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] |  |
187
ODE III.
Behold, his majesty is in a passion!
Tremble, ye rogues, and tremble all the nation!
Suppose he takes it in his royal head
To strike your academic idol dead;
Knock down your house, dissolve you in his ire,
And strip you of your boasted title—'squire!
Tremble, ye rogues, and tremble all the nation!
Suppose he takes it in his royal head
To strike your academic idol dead;
Knock down your house, dissolve you in his ire,
And strip you of your boasted title—'squire!
To bend a piece of iron to your will,
You always make that iron hot;
For then it asks but little force and skill—
Its sturdiness is quite forgot:
You always make that iron hot;
For then it asks but little force and skill—
Its sturdiness is quite forgot:
But lo! it is quite otherwise with man!
Make him red-hot, and bend him as you can:
So widely diff'rent are the metals,
Composing man, or kings indeed, and kettles!
Make him red-hot, and bend him as you can:
So widely diff'rent are the metals,
Composing man, or kings indeed, and kettles!
Oft has he left his queen and Windsor tow'rs,
Oft from the fascinating dairy flown,
To raise the arts with all his mighty pow'rs,
And hold high converse with the folks of town:
Oft from the fascinating dairy flown,
To raise the arts with all his mighty pow'rs,
And hold high converse with the folks of town:
From lofty Carthage thus, by Jove's decree,
On nobler works than those of love, intent,
Æneas from the widow Dido went,
And full of piety, put off to sea!
On nobler works than those of love, intent,
Æneas from the widow Dido went,
And full of piety, put off to sea!
Vain of you academic honours, vain,
I say agen,
Idly you deem'd yourselves the first of men;
And then
You spurn'd the hand which rais'd you into notice—
By all the gods, unfortunately, so 'tis!
I say agen,
Idly you deem'd yourselves the first of men;
And then
You spurn'd the hand which rais'd you into notice—
By all the gods, unfortunately, so 'tis!
Full oft, by Fortune, man is play'd a trick;
Too often ruin'd by her glitt'ring toys,
Just like the candle's luckless wick
Surrounded by the lustre that destroys.
Too often ruin'd by her glitt'ring toys,
Just like the candle's luckless wick
Surrounded by the lustre that destroys.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |