;
Dries up her tears, her blushes puts to flight,
Tow'rs in bold triumph o'er the cloud of night,
And pours a flood of radiance o'er the earth.
The lusty lad, so proud his race to run,
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Dries up her tears, her blushes puts to flight,
Tow'rs in bold triumph o'er the cloud of night,
And pours a flood of radiance o'er the earth.
Then let me kiss away thy tears—
Oh! cease thy sighs, and be a happy mother;
And when this chopping boy appears,
Suppose we give the lad a little brother?
Oh! cease thy sighs, and be a happy mother;
And when this chopping boy appears,
Suppose we give the lad a little brother?
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |