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] |  |
70
ODE IX.
The man who printeth his poetic fits,
Into the public's mouth his head commits;
Too oft a lion's mouth, of danger full,
Or flaming mouth of Phalaris's bull;
He pours the sad repentant groan in vain,
The cruel world but giggles at his pain.
Into the public's mouth his head commits;
Too oft a lion's mouth, of danger full,
Or flaming mouth of Phalaris's bull;
He pours the sad repentant groan in vain,
The cruel world but giggles at his pain.
For, lo! our world, so savage in its nature,
Would rather see a fellow under water,
Or, from the attic story of a house
Fall down souse
Upon a set of cursed iron spikes;
Than see him with the blooming lass he likes,
Blest on a yielding bed of down or roses,
Where Love's fond couples often join their noses.
Would rather see a fellow under water,
Or, from the attic story of a house
Fall down souse
Upon a set of cursed iron spikes;
Than see him with the blooming lass he likes,
Blest on a yielding bed of down or roses,
Where Love's fond couples often join their noses.
Upon me what a host I've got!
Who by their black abuses boil their pot,
Ay, that's the reason—wide-mouth'd hunger calls,
And from the bellows of each stomach bawls!
Who by their black abuses boil their pot,
Ay, that's the reason—wide-mouth'd hunger calls,
And from the bellows of each stomach bawls!
Thus the poor silk-worms, born to bless mankind,
Whilst for the shiv'ring world the robe they spin,
In ev'ry ring a thousand insects find,
Gnawing voraciously their harmless skin.
Whilst for the shiv'ring world the robe they spin,
In ev'ry ring a thousand insects find,
Gnawing voraciously their harmless skin.
And thus the lambs, whose useful fleeces treat
With coats and blankets people of all stations,
By preying maggots are beset,
Harb'ring whole stinking nations;
Which from their backs the crows so kindly pick,
Enough to make a Christian sick.
With coats and blankets people of all stations,
By preying maggots are beset,
Harb'ring whole stinking nations;
Which from their backs the crows so kindly pick,
Enough to make a Christian sick.
Oh, would some critic crow but eat the pack
Now nestling in my lyric back,
That daily in their hosts increase,
And try to spoil the finest fleece.
Now nestling in my lyric back,
That daily in their hosts increase,
And try to spoil the finest fleece.
71
Why am I persecuted for my rhimes,
That kindly try to cobble kings and times?
That kindly try to cobble kings and times?
To mine, Charles Churchill's rage was downright rancour,
He was a first-rate man of war to me,
Thund'ring amidst a high tempestuous sea;
I'm a small cockboat bobbing at an anchor;
Playing with patereroes that alarm,
Yet scorn to do a bit of harm.
He was a first-rate man of war to me,
Thund'ring amidst a high tempestuous sea;
I'm a small cockboat bobbing at an anchor;
Playing with patereroes that alarm,
Yet scorn to do a bit of harm.
My satire's blunt—his boasted a keen edge—
A sugar-hammer mine—but his a blacksmith's sledge!
A sugar-hammer mine—but his a blacksmith's sledge!
And then that Junius!—what a scalping fellow;
Who dar'd such treason and sedition bellow!
Who dar'd such treason and sedition bellow!
Compar'd to them, whose pleasure 'twas to stab,
Lord! I'm a melting medlar to a crab!
My humour of a very diff'rent sort is—
Their satire's horrid hair cloth, mine is silk—
I am a pretty nipperkin of milk;
They two enormous jugs of aqua fortis.
Lord! I'm a melting medlar to a crab!
My humour of a very diff'rent sort is—
Their satire's horrid hair cloth, mine is silk—
I am a pretty nipperkin of milk;
They two enormous jugs of aqua fortis.
Compar'd to their high floods of foaming satire
My rhime's a rill—a thread of murmuring water:
A whirlwind they, that oaks like stubble heaves—
I, zephyr, whisp'ring, sporting through the leaves.
My rhime's a rill—a thread of murmuring water:
A whirlwind they, that oaks like stubble heaves—
I, zephyr, whisp'ring, sporting through the leaves.
And such all candid people must conclude it—
The world should say of Peter Pindar's strain,
‘In him the courtly Horace lives again—
Circum præcordia Petrus ludit.’
The world should say of Peter Pindar's strain,
‘In him the courtly Horace lives again—
Circum præcordia Petrus ludit.’
Which easy scrap of Latin thus I render—
No man by Peter's verse is harshly bitten;
Like lambkins bleats the bard so sweet and tender,
And playful as the sportive kitten.
No man by Peter's verse is harshly bitten;
Like lambkins bleats the bard so sweet and tender,
And playful as the sportive kitten.
So chaste his similes, so soft his style,
That ev'n his bitt'rest enemies should smile;
He biddeth not his verse in thunder roar—
His lines perpetual summer—sunshine weather—
He tickles only—how can he do more,
Whose only instrument's a feather?
That ev'n his bitt'rest enemies should smile;
He biddeth not his verse in thunder roar—
His lines perpetual summer—sunshine weather—
He tickles only—how can he do more,
Whose only instrument's a feather?
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |