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. |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| I. |
|
| ODE.
|
|
|
|
|
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ODE.
[Life changes—now 'tis calm—now hurricane—]
The Vicissitudes of Life, wonderful!
Life changes—now 'tis calm—now hurricane—
Up, down, down, up—a very windmill's vane
Is man, poor fellow—much too like a ball;
'Tis high, 'tis low—'tis this way now, now that,
Just as its wooden master wills, the bat—
Thus majesty can bid us rise or fall.
Up, down, down, up—a very windmill's vane
Is man, poor fellow—much too like a ball;
'Tis high, 'tis low—'tis this way now, now that,
Just as its wooden master wills, the bat—
Thus majesty can bid us rise or fall.
The monarch may repent him of the deed—
His heart so soft at your dismission bleed,
To House of Buckingham you may be call'd,
And at the queen's sweet little concerts sing;
Then how the tribes of nobles will be gall'd!
This will be soaring on the eagle's wing.
His heart so soft at your dismission bleed,
336
And at the queen's sweet little concerts sing;
Then how the tribes of nobles will be gall'd!
This will be soaring on the eagle's wing.
Thus to the world then be it understood,
What seems misfortune, happens for our good:
This from my rhiming store-house, or my stable,
May be elucidated by a fable.
What seems misfortune, happens for our good:
This from my rhiming store-house, or my stable,
May be elucidated by a fable.
MRS. ROBINSON's HANDKERCHIEF AND JUDGE BULLER's WIG.
A FABLE.
A Handkerchief, that long had press'd,
The snows of Laura's swelling breast,
O'er which fair scene full many a longing lover,
With panting heart, and frequent sighs,
And pretty modest leering eyes,
Had often, often been observ'd to hover—
The snows of Laura's swelling breast,
O'er which fair scene full many a longing lover,
With panting heart, and frequent sighs,
And pretty modest leering eyes,
Had often, often been observ'd to hover—
This handkerchief to Kitty giv'n,
Was forc'd at length to leave its heav'n,
And enter a Jew clothes-man's ample bag—
O what a sad reverse, poor soul!
To sweat in such a horrid hole,
With ev'ry sort of dirty rag!
Was forc'd at length to leave its heav'n,
And enter a Jew clothes-man's ample bag—
O what a sad reverse, poor soul!
To sweat in such a horrid hole,
With ev'ry sort of dirty rag!
‘Pray, who are you?’ the plaintive 'kerchief cry'd,
Perceiving a rough neighbour at her side:
‘You smell as though your master was a pig—
What are you? tell me stinking creature.’—‘Ma'am,’
The hairy neighbour grave replied, ‘I am
The most tremendous great Judge Buller's wig.’
Perceiving a rough neighbour at her side:
‘You smell as though your master was a pig—
What are you? tell me stinking creature.’—‘Ma'am,’
The hairy neighbour grave replied, ‘I am
The most tremendous great Judge Buller's wig.’
‘Indeed sir! O how chang'd our fate!
How diff'rent were we both of late!
Now to be lodg'd in this vile place—
What will become of us at last? O dear,
Something more terrible than this, I fear,
Something that carries huge disgrace.’
How diff'rent were we both of late!
337
What will become of us at last? O dear,
Something more terrible than this, I fear,
Something that carries huge disgrace.’
‘Madam,’ rejoin'd the wig, ‘don't cry;
No cause have you indeed to sigh;
So trust for once a wig's prophetic words—
My fate is to be just the same, I find;
Still for a scarecrow's head design'd,
To frighten all the thieves—the birds.
No cause have you indeed to sigh;
So trust for once a wig's prophetic words—
My fate is to be just the same, I find;
Still for a scarecrow's head design'd,
To frighten all the thieves—the birds.
‘But, luckier, you so chang'd will rise,
A fav'rite of ten thousand eyes:
Not burnt (as you suppos'd perhaps) to tinder;
Chang'd to the whitest paper—happy leaves,
For him, the bard who like a god conceives,
The great, th' immortal Peter Pindar.’
A fav'rite of ten thousand eyes:
Not burnt (as you suppos'd perhaps) to tinder;
Chang'd to the whitest paper—happy leaves,
For him, the bard who like a god conceives,
The great, th' immortal Peter Pindar.’
La, sir, then what a piece of news!
God bless, I say, God bless the Jews—
I wish my dear dear mistress did but know it:
Her hands then I shall happy touch again;
For madam always did maintain
That Mister Pindar was a charming poet.’
God bless, I say, God bless the Jews—
I wish my dear dear mistress did but know it:
Her hands then I shall happy touch again;
For madam always did maintain
That Mister Pindar was a charming poet.’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |