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] |  |
ODE.
Simplicity, I doat upon thy tongue;
And thee, O white-rob'd Truth, I've rev'renc'd long—
I'm fond too of that flashy varlet Wit,
Who skims earth, sea, heav'n, hell, existence o'er,
To put the merry table in a roar,
And shake the sides with laugh-convulsing fit.
And thee, O white-rob'd Truth, I've rev'renc'd long—
I'm fond too of that flashy varlet Wit,
Who skims earth, sea, heav'n, hell, existence o'er,
To put the merry table in a roar,
And shake the sides with laugh-convulsing fit.
O yes! in sweet Simplicity I glory—
To her we owe a charming little story.
To her we owe a charming little story.
WILLIAM PENN, NATHAN, AND THE BAILIFF; A TALE.
AS well as I can recollect,
It is a story of fam'd William Penn,
By bailiffs oft beset, without effect,
Like numbers of our lords and gentlemen—
It is a story of fam'd William Penn,
By bailiffs oft beset, without effect,
Like numbers of our lords and gentlemen—
380
William had got a private hole to spy
The folks who came with writs, or ‘How d'ye do?’
Possessing, too, a penetrating eye,
Friends from his foes the quaker quickly knew.
The folks who came with writs, or ‘How d'ye do?’
Possessing, too, a penetrating eye,
Friends from his foes the quaker quickly knew.
A bailiff in disguise one day,
Though not disguis'd to our friend Will,
Came, to Will's shoulder compliments to pay,
Conceal'd, the catchpole thought, with wondrous skill.
Though not disguis'd to our friend Will,
Came, to Will's shoulder compliments to pay,
Conceal'd, the catchpole thought, with wondrous skill.
Boldly he knock'd at William's door,
Drest like a gentleman from top to toe,
Expecting quick admittance, to be sure—
But no!
Drest like a gentleman from top to toe,
Expecting quick admittance, to be sure—
But no!
Will's servant Nathan, with a strait-hair'd head,
Unto the window gravely stalk'd, not ran—
‘Master at home?’ the bailiff sweetly said—
‘Thou canst not speak to him,’ replied the man.
Unto the window gravely stalk'd, not ran—
‘Master at home?’ the bailiff sweetly said—
‘Thou canst not speak to him,’ replied the man.
‘What,’ quoth the bailiff, ‘won't he see me then?’
‘Nay,’ snuffled Nathan, ‘let it not thus strike thee;
Know, verily, that William Penn
Hath seen thee, but he doth not like thee.’
‘Nay,’ snuffled Nathan, ‘let it not thus strike thee;
Know, verily, that William Penn
Hath seen thee, but he doth not like thee.’
381
TO A FLY,
TAKEN OUT OF A BOWL OF PUNCH.
Ah! poor intoxicated little knave,
Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipp'd soul—
Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.
Now senseless, floating on the fragrant wave;
Why not content the cakes alone to munch?
Dearly thou pay'st for buzzing round the bowl;
Lost to the world, thou busy sweet-lipp'd soul—
Thus Death, as well as Pleasure, dwells with Punch.
Now let me take thee out, and moralize—
Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies,
For ever hankering after Pleasure's cup:
Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand,
But in goes every nose—they must, will sup.
Thus 'tis with mortals, as it is with flies,
For ever hankering after Pleasure's cup:
Though Fate, with all his legions, be at hand,
The beasts, the draught of Circe can't withstand,
But in goes every nose—they must, will sup.
Mad are the passions, as a colt untam'd!
When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild,
They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflam'd,
Insisting on their own sole will so wild.
When Prudence mounts their backs to ride them mild,
They fling, they snort, they foam, they rise inflam'd,
Insisting on their own sole will so wild.
Gadsbud! my buzzing friend, thou art not dead;
The Fates, so kind, have not yet snipp'd thy thread—
By heav'ns, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother,
And kicking, lo, again thou mov'st another!
The Fates, so kind, have not yet snipp'd thy thread—
By heav'ns, thou mov'st a leg, and now its brother,
And kicking, lo, again thou mov'st another!
And now thy little drunken eyes unclose;
And now thou feelest for thy little nose,
And finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands;
Much as to say, ‘I'm glad I'm here again’—
And well mayst thou rejoice—'tis very plain,
That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.
And now thou feelest for thy little nose,
And finding it, thou rubbest thy two hands;
Much as to say, ‘I'm glad I'm here again’—
And well mayst thou rejoice—'tis very plain,
That near wert thou to Death's unsocial lands.
382
And now thou rollest on thy back about,
Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt—
Now turnest—on the table making rings;
Now crawlihg, forming a wet track,
Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back,
Now flutt'ring nectar from thy silken wings
Happy to find thyself alive, no doubt—
Now turnest—on the table making rings;
Now crawlihg, forming a wet track,
Now shaking the rich liquor from thy back,
Now flutt'ring nectar from thy silken wings
Now standing on thy head, thy strength to find,
And poking out thy small, long legs behind:
And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;
Preparing now to leave me—farewell, Fly!
And poking out thy small, long legs behind:
And now thy pinions dost thou briskly ply;
Preparing now to leave me—farewell, Fly!
Go, join thy brothers on yon sunny board,
And rapture to thy family afford—
There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream;
Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream,
And now sits groaning for thy precious life.
And rapture to thy family afford—
There wilt thou meet a mistress, or a wife,
That saw thee drunk, drop senseless in the stream;
Who gave, perhaps, the wide-resounding scream,
And now sits groaning for thy precious life.
Yes, go, and carry comfort to thy friends,
And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.
And wisely tell them thy imprudence ends.
Let buns and sugar for the future charm;
These will delight, and feed, and work no harm—
Whilst Punch, the grinning merry imp of sin—
Invites th' unwary wand'rer to a kiss,
Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss,
Then, like an alligator, drags him in.
These will delight, and feed, and work no harm—
Whilst Punch, the grinning merry imp of sin—
Invites th' unwary wand'rer to a kiss,
Smiles in his face, as though he meant him bliss,
Then, like an alligator, drags him in.
383
ELEGY TO THE FLEAS OF TENERIFFE.
Written in the Year 1768, at Santa Cruz, in Company with a Son of the late Admiral Boscawen, at the House of Mr. Mackerrick, a Merchant of that Place.
Ye hopping natives of a hard, hard bed,
Whose bones, perchaunce, may ache as well as ours,
O let us rest in peace the weary head,
This night—the first we ventur'd to your bow'rs.
Whose bones, perchaunce, may ache as well as ours,
O let us rest in peace the weary head,
This night—the first we ventur'd to your bow'rs.
Thick as a flock of starlings on our skins,
Ye turn at once to brown, the lily's white;
Ye stab us also, like so many pins—
Sleep swears he can't come near us whilst ye bite.
Ye turn at once to brown, the lily's white;
Ye stab us also, like so many pins—
Sleep swears he can't come near us whilst ye bite.
In vain we preach—in vain the candle's ray
Broad flashes on the imps, for blood that itch—
In vain we brush the busy hosts away;
Fearless on other parts their thousands pitch.
Broad flashes on the imps, for blood that itch—
In vain we brush the busy hosts away;
Fearless on other parts their thousands pitch.
And now I hear a hungry varlet cry,
‘Eat hearty, fleas—they're some outlandish men—
Fat stuff—no Spaniards all so lean and dry—
Such charming ven'son ne'er may come agen.’
‘Eat hearty, fleas—they're some outlandish men—
Fat stuff—no Spaniards all so lean and dry—
Such charming ven'son ne'er may come agen.’
How shall we meet the morn?—With shameful eyes!
With nibbled hands, and eke with nibbled faces,
Just like two turkey-eggs, we speckled rise,
Scorn'd by the Loves, and mock'd by all the Graces.
With nibbled hands, and eke with nibbled faces,
Just like two turkey-eggs, we speckled rise,
Scorn'd by the Loves, and mock'd by all the Graces.
384
What will the stately nymph, Joanna
, say?
How will the beauteous Catherina stare!
‘Away, ye nasty Britons—foh! away,’
In sounds of horror will exclaim the fair.
How will the beauteous Catherina stare!
‘Away, ye nasty Britons—foh! away,’
In sounds of horror will exclaim the fair.
What though we tell them 'twas Mackerrick's
bed?
What though we swear 'twere all Mackerrick's fleas?
Disgusted will the virgins turn the head;
No more we kiss their fingers on our knees.
What though we swear 'twere all Mackerrick's fleas?
Disgusted will the virgins turn the head;
No more we kiss their fingers on our knees.
No more our groaning verses greet their hand;
No more they listen to our panting prose;
No more beneath their window shall we stand,
And serenade their beauties to repose.
No more they listen to our panting prose;
No more beneath their window shall we stand,
And serenade their beauties to repose.
The conversationi
meet their end;
The love-inspir'd fandango warms no more!
The laugh, the nod, the whisper, will offend;
The leer, the squint, the squeezes, all be o'er.
The love-inspir'd fandango warms no more!
The laugh, the nod, the whisper, will offend;
The leer, the squint, the squeezes, all be o'er.
But, O ye ruthless hosts, an Arab train,
Ye daring light troops of that roving race,
Know ye the strangers whom with blood ye stain?
Know ye the voyagers ye thus disgrace?
Ye daring light troops of that roving race,
Know ye the strangers whom with blood ye stain?
Know ye the voyagers ye thus disgrace?
One is a doctor, of redoubted skill,
A Briton born, that dauntless deals in death;
Who to the Western Ind proceeds to kill,
And, probably, of thousands stop the breath:
A Briton born, that dauntless deals in death;
Who to the Western Ind proceeds to kill,
And, probably, of thousands stop the breath:
A bard, whose wing of thought, and verse of fire,
Shall bid with wonder all Parnassus start;
A bard, whose converse monarchs shall admire,
And, happy, learn his lofty odes by heart
Shall bid with wonder all Parnassus start;
A bard, whose converse monarchs shall admire,
And, happy, learn his lofty odes by heart
385
The other, lo, a pupil rare of Mars,
A youth who kindles with a father's flame;
Boscawen call'd, who fought a kingdom's wars,
And gave to Immortality a name.
A youth who kindles with a father's flame;
Boscawen call'd, who fought a kingdom's wars,
And gave to Immortality a name.
Lo, such are we, freebooters, whom ye bite!
Such is our British quality, O fleas!—
Then spare our tender skins this one, one night—
To-morrow eat Mackerrick, if ye please
Such is our British quality, O fleas!—
Then spare our tender skins this one, one night—
To-morrow eat Mackerrick, if ye please
386
ODE TO MESSIEURS TOWNSEND, MACMANUS, AND JEALOUS, The Thief-takers, and Attendants on Majesty.
[_]
The present unnatural and fatal Enmity towards those best Creatures in the World, Kings and Queens, putting our most august Couple more on their Guard against evil Machinations, by selecting Mr. Townsend, Mr. Mackmanus, and Mr. Jealous, the most accomplished Thief-takers upon Earth, to watch over them as a Garde de Corps; such an important Circumstance, so illuminative of the historical Page, could not escape the Eagle Eye of the Lyric Bard, who, in consequence, has addressed an Ode of Praise and Admonition to the three aforesaid Gentlemen.
Ye friends to Justice Gibbet, Justice Jail,
And Justice Cart's slow-moving tail,
Accept the bard's sincere congratulation—
Ye glorious imps, of thief-suppressing spirit,
Elected, for your most heroic merit,
The guardians of the rulers of the nation.
And Justice Cart's slow-moving tail,
Accept the bard's sincere congratulation—
Ye glorious imps, of thief-suppressing spirit,
Elected, for your most heroic merit,
The guardians of the rulers of the nation.
387
When Blood, that enterprising chap,
Attempted only on the crown a rape,
Pale Horror rais'd her hands, and roll'd her eyes—
But should some knave, with fingers most unclean,
Attempt to steal away our king and queen,
How would the empire in disorder rise!
Attempted only on the crown a rape,
Pale Horror rais'd her hands, and roll'd her eyes—
But should some knave, with fingers most unclean,
Attempt to steal away our king and queen,
How would the empire in disorder rise!
Just like the nations of the honied hive,
Who, if they lose their sov'reign, never thrive.
Who, if they lose their sov'reign, never thrive.
At midnight, lo, some knave might steal so sly,
In silence, on the royal sleepy eye,
And, giving to his sacrilege a loose,
Bear off the mighty monarch on his back,
Just as sly Reynard, in his night attack,
Bears from the farmer's yard a gentle goose.
In silence, on the royal sleepy eye,
And, giving to his sacrilege a loose,
Bear off the mighty monarch on his back,
Just as sly Reynard, in his night attack,
Bears from the farmer's yard a gentle goose.
Ye glorious thief-takers, O watch the pair;
We cannot such a precious couple spare—
O, cat-like, guard the door against Tom Paine!
Tom Paine's an artful and rebellious dog,
Swears that a sacred throne is but a log,
And monarchs too expensive to maintain.
We cannot such a precious couple spare—
O, cat-like, guard the door against Tom Paine!
Tom Paine's an artful and rebellious dog,
Swears that a sacred throne is but a log,
And monarchs too expensive to maintain.
I know their majesties are in a fright;
I know they very badly sleep at night—
Tom Paine's indeed a most terrific word;
A name of fear, that sounds in ev'ry wind,
A goblin damn'd, that haunts the royal mind;
Of Damocles, the hair-suspended sword.
I know they very badly sleep at night—
Tom Paine's indeed a most terrific word;
A name of fear, that sounds in ev'ry wind,
A goblin damn'd, that haunts the royal mind;
Of Damocles, the hair-suspended sword.
Why should our glorious sov'reigns be unblest?
Why by a paltry subject be distrest?
Is there no poison for Tom Paine?—alas!
Is there no halter for this knave of knaves?
Audacious fellow! lo, the crown he braves,
And calls the kingdom a poor burden'd ass.
Why by a paltry subject be distrest?
Is there no poison for Tom Paine?—alas!
Is there no halter for this knave of knaves?
Audacious fellow! lo, the crown he braves,
And calls the kingdom a poor burden'd ass.
For this poor burden'd ass, he swears he feels,
And bids him lift, a regicide, his heels.
And bids him lift, a regicide, his heels.
What a bright thought in George and Charlotte,
Who, to escape each wicked varlet,
And disappoint Tom Paine's disloyal crew,
Fix'd on the brave Macmanus, Townsend, Jealous,
Delightful company, delicious fellows,
To point out, ev'ry minute, who is who!
Who, to escape each wicked varlet,
388
Fix'd on the brave Macmanus, Townsend, Jealous,
Delightful company, delicious fellows,
To point out, ev'ry minute, who is who!
To hustle from before their noble graces,
Rascals with ill-looking designing faces,
Where treason, murder, and sedition dwell;
To give the life of ev'ry Newgate wretch;
To say who next the fatal cord shall stretch—
The sweet historians of the pensive cell.
Rascals with ill-looking designing faces,
Where treason, murder, and sedition dwell;
To give the life of ev'ry Newgate wretch;
To say who next the fatal cord shall stretch—
The sweet historians of the pensive cell.
O with what joy felonious acts ye view!
How pleas'd, a thief or highwayman to hunt!
Blest as Cornwallis Tippoo to pursue;
Blest as old Purs'ram Bhow, and Hurry Punt!
How pleas'd, a thief or highwayman to hunt!
Blest as Cornwallis Tippoo to pursue;
Blest as old Purs'ram Bhow, and Hurry Punt!
How itch your fingers to entrap a thief!
How nimbly you pursue him!—with what soul
Track him from haunt to haunt, to mercy deaf,
And drag at last the felon from his hole!
How nimbly you pursue him!—with what soul
Track him from haunt to haunt, to mercy deaf,
And drag at last the felon from his hole!
Thus when a chamber-maid a flea espies,
How beats her heart! what lightnings fill her eyes!
To seize him, lo, her twinkling fingers spread,
And stop his travels through the realm of bed.
How beats her heart! what lightnings fill her eyes!
To seize him, lo, her twinkling fingers spread,
And stop his travels through the realm of bed.
He hops—the eager damsel marks the jump;
Now sudden falls in thunder on his rump—
She misses—off hops bloodsucker again:
The nymph with wild alacrity pursues;
Now loses sight of him, and now gets views,
Whilst all her trembling nerves with ardour strain.
Now sudden falls in thunder on his rump—
She misses—off hops bloodsucker again:
The nymph with wild alacrity pursues;
Now loses sight of him, and now gets views,
Whilst all her trembling nerves with ardour strain.
Now fairly tir'd, with melancholy face,
Poor sighing Susan quits th' important chase:—
Once more resolv'd, she brightens up her wits,
And, furious, to her lovely fingers spits—
Thrice happy thought! yet, not to flatter,
'Tis not the cleanliest trick in nature.
Poor sighing Susan quits th' important chase:—
Once more resolv'd, she brightens up her wits,
And, furious, to her lovely fingers spits—
Thrice happy thought! yet, not to flatter,
'Tis not the cleanliest trick in nature.
Now in the blanket deep she sees him hide,
Who, winking, fancieth Susan cannot see;
Now Susan drags him forth, with victor pride,
The culprit crusheth; and thus falls the flea!
Who, winking, fancieth Susan cannot see;
389
The culprit crusheth; and thus falls the flea!
What pity 'tis for this important nation,
The princes all have had their education!
What pounds on Gottingen were thrown away!
How had ye moraliz'd their youngling hearts!
How had ye giv'n an insight of the arts,
So necessary, sirs, for sov'reign sway!
The princes all have had their education!
What pounds on Gottingen were thrown away!
How had ye moraliz'd their youngling hearts!
How had ye giv'n an insight of the arts,
So necessary, sirs, for sov'reign sway!
Cunning's a pretty monitor for kings;
She teacheth most extraordinary things;
She keepeth subjects in their proper sphere;
She brings that fool, the million, tame to hand,
To dance, to kneel, to prostrate at command—
A kingdom is a monarch's dancing bear.
By means of this same humble capering beast,
What royal showmen fill their fobs, and feast.
She teacheth most extraordinary things;
She keepeth subjects in their proper sphere;
She brings that fool, the million, tame to hand,
To dance, to kneel, to prostrate at command—
A kingdom is a monarch's dancing bear.
By means of this same humble capering beast,
What royal showmen fill their fobs, and feast.
O tell the world's great masters, not to spare—
A subject's murmur is beneath their care:
When well accustomed to the busy thong,
Flogging's a matter of mere sport—a song.
A subject's murmur is beneath their care:
When well accustomed to the busy thong,
Flogging's a matter of mere sport—a song.
All know the tale of Betty and the eel—
‘You cruel b---h (a man was heard to say)
To serve poor creatures in that horrid way!’
‘Lord, sir,’ quoth Betty, turning on her heel,
‘The eels are us'd to it!’—so saying,
And humming ça ira, continued flaying.
‘You cruel b---h (a man was heard to say)
To serve poor creatures in that horrid way!’
‘Lord, sir,’ quoth Betty, turning on her heel,
‘The eels are us'd to it!’—so saying,
And humming ça ira, continued flaying.
O how I envy you each happy name!
Time shall not eat the mountain of your fame;
For thus myself your epitaph shall write,
And dare the vile old stone-eater to bite.
Time shall not eat the mountain of your fame;
For thus myself your epitaph shall write,
And dare the vile old stone-eater to bite.
THE EPITAPH.
‘Here lie three crimps of death, knock'd down by Fate;Of justice the staunch blood-hounds too, so keen;
Who chok'd the little plund'rers of the state,
And, glorious, sav'd a mighty king and queen.’
390
BEHOLD, the guards, so disappointed, mourn!
With jealousy their glorious bosoms burn,
To find by you, dread sirs, usurp'd their places:
‘What! not the regiments of Death be trusted!
By thief-takers, O Jesu! to be ousted!
Thief-catchers gardes de corps unto their graces!’
With jealousy their glorious bosoms burn,
To find by you, dread sirs, usurp'd their places:
‘What! not the regiments of Death be trusted!
By thief-takers, O Jesu! to be ousted!
Thief-catchers gardes de corps unto their graces!’
Thus, thus exclaim the angry men in red,
Who, with their swords and guns, may go to bed.
Who, with their swords and guns, may go to bed.
Gods! how I envy our great folk their joys!
Your tales of house-breakers, those nightly curses;
Of heroes of the heath, Saint Giles's boys;
Hist'ries of pocket-handkerchiefs and purses.
Your tales of house-breakers, those nightly curses;
Of heroes of the heath, Saint Giles's boys;
Hist'ries of pocket-handkerchiefs and purses.
O for minds-royal, what delightful food!
Stories surpassing those of Robin Hood.
Stories surpassing those of Robin Hood.
Sweet are of slight-hand Barrington the tales;
Of changeful Major Semple, charming too!
Delicious story through each hulk prevails,
Full of instruction, pleasant, sage, and new.
Of changeful Major Semple, charming too!
Delicious story through each hulk prevails,
Full of instruction, pleasant, sage, and new.
Hence the pure streams of thieving science flow,
Which through your mouths to gaping monarchs go;
And frequently the royal gaze, ye greet
With curious instruments, for robbing mete.
Which through your mouths to gaping monarchs go;
And frequently the royal gaze, ye greet
With curious instruments, for robbing mete.
Who would not wish to see the gliding crook,
With whom the purses oft in silence stray?
Who would not on the tools with rapture look,
That from post-chaises snap the trunks away?
With whom the purses oft in silence stray?
Who would not on the tools with rapture look,
That from post-chaises snap the trunks away?
Who would not ope false dice, ingenious bones?
A curious speculation, worthy thrones.
A curious speculation, worthy thrones.
Laugh the loud world, and let it laugh again;
The great of Windsor shall such mirth disdain—
In days of yore, dull days, insipid things
Kings trusted only to a people's love—
But modern times in politics improve,
And Bow-street runners are the shields of kings.
The great of Windsor shall such mirth disdain—
In days of yore, dull days, insipid things
Kings trusted only to a people's love—
But modern times in politics improve,
And Bow-street runners are the shields of kings.
391
ODE TO CÆLIA.
Envy must own that thou art passing fair;
Love in thy smiles, and Juno in thy air:
Yet, Cælia, if with gods I may be free,
I think that Jove commits a sort of sin,
By stripping all the Graces to the skin,
Merely to make a nonpareille of thee.
Love in thy smiles, and Juno in thy air:
Yet, Cælia, if with gods I may be free,
I think that Jove commits a sort of sin,
By stripping all the Graces to the skin,
Merely to make a nonpareille of thee.
Cælia, thou knowest too that thou art pleasing;
Most spider-like, the hearts of mortals seizing;
And what too maketh me confounded sour,
Thou knowest what I wish to hide,
Which rather mortifies my pride,
That I'm a simple fly, and in thy pow'r.
Most spider-like, the hearts of mortals seizing;
And what too maketh me confounded sour,
Thou knowest what I wish to hide,
Which rather mortifies my pride,
That I'm a simple fly, and in thy pow'r.
When Nature sent thee blooming from above,
She meant thee to support the cause of love;
To keep alive a beautiful creation—
Thy graces hoarded, girl, thou must be told,
Are really like the sordid miser's gold,
Worthless, for want of circulation.
She meant thee to support the cause of love;
To keep alive a beautiful creation—
Thy graces hoarded, girl, thou must be told,
Are really like the sordid miser's gold,
Worthless, for want of circulation.
Behold! a guinea, by a proper use,
Another pretty guinea will produce;
And thus, O peerless girl, thy beauty
May bring thee cent. per cent. within the year;
That is, another beauty may appear,
If properly it minds its duty.
Another pretty guinea will produce;
And thus, O peerless girl, thy beauty
May bring thee cent. per cent. within the year;
That is, another beauty may appear,
If properly it minds its duty.
Of wonder, lo, thou puttest on the stare—
It seems a dark and intricate affair;
Thou wantest a good, able, sound adviser—
Well, then, my dear, at once agree,
As chamber-counsel to take me;
I know none better qualified, nor wiser.
It seems a dark and intricate affair;
Thou wantest a good, able, sound adviser—
Well, then, my dear, at once agree,
As chamber-counsel to take me;
I know none better qualified, nor wiser.
392
AN ODE TO A PRETTY MILLINER.
O nymph, with bandbox tripping on so sweet,
For Love's sake stay those pretty tripping feet,
Join'd to an ancle, form'd all hearts to steal—
That ancle to the neatest leg united,
Perhaps—with which I should be much delighted
For men by little matters guess a deal—
For Love's sake stay those pretty tripping feet,
Join'd to an ancle, form'd all hearts to steal—
That ancle to the neatest leg united,
Perhaps—with which I should be much delighted
For men by little matters guess a deal—
Love lent thee lips, and lent that bloom divine—
But, dearest damsel, what can make them mine?
Heav'n rests upon those heaving hills of snow;
The fascinating dimple in thy chin;
In short, thy charms without, and charms within,
Speak, are they purchasable?—aye, or no?
But, dearest damsel, what can make them mine?
Heav'n rests upon those heaving hills of snow;
The fascinating dimple in thy chin;
In short, thy charms without, and charms within,
Speak, are they purchasable?—aye, or no?
Thou seest my soul wild staring from my eyes;
Let me not burst in ignorance, fair maid—
Why showest thou, O peerless nymph, surprise?
I am no wolf to eat thee—why afraid?
Let me not burst in ignorance, fair maid—
Why showest thou, O peerless nymph, surprise?
I am no wolf to eat thee—why afraid?
O could I gain by gold those heav'nly charms?
Could gold once give thee to my eager arms,
Lo, into guineas would I coin my heart;
Those would I pour pell-mell into thy lap,
With thee to wake to love, and then to nap,
Then wake again—again to sleep depart.
Could gold once give thee to my eager arms,
Lo, into guineas would I coin my heart;
Those would I pour pell-mell into thy lap,
With thee to wake to love, and then to nap,
Then wake again—again to sleep depart.
All happy circled in thy arms of bliss;
To snatch, with riot wild, thy burning kiss;
A kiss!—a thousand kisses let me add—
Ten thousand from thy unexhausted mint,
And then ten thousand of my own imprint—
Speak, tempting Syren, to a swain stark mad.
To snatch, with riot wild, thy burning kiss;
A kiss!—a thousand kisses let me add—
Ten thousand from thy unexhausted mint,
And then ten thousand of my own imprint—
Speak, tempting Syren, to a swain stark mad.
Heav'ns! o'er thy cheek how deep the crimson glows,
And spreads upon thy breast of purest snows!
Why mute, my angel? thou disdain'st reply?
'Sdeath! what a cuckoo, what a rogue am I!
And spreads upon thy breast of purest snows!
393
'Sdeath! what a cuckoo, what a rogue am I!
O nymph, so sweet, forgive my wild desires;
That knave, thy bandbox, wak'd my lawless fires,
Bade me suspect what Chastity reveres:—
What will wipe out th' affront, O virgin, speak,
That flush'd the rose of virtue on thy cheek,
Chill'd thy young heart, and dash'd thine eye with tears?
That knave, thy bandbox, wak'd my lawless fires,
Bade me suspect what Chastity reveres:—
What will wipe out th' affront, O virgin, speak,
That flush'd the rose of virtue on thy cheek,
Chill'd thy young heart, and dash'd thine eye with tears?
Go, guard that honour which I deem'd departed—
O yield thy beauties to some swain kind-hearted,
Whose soul congenial shall with thine unite,
And Love allow no respite from delight.
O yield thy beauties to some swain kind-hearted,
Whose soul congenial shall with thine unite,
And Love allow no respite from delight.
A MORAL AFTER-THOUGHT ON THE ABOVE.
DEAR Innocence, where'er thou deign'st to dwell,
The Pleasures sport around thy simple cell;
The song of Nature melts from grove to grove;
Perpetual sunshine sits upon thy vale;
Content and ruddy Health thy hamlet hail,
And Echo waits upon the voice of Love.
The Pleasures sport around thy simple cell;
The song of Nature melts from grove to grove;
Perpetual sunshine sits upon thy vale;
Content and ruddy Health thy hamlet hail,
And Echo waits upon the voice of Love.
But where—but where is scowling Guilt's abode?
The spectred heath, and Danger's cavern'd road;
The shuffling monster treads with panting breath;
The cloud-wrapp'd storm insulting roars around,
Fear pales him at the thunder's awful sound,
He stares with horror on the flash of death.
The spectred heath, and Danger's cavern'd road;
The shuffling monster treads with panting breath;
The cloud-wrapp'd storm insulting roars around,
Fear pales him at the thunder's awful sound,
He stares with horror on the flash of death.
He calls on Darkness with affright,
And bids her pour her deepest night;
Her clouds impenetrable bring,
And hide him with her raven wing!
And bids her pour her deepest night;
Her clouds impenetrable bring,
And hide him with her raven wing!
Are these the pictures? Then I need not muse,
Nor gape, nor ponder which to choose—
O Innocence, this instant I'm thy slave—
What but the greatest fool would be a knave?
Nor gape, nor ponder which to choose—
O Innocence, this instant I'm thy slave—
What but the greatest fool would be a knave?
394
A LYRIC EPISTLE TO SIR WILLIAM HAMILTON.
Sir William! what, a new estate!
I give thee joy of Gabia's fate—
More broken pans, more gods, more mugs,
More snivel bottles, jordens, and old jugs,
More saucepans, lamps, and candlesticks, and kettles,
In short, all sorts of culinary metals!
I give thee joy of Gabia's fate—
More broken pans, more gods, more mugs,
More snivel bottles, jordens, and old jugs,
More saucepans, lamps, and candlesticks, and kettles,
In short, all sorts of culinary metals!
Leave not a dust-hole unexplor'd;
Something shall rise to be ador'd—
Search the old bedsteads and the rugs;
Such things are sacred—if, by chance,
Amidst the wood, thine eye should glance
On a nice pair of antique bugs;
Something shall rise to be ador'd—
Search the old bedsteads and the rugs;
Such things are sacred—if, by chance,
Amidst the wood, thine eye should glance
On a nice pair of antique bugs;
Oh, in some box the curious vermin place,
And let us Britons breed the Roman race!
And let us Britons breed the Roman race!
Old nails, old knockers, and old shoes,
Would much Daines Barrington amuse;
Old mats, old dish-clouts, dripping-pans, and spits,
Would prove delectable to other wits;
Gods' legs, and legs of old joint stools,
Would ravish all our antiquarian schools.
Would much Daines Barrington amuse;
Old mats, old dish-clouts, dripping-pans, and spits,
Would prove delectable to other wits;
Gods' legs, and legs of old joint stools,
Would ravish all our antiquarian schools.
395
Some rev'rend moth, with ne'er a wing,
Would charm the knight of Soho-square:
A headless flea would be a pretty thing,
To make the knight of wonders stare.
Would charm the knight of Soho-square:
A headless flea would be a pretty thing,
To make the knight of wonders stare.
A curl of some old emp'ror's wig,
Or Nero's fiddle, 'mid the flames of Rome,
That gave so exquisite a jig,
Believe me, would be well worth sending home.
Or Nero's fiddle, 'mid the flames of Rome,
That gave so exquisite a jig,
Believe me, would be well worth sending home.
Oh, if some lumping rarity of gold,
Thy lucky lucky eyes by chance behold,
Send it to our good k*** and gracious q****:
No matter what th' inscription—if there's none,
'Tis all one!
Plain gold will please, as well as work'd, I ween—
Much will the present their great eyes regale,
Let it but cut a figure in the scale.
Thy lucky lucky eyes by chance behold,
Send it to our good k*** and gracious q****:
No matter what th' inscription—if there's none,
'Tis all one!
Plain gold will please, as well as work'd, I ween—
Much will the present their great eyes regale,
Let it but cut a figure in the scale.
Oh! could an earthquake shake down Wapping,
And catch th' inhabitants and goods all napping,
And then a thousand years the ruin shade,
What fortunes would be quickly made!
What rare musæums from the rubbish rise,
Wapping antiquities to glad the eyes!
And catch th' inhabitants and goods all napping,
And then a thousand years the ruin shade,
What fortunes would be quickly made!
What rare musæums from the rubbish rise,
Wapping antiquities to glad the eyes!
How portraits of Moll Flanders, Hannah Snell,
And Miss D'Eon, those heroines, would sell!
Canning and Squires!
How would the dilettanti of the nation
Devour the prints with eyes of admiration!
And to their merits, poets strike their lyres!
And Miss D'Eon, those heroines, would sell!
Canning and Squires!
How would the dilettanti of the nation
Devour the prints with eyes of admiration!
And to their merits, poets strike their lyres!
Sign-posts, with Old Blue Boars, and heads of nags,
Would from the proud possessor draw such brags!
Red Lions, Crowns and Magpies, George the Third;
The Cat and Gridiron, our most gracious Queen,
With rapt'rous adoration would be seen;
They would upon my word.
Such would transport the people of hereafter,
Though subjects now of merriment and laughter.
Would from the proud possessor draw such brags!
Red Lions, Crowns and Magpies, George the Third;
The Cat and Gridiron, our most gracious Queen,
With rapt'rous adoration would be seen;
They would upon my word.
Such would transport the people of hereafter,
Though subjects now of merriment and laughter.
396
POSTSCRIPT (sub rosâ).
HIST!—what fresh ovens of Etrurian ware;
What pretty jordens has my friend to spare?
What gods are ripe for digging up, O knight?
What Britons, knowing in the virtú trade,
Soon as a grand discov'ry shall be made,
Are near thee, gudgeon-like, prepar'd to bite?
What pretty jordens has my friend to spare?
What gods are ripe for digging up, O knight?
What Britons, knowing in the virtú trade,
Soon as a grand discov'ry shall be made,
Are near thee, gudgeon-like, prepar'd to bite?
What brazen god, baptiz'd with chamber lye
,
For which the future connoisseurs may sigh,
Is going into ground, with front sublime?
Hereafter to be worshipp'd soon as seen;
A resurrection rare, array'd in green,
A downright satire upon Time;
Who seems, a poor old fumbling fool, to dote;
Taking two thousand years to make a coat.
For which the future connoisseurs may sigh,
Is going into ground, with front sublime?
Hereafter to be worshipp'd soon as seen;
A resurrection rare, array'd in green,
A downright satire upon Time;
Who seems, a poor old fumbling fool, to dote;
Taking two thousand years to make a coat.
A whisper—lock'd is the Musæum door
From whence antiques were wont to stray;
Whose parents ne'er sat eyes upon them more,
So much the little creatures lost their way?
Pity thou couldst not news of them obtain,
And send the gods and godlings back again!
From whence antiques were wont to stray;
Whose parents ne'er sat eyes upon them more,
So much the little creatures lost their way?
Pity thou couldst not news of them obtain,
And send the gods and godlings back again!
Sir William, what's become of that same monk
,
From whose old corner-cupboard, or old trunk,
Thine hist'ry issued about burning mountains?
For who would toil, and sweat, and hoe the hill,
To find, perhaps, of knowledge a poor rill,
Who easily can buy the fountains?
From whose old corner-cupboard, or old trunk,
397
For who would toil, and sweat, and hoe the hill,
To find, perhaps, of knowledge a poor rill,
Who easily can buy the fountains?
O knight of Naples, is it come to pass,
That thou hast left the gods of stone and brass,
To wed a deity of flesh and blood ?
O lock the temple with thy strongest key,
For fear thy deity, a comely she,
Should one day ramble in a frolic mood.
That thou hast left the gods of stone and brass,
To wed a deity of flesh and blood ?
O lock the temple with thy strongest key,
For fear thy deity, a comely she,
Should one day ramble in a frolic mood.
For since the idols of a youthful king,
So very volatile indeed, take wing;
If his, to wicked wand'rings can incline,
Lord! who would answer, poor old knight, for thine?
Yet should thy Grecian goddess fly the fane,
I think that we may catch her in Hedge-lane .
So very volatile indeed, take wing;
If his, to wicked wand'rings can incline,
Lord! who would answer, poor old knight, for thine?
Yet should thy Grecian goddess fly the fane,
I think that we may catch her in Hedge-lane .
Sir William keeps an old antiquarian to hunt for him, who, when he stumbles on a tolerable statue, bathes him in urine, buries him, and when ripe for digging up, they proclaim a great discovery to be made, and out comes an antique for universal admiration.
Some valuable antiques, not long since, made their escape from the Royal Musæum, and travelled the Lord knows where.
He lived in the neighbourhood of Vesuvius, and furnished the knight with all his volcanic observations, which pass on the world as his own.—Nam quod emis, possis dicere jure tuum.
It is really true—the knight is married to a beautiful virgin, whom he styles his Grecian. Her attitudes are the most desirable models for young artists.
398
EPIGRAM,
On a Stone thrown at a very great Man, but which missed him.
Talk no more of the lucky escape of the head,From a flint so unluckily thrown—
I think very diff'rent, with thousands indeed,
'Twas a lucky escape for the stone.
TO CHLOE.
Dear Chloe, well I know the swain,Who gladly would embrace thy chain;
And who, alas! can blame him?
Affect not, Chloe, a surprise;
Look but a moment on these eyes,
Thou'lt ask me not, to name him.
ON A NEW-MADE LORD.
The carpenters of ancient Greece,Although they bought of wood a stubborn piece,
Not fit to make a block—yet, very odd!
No losers were the men of chipping trade,
Because of this same stubborn stuff they made
A damn'd good god!
399
Whose mind to A, B, C, can scarcely stretch,
Shall, by a monarch's all-creative word,
Become, a very decent lord.
TO MY CANDLE.
Thou lone companion of the spectred night,
I wake amid thy friendly-watchful light,
To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep—
Hark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark,
Hell's genius roams the regions of the dark,
And swells the thund'ring horrors of the deep.
I wake amid thy friendly-watchful light,
To steal a precious hour from lifeless sleep—
Hark, the wild uproar of the winds! and hark,
Hell's genius roams the regions of the dark,
And swells the thund'ring horrors of the deep.
From cloud to cloud the pale moon hurrying flies;
Now blacken'd, and now flashing through her skies.
Now blacken'd, and now flashing through her skies.
But all is silence here—beneath thy beam,
I own I labour for the voice of praise—
For who would sink in dull Oblivion's stream?
Who would not live in songs of distant days?
I own I labour for the voice of praise—
For who would sink in dull Oblivion's stream?
Who would not live in songs of distant days?
Thus while I wond'ring pause o'er Shakespeare's page,
I mark, in visions of delight, the sage,
High o'er the wrecks of man, who stands sublime;
A column in the melancholy waste
(Its cities humbled, and its glories past),
Majestic, 'mid the solitude of time.
Yet now to sadness let me yield the hour—
Yes, let the tears of purest friendship show'r.
I mark, in visions of delight, the sage,
High o'er the wrecks of man, who stands sublime;
A column in the melancholy waste
(Its cities humbled, and its glories past),
Majestic, 'mid the solitude of time.
Yet now to sadness let me yield the hour—
Yes, let the tears of purest friendship show'r.
I view, alas! what ne'er should die,
A form, that wakes my deepest sigh;
A form that feels of death the leaden sleep—
Descending to the realms of shade,
I view a pale-ey'd panting maid;
I see the Virtues o'er their fav'rite weep.
A form, that wakes my deepest sigh;
A form that feels of death the leaden sleep—
Descending to the realms of shade,
I view a pale-ey'd panting maid;
I see the Virtues o'er their fav'rite weep.
400
Ah! could the muse's simple pray'r
Command the envied trump of Fame,
Oblivion should Eliza spare:
A world should echo with her name.
Command the envied trump of Fame,
Oblivion should Eliza spare:
A world should echo with her name.
Art thou departing too, my trembling friend?
Ah! draws thy little lustre to its end?
Yes, on thy frame, Fate too shall fix her seal—
O let me, pensive, watch thy pale decay;
How fast that frame, so tender, wears away!
How fast thy life the restless minutes steal!
Ah! draws thy little lustre to its end?
Yes, on thy frame, Fate too shall fix her seal—
O let me, pensive, watch thy pale decay;
How fast that frame, so tender, wears away!
How fast thy life the restless minutes steal!
How slender now, alas! thy thread of fire!
Ah, falling, falling, ready to expire!
In vain thy struggles—all will soon be o'er—
At life thou snatchest with an eager leap:
Now round I see thy flame so feeble creep,
Faint, less'ning, quiv'ring, glimm'ring—now no more!
Thus shall the suns of science sink away,
And thus of Beauty fade the fairest flow'r—
For where's the giant who to Time shall say,
‘Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy pow'r?’
Ah, falling, falling, ready to expire!
In vain thy struggles—all will soon be o'er—
At life thou snatchest with an eager leap:
Now round I see thy flame so feeble creep,
Faint, less'ning, quiv'ring, glimm'ring—now no more!
Thus shall the suns of science sink away,
And thus of Beauty fade the fairest flow'r—
For where's the giant who to Time shall say,
‘Destructive tyrant, I arrest thy pow'r?’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |