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] |  |
ODE TO LAIS.
O nymph with all the luxury of skin,
Pea-bloom breath, and dimpled chin;
Rose cheek, and eyes that beat the blackest sloe;
With flaxen ringlets thy soft bosom shading,
So white, so plump, so lusciously-persuading;
And lips that none but mouths of cherubs know!
Pea-bloom breath, and dimpled chin;
Rose cheek, and eyes that beat the blackest sloe;
With flaxen ringlets thy soft bosom shading,
So white, so plump, so lusciously-persuading;
And lips that none but mouths of cherubs know!
Oh, leering, lure me not to Charlotte-street,
That too, too fair, seducing form to meet;
Warm, unattir'd, and breathing rich delight;
Where thou wilt practise ev'ry roguish art,
To bid my spirits all unbridled start,
Run off with me full tilt, and steal my sight.
Then shall I trembling fall, for want of grace,
And die perhaps upon my face!
That too, too fair, seducing form to meet;
Warm, unattir'd, and breathing rich delight;
Where thou wilt practise ev'ry roguish art,
To bid my spirits all unbridled start,
Run off with me full tilt, and steal my sight.
Then shall I trembling fall, for want of grace,
And die perhaps upon my face!
Ah! cease to turn, and leer, and smile,
My too imprudent senses to beguile!
Ah! keep that leg so taper from me,
Ah! form'd to foil a Phidias's art;
So much unlike that leg in ev'ry part
By me abhorr'd—and christ'ned gummy.
My too imprudent senses to beguile!
Ah! keep that leg so taper from me,
Ah! form'd to foil a Phidias's art;
So much unlike that leg in ev'ry part
By me abhorr'd—and christ'ned gummy.
In vain I turn around to run away:
Thine eyes, those basilisks, command my stay;
Whilst through its gauze thy snowy bosom peeping
Seems to that rogue interpreter, my eye,
To heave a soft, desponding, tender sigh—
Like gossamer, my thoughts of goodness sweeping.
Thine eyes, those basilisks, command my stay;
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Seems to that rogue interpreter, my eye,
To heave a soft, desponding, tender sigh—
Like gossamer, my thoughts of goodness sweeping.
Pity my dear religion's dread debility,
And hide those orbs of sweet inflammability!—
Abound, I say, abound in grace, my feet;
And do not follow her to Charlotte-street.
And hide those orbs of sweet inflammability!—
Abound, I say, abound in grace, my feet;
And do not follow her to Charlotte-street.
Alas! alas! you have no grace, I see,
But wish to carry off poor struggling me;
Yes, the wild bed of beauty wish to seek!—
Yet, if you do—to make your two hearts ake,
A sweet, a sweet revenge I mean to take;
For, curse me if you shall not stay a week.
But wish to carry off poor struggling me;
Yes, the wild bed of beauty wish to seek!—
Yet, if you do—to make your two hearts ake,
A sweet, a sweet revenge I mean to take;
For, curse me if you shall not stay a week.
But let me not thus pond'ring, gaping, stand—
But, lo, I am not at my own command:
Bed, bosom, kiss, embraces, storm my brains,
And, lawless tyrants, bind my will in chains.
O lovely lass! too pow'rful are thy charms,
And fascination dwells within thy arms.
But, lo, I am not at my own command:
Bed, bosom, kiss, embraces, storm my brains,
And, lawless tyrants, bind my will in chains.
O lovely lass! too pow'rful are thy charms,
And fascination dwells within thy arms.
The passions join the fierce invading host;
And I and virtue are o'erwhelm'd and lost—
Passions that in a martingale should move;
Wild horses loosen'd by the hands of Love.
And I and virtue are o'erwhelm'd and lost—
Passions that in a martingale should move;
Wild horses loosen'd by the hands of Love.
I'm off—alas! unworthy to be seen—
The bard, and Virtue a poor captive queen!
O Lais, should our deeds to sins amount,
Just Heav'n will place them all to thy account.
The bard, and Virtue a poor captive queen!
O Lais, should our deeds to sins amount,
Just Heav'n will place them all to thy account.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |