The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

The king (God grace him) wishes you to shine:
He rais'd the building with your cash and mine:
But what is wealth? what thousands? trifling things!
To swell the mighty volume of its fame,
He call'd it royal—thus he gave the name;
Which proveth the munificence of kings—
Heav'ns, what a present! ah, well worth possessing!
Lo! on a level with a bishop's blessing!

Domitian (so says Hist'ry, with a sigh)
Would quit affairs of state, to hunt a fly:
But we have no such trifle-hunting kings—
Europe knows no such miserable things!
Her princes gallop on a larger scale;
No flippant minnow, but the flound'ring whale!

George wishes not to give the dome a grave;
Not to destroy he cometh—but to save:
Not like Dame Nature, who composes forms
The fairest for the fascinated eye;
Then sends her lightnings, floods, and storms,
To bid the beauteous flowrets die!

When once a woman's handsome, smart, and clever,
In God's name let her bloom for ever!

193

Ah! could I snatch Time's ploughshare from his hand,
Who, with that ease a farmer skirts his land,
Furrows so cruelly o'er the fairest face!
Relentless as a Mohawk, on he goes,
Cuts up the lily and the rose,
Roots up each wavy curl, and bends the neck of grace—

Ah! could I simply do but this,
The sweetest lips would give me many a kiss.

By raising, then destroying like a Turk,
It seems as though Time did not like his work;
As though he wanted something better still,
Than e'er was manufactur'd at his mill.

And yet how exquisite, of charms the crop
In Mesdames Johnson's , Kelly's , Windsor's shop,
Or rather hot-house!—Lord, if fond of billing,
What grace, for guineas, we may find!
Nay, in the streets, if cheapness suits our mind,
We purchase Cleopatras for a shilling!

O Beauty, how thou stealest me away!
Born, thou sweet witch, thy poet to beguile!
Thy fool, idolator, by night, by day,
He feels a chain in ev'ry smile.
Thou tyrant of my heart, let go my pen
I must, will speak to academic men.

Sirs! should the royal eagle, from his height,
Dart on your puny forms, his eye of flame,
And wanton, just to exercise his might
(Deeming you no ignoble game),
Should pounce on your owl-backs, so stout,
How would a cloud of feathers fly about!
The thunder of his beak, for falling, ripe—
What figures you would cut within his gripe!

194

This can the king of isles perform—I know it—
Yet, though of pow'r so full, he will not show it.
Too soon your band its weakness would deplore!
A crab in a cow's mouth—no more!

Say, don't you tremble at th' affronted name?
Where lurks the burning blush of shame?
Alas! that symptom of remaining grace
Knows not to tinge an academic face!
Sons of the dev'l like you, rebellious, hear—
It is for kings to burden—us to bear.

I own I've said (and glory in th' advice),
‘Be not, O king, as usual, over-nice:
Dread sire, (to take a phrase from Caliban)
“Bite 'em”—
To pour a heavier vengeance on the clan,
Knight 'em.’

The priestesses of the Cyprian goddess.