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] |  |
72
ODE X.
Like children, charm'd with praise's sugar'd song,
How much the great admire the cringing throng;
And how most lovingly the men they hate,
Who to the stubbornness of conscience born,
Tenacious of the rights of nature, scorn
To hold the censer to the nose of state!
How much the great admire the cringing throng;
And how most lovingly the men they hate,
Who to the stubbornness of conscience born,
Tenacious of the rights of nature, scorn
To hold the censer to the nose of state!
Too many a weak-brain'd man, and silly dame,
Are made ridiculous by fulsome fame;
Rais'd on high pedestals in rich attire,
For half the globe to laugh at, not admire.
Are made ridiculous by fulsome fame;
Rais'd on high pedestals in rich attire,
For half the globe to laugh at, not admire.
You bid the bard in panegyric shine;
With courtly adulation load the line:
Sirs, adulation is a fatal thing—
Rank poison for a subject, or a king.
With courtly adulation load the line:
Sirs, adulation is a fatal thing—
Rank poison for a subject, or a king.
My lords, I do declare that it requires
A brain well fortified to bear great flatt'ries;
Such very dangerous mask'd batteries,
That keep on great men's brains such ceaseless fires!
I hope that God will give such great men grace
To know the gen'ral weakness of the place.
A brain well fortified to bear great flatt'ries;
Such very dangerous mask'd batteries,
That keep on great men's brains such ceaseless fires!
I hope that God will give such great men grace
To know the gen'ral weakness of the place.
Pray do not fancy what I utter strange—
The love of flatt'ry is the soul's rank mange,
Which, though it gives such tickling joys,
Instead of doing service, it destroys:
Just as the mange to lapdog's skins applied,
Though pleasing, spoils the beauty of the hide.
The love of flatt'ry is the soul's rank mange,
Which, though it gives such tickling joys,
Instead of doing service, it destroys:
Just as the mange to lapdog's skins applied,
Though pleasing, spoils the beauty of the hide.
A sonnet now and then to please the fair,
With flatt'ry spic'd a little, does no harm—
That talks of flames, perfections, hope, despair,
And hyperbolically paints each charm.
With flatt'ry spic'd a little, does no harm—
That talks of flames, perfections, hope, despair,
And hyperbolically paints each charm.
P'rhaps to a fault at times, my muse's art,
By admiration swell'd, hath soar'd too high;
But Cynthia knew the lover's partial art,
And chid her poet for the tuneful lie.
By admiration swell'd, hath soar'd too high;
73
And chid her poet for the tuneful lie.
Perhaps too loud the bard had struck the lyre;
And when th' enthusiast, with a lover's fire,
More bright than angels, gave the nymph to glow;
By Truth's delightful dictates solely sway'd,
Ought of his fav'rite Cynthia to have said,
‘She triumphs only o'er the world below.’
And when th' enthusiast, with a lover's fire,
More bright than angels, gave the nymph to glow;
By Truth's delightful dictates solely sway'd,
Ought of his fav'rite Cynthia to have said,
‘She triumphs only o'er the world below.’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |