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] |  |
199
ODE X.
‘Man may be happy, if he will:’
I've said it often, and I think so still:
Doctrine to make the million stare!
Know then, each mortal is an actual Jove;
Can brew what weather he shall most approve,
Or wind, or calm, or foul, or fair.
I've said it often, and I think so still:
Doctrine to make the million stare!
Know then, each mortal is an actual Jove;
Can brew what weather he shall most approve,
Or wind, or calm, or foul, or fair.
But here's the mischief—man's an ass, I say;
Too fond of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain;
He hides the charming, cheerful ray
That spreads a smile o'er hill and plain:
Dark, he must court the scull, and spade, and shroud—
The mistress of his soul must be a cloud!
Too fond of thunder, lightning, storm, and rain;
He hides the charming, cheerful ray
That spreads a smile o'er hill and plain:
Dark, he must court the scull, and spade, and shroud—
The mistress of his soul must be a cloud!
Who told him that he must be curs'd on earth?—
The God of Nature?—No such thing:
Heav'n whisper'd him, the moment of his birth,
‘Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing;
Don't be too wise, and be an ape:—
In colours let thy soul be dress'd, not crape.
The God of Nature?—No such thing:
Heav'n whisper'd him, the moment of his birth,
‘Don't cry, my lad, but dance and sing;
Don't be too wise, and be an ape:—
In colours let thy soul be dress'd, not crape.
‘Roses shall smooth life's journey, and adorn;
Yet, mind me—if, through want of grace,
Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face,
Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn.’
Yet, mind me—if, through want of grace,
Thou mean'st to fling the blessing in my face,
Thou hast full leave to tread upon a thorn.’
Yet some there are, of men I think the worst,
Poor imps, unhappy if they can't be curs'd—
For ever brooding over Mis'ry's eggs,
As though life's pleasure were a deadly sin;
Mousing for ever for a gin
To catch their happinesses by the legs.
Poor imps, unhappy if they can't be curs'd—
For ever brooding over Mis'ry's eggs,
As though life's pleasure were a deadly sin;
Mousing for ever for a gin
To catch their happinesses by the legs.
Ev'n at a dinner, some will be unbless'd,
However good the viands, and well dress'd:
They always come to table with a scowl,
Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish,
Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish,
Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.
However good the viands, and well dress'd:
200
Squint with a face of verjuice o'er each dish,
Fault the poor flesh, and quarrel with the fish,
Curse cook and wife, and, loathing, eat and growl.
A cart-load, lo, their stomachs steal,
Yet swear they cannot make a meal.
I like not the blue-devil hunting crew,
I hate to drop the discontented jaw,
O let me Nature's simple smile pursue,
And pick ev'n pleasure from a straw!
Yet swear they cannot make a meal.
I like not the blue-devil hunting crew,
I hate to drop the discontented jaw,
O let me Nature's simple smile pursue,
And pick ev'n pleasure from a straw!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |