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] |  |
O Bruce, for this his short and sweet epistle,
Thou biddest p'rhaps the gentle bard ‘go whistle;’
Or somewhat worse, perchaunce, that rhimes to knight;
That is to say, knights of the blade,
One time so busy in the dubbing trade,
That, like to silver, it was shoulder'd bright.
Thou biddest p'rhaps the gentle bard ‘go whistle;’
Or somewhat worse, perchaunce, that rhimes to knight;
That is to say, knights of the blade,
One time so busy in the dubbing trade,
That, like to silver, it was shoulder'd bright.
Pity by hungry critics thou shouldst fall,
So clever, and so form'd to please us all!
So clever, and so form'd to please us all!
Again!—by royal favour all-surrounded,
A balm so rich, like cloves and nutmegs pounded!
Thus the bag fox, (how cruelly, alack!)
Turn'd out with turpentine upon his back,
Amidst the war of hounds and hunters flies;
Shows sport; but, luckless, by his fragrance dies!
Safe from the fury of the critic hounds,
O Bruce, thou treadest Abyssinian grounds;
Nor can our British noses hunt thy foil:
Indeed, thou need'st not dread th' event;
Surrounding clouds destroy the scent,
And mock their most sagacious toil:
Yes, in thy darkness thou shalt leave the dogs;
For hares, the hunters say, run best in fogs.
A balm so rich, like cloves and nutmegs pounded!
Thus the bag fox, (how cruelly, alack!)
Turn'd out with turpentine upon his back,
Amidst the war of hounds and hunters flies;
Shows sport; but, luckless, by his fragrance dies!
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O Bruce, thou treadest Abyssinian grounds;
Nor can our British noses hunt thy foil:
Indeed, thou need'st not dread th' event;
Surrounding clouds destroy the scent,
And mock their most sagacious toil:
Yes, in thy darkness thou shalt leave the dogs;
For hares, the hunters say, run best in fogs.
Of thee and me, two great physicians,
How diff'rent are the dispositions!
Thy soul delights in wonder, pomp, and bustle;
Mine in th' unmarvellous and placid scene,
Plain as the hut of our good king and queen;—
I imitate the stationary muscle.
How diff'rent are the dispositions!
Thy soul delights in wonder, pomp, and bustle;
Mine in th' unmarvellous and placid scene,
Plain as the hut of our good king and queen;—
I imitate the stationary muscle.
Yet, boldly thou, O Bruce, again proceed;
Of wonder ope the fountain head;
Deluge the land with Abyssinian ware;
Whilst I, a simple son of peace,
The world of bagatelle increase,
By love-sick sonnets to the fair.
Of wonder ope the fountain head;
Deluge the land with Abyssinian ware;
Whilst I, a simple son of peace,
The world of bagatelle increase,
By love-sick sonnets to the fair.
Now to Sir Joseph, now a duke, now wren,
Now robin red-breast, dedicate the pen;
Now glow-worm, child of shade and light, not flame;
To whom, of wicked wits the tuneful art,
So very apt, indeed, from truth to start,
Compares the nightly street-meand'ring dame.
Now robin red-breast, dedicate the pen;
Now glow-worm, child of shade and light, not flame;
To whom, of wicked wits the tuneful art,
So very apt, indeed, from truth to start,
Compares the nightly street-meand'ring dame.
Mild insect, harmless as myself, I ween:
Thou little planet of the rural scene,
When summer warms the valleys with her rays,
Accept a trifling sonnet to thy praise.
Thou little planet of the rural scene,
When summer warms the valleys with her rays,
Accept a trifling sonnet to thy praise.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |