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 |
 | I. |
 | II. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
277
ADDRESS TO THE VIRTUES,
AN ODE.
Ah, Virtues! you are pretty-looking creatures;
But then so meek and feeble in your natures!—
Thou charming Chastity now, par exemple,
Who guard'st the luscious lip, and snowy breast.
And all that maketh wishing shepherds blest,
Forbidding thieves on sacred ground to trample.
But then so meek and feeble in your natures!—
Thou charming Chastity now, par exemple,
Who guard'st the luscious lip, and snowy breast.
And all that maketh wishing shepherds blest,
Forbidding thieves on sacred ground to trample.
Appear but Love, the savage, all is lost;
Faint, trembling, blushing, thou giv'st up the ghost:
Lo, there's an end of all thy mincing care!
The field so guarded, in the tyrant's pow'r;
Each fence torn down, despoil'd each mossy bow'r,
All, all is rudely plunder'd, and laid bare.
Faint, trembling, blushing, thou giv'st up the ghost:
Lo, there's an end of all thy mincing care!
The field so guarded, in the tyrant's pow'r;
Each fence torn down, despoil'd each mossy bow'r,
All, all is rudely plunder'd, and laid bare.
Virtues! you blunder'd on our world, I fear—
Design'd for some more gentle sphere;
Where the wild passions storm ye not, nor tease ye;
Where ev'ry animal's a mild Marchesi.
Design'd for some more gentle sphere;
Where the wild passions storm ye not, nor tease ye;
Where ev'ry animal's a mild Marchesi.
I know your parentage and education—
Born in the skies—a lofty habitation—
But for a perfect system were intended,
Where people never needed to be mended.
Born in the skies—a lofty habitation—
But for a perfect system were intended,
Where people never needed to be mended.
How could you think the passions to withstand,
Those roaring blades, so out of all command,
Whose slightest touch would pull you all to pieces?
They are Goliahs—you but little Misses!
Then pray go home again each pretty dear—
You but disgrace yourselves by coming here.
Those roaring blades, so out of all command,
Whose slightest touch would pull you all to pieces?
They are Goliahs—you but little Misses!
Then pray go home again each pretty dear—
You but disgrace yourselves by coming here.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |