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] |  |
53
ODE TO PATIENCE.
SWEET daughter of religion, modest fair,
Thy hands upon thy bosom so tranquille,
With eyes to Heav'n, with so divine an air,
So calmly smiling, so resign'd thy will;
Oh sent to teach us, and our passions cool,
I wish thou hadst a little larger school!
Thy hands upon thy bosom so tranquille,
With eyes to Heav'n, with so divine an air,
So calmly smiling, so resign'd thy will;
Oh sent to teach us, and our passions cool,
I wish thou hadst a little larger school!
Lo, man, so great his want of grace,
If he but cuts a pimple on his face
When shaving;
Like man bewitch'd he jumps about,
Kicks up a most infernal rout,
And seemeth absolutely raving;
And, lo, all this for want of thy tuition—
Thus travel souls of people to perdition!
If he but cuts a pimple on his face
When shaving;
Like man bewitch'd he jumps about,
Kicks up a most infernal rout,
And seemeth absolutely raving;
And, lo, all this for want of thy tuition—
Thus travel souls of people to perdition!
Stand at my side, oh stoic dame—
On starling Martyn bid me cry out ‘shame,’
On starling Martyn bid me cry out ‘shame,’
Instead of knocking the dull fellow down,
When up the ninny-hammer starts to preach,
And impudently interrupts a speech
Of orators of fair and first renown,
Just like the owl that scares the moonlight hour,
Whilst Philomela warbles from her bow'r.
When up the ninny-hammer starts to preach,
And impudently interrupts a speech
Of orators of fair and first renown,
Just like the owl that scares the moonlight hour,
Whilst Philomela warbles from her bow'r.
And, oh! attend me when my eyes
View dedications fill'd with fulsome lies,
In praise of gen'rous queens and kings;
Heav'n swell the fountains of their hearts,
That seldom water the poor arts,
However sweetly adulation sings:
View dedications fill'd with fulsome lies,
In praise of gen'rous queens and kings;
Heav'n swell the fountains of their hearts,
That seldom water the poor arts,
However sweetly adulation sings:
Eke, when I hear that stupid parson H---
God's house with ev'ry nonsense fill,
And then with blasphemy each sentence cramm'd;
And when I hear th' impostor cry,
‘I've news, you raggamuffins, from the sky;
I'm come to tell ye, that you'll all be damn'd;
I'm come from God, ye strumpets—come from God—
I'm God Almighty's servant—hear my voice.’—
Which if it were so would be vastly odd,
Since Heav'n would show bad judgment in the choice:
God's house with ev'ry nonsense fill,
And then with blasphemy each sentence cramm'd;
And when I hear th' impostor cry,
54
I'm come to tell ye, that you'll all be damn'd;
I'm come from God, ye strumpets—come from God—
I'm God Almighty's servant—hear my voice.’—
Which if it were so would be vastly odd,
Since Heav'n would show bad judgment in the choice:
Dead all his money-loving soul's desires,
When subtle Hawkesb'ry talks of patriot fires,
And yielding places up to save the nation;
When of importance braggeth simple Leeds;
When Gloster's far-fam'd wife for meekness pleads;
And Gloster's duke breathes war and desolation;
When subtle Hawkesb'ry talks of patriot fires,
And yielding places up to save the nation;
When of importance braggeth simple Leeds;
When Gloster's far-fam'd wife for meekness pleads;
And Gloster's duke breathes war and desolation;
When Brudenell talks of elegance and ease;
When Thurlow turns the first of devotees,
And, to astound the million, builds a church;
When royal folks of purest friendship boast,
Make generosity their constant toast,
Yet leave poor pining merit in the lurch;
When Thurlow turns the first of devotees,
And, to astound the million, builds a church;
When royal folks of purest friendship boast,
Make generosity their constant toast,
Yet leave poor pining merit in the lurch;
When wonders through his spy-glass Marlb'rough views,
And sends to Banks the great, th' important news,
Fresh from his cranium's philosophic fogs;
When Dick descants on any thing but croute,
When Thompson aught performs beyond a scout,
And Mawbey talks of any thing but hogs:
Sweet Patience, sooth me with thy saint-like note,
Or, driv'n to madness, I shall cut my throat!
And sends to Banks the great, th' important news,
Fresh from his cranium's philosophic fogs;
When Dick descants on any thing but croute,
When Thompson aught performs beyond a scout,
And Mawbey talks of any thing but hogs:
Sweet Patience, sooth me with thy saint-like note,
Or, driv'n to madness, I shall cut my throat!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |