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] |  |
415
ODE.
[Let me confess that beauty is delicious]
[_]
ADVERTISEMENT TO THE READER.
Just as I had finished my Epistle, it struck me that his Holiness kept a bad House at Rome— Marvelling Reader, nothing less than a large B*wdy House, from which he derives an Immensity of impure Emolument: so that this great Son of the Church, God's Vicegerent on Earth-taxes female Flesh, winks at Fornication, and consequently promotes the Cause of Carnality. Thus is a great Commandment broken, and Lasciviousness become sanctioned by the Successor of the Apostolic Peter. From this sad Circumstance probably the Bone, Wood, and Metal Conductors of Miracle, like the Electric Machine in foul Weather, will not answer so well; and consequently a Disappointment may attend the Experiments. The Bard therefore wishing the Moral Hemisphere to be as clear as possible, very properly addresses a Pair of reprimanding Odes to his Holiness on the Occasion, in sanguine Hopes of a Reformation.
Let me confess that beauty is delicious:
To clasp it in our arms, is nice—but vicious:
That is to say, unlawful hugs—caresses
Which want those bonds which God Almighty blesses.
I do not say that we should not embrace:
We may—but then it should be done with grace:
The flesh should scarce be thought of—there's the merit:
Sweet are the palpitations of the spirit!
To clasp it in our arms, is nice—but vicious:
That is to say, unlawful hugs—caresses
Which want those bonds which God Almighty blesses.
I do not say that we should not embrace:
We may—but then it should be done with grace:
The flesh should scarce be thought of—there's the merit:
Sweet are the palpitations of the spirit!
Pure are indeed the kisses of th' upright;
So simple, meek, and sanctified, and slight!
Good men so softly press the virgin lip!
But wicked man! what does he, carnal wretch,
With all his horse-like passions on full stretch?
The mouth, sweet cup of kisses, scorns to sip—
So simple, meek, and sanctified, and slight!
Good men so softly press the virgin lip!
But wicked man! what does he, carnal wretch,
With all his horse-like passions on full stretch?
The mouth, sweet cup of kisses, scorns to sip—
But with the spicy nectar waxing warm,
The knave gets drunk upon the pouting charm;
Seizes the damsel round the waist so handy;
And, as I've said before, gets drunk, the beast,
Like aldermen, the guttlers at a feast:
For ladies' lips are cherries steep'd in brandy.
The knave gets drunk upon the pouting charm;
Seizes the damsel round the waist so handy;
And, as I've said before, gets drunk, the beast,
Like aldermen, the guttlers at a feast:
For ladies' lips are cherries steep'd in brandy.
The flaxen ringlets, and the swelling breast;
The cheek of bloom; the lip, delightful nest
Of balmy kisses, moist with rich desires;
The burning blushes; and the panting heart;
The yielding wishes that the eyes impart,
Oft in our bosom kindle glass-house fires.
The cheek of bloom; the lip, delightful nest
Of balmy kisses, moist with rich desires;
The burning blushes; and the panting heart;
The yielding wishes that the eyes impart,
Oft in our bosom kindle glass-house fires.
Oh! shun the tempting nets that Satan spins!
The highest pleasures are the deepest sins!
Woman's a lovely animal, 'tis true—
Too well, indeed, the lawless passions know it:
Unbridled rogues, that wild the charm pursue,
And madly with the scythe of Ruin mow it.
The highest pleasures are the deepest sins!
416
Too well, indeed, the lawless passions know it:
Unbridled rogues, that wild the charm pursue,
And madly with the scythe of Ruin mow it.
Thus giving it of death the wicked wound—
A tender flow'r stretch'd sweetly on the ground!
A tender flow'r stretch'd sweetly on the ground!
‘Ware lark,’ the sportsman to his pointer cries;
Designing him for partridge—nobler game.
As the soul's partridge is the skies,
‘Ware girl,’ should Piety exclaim.
Designing him for partridge—nobler game.
As the soul's partridge is the skies,
‘Ware girl,’ should Piety exclaim.
Blest is the simple man by virtue sway'd,
Who wishful burns not for the blooming maid;
Whose pulses calm as sleeping puppies lie;
Who rusheth not to prey upon her charms,
Full of Love's mad emotions, mad alarms,
Just like a famish'd spider on a fly,
That in the tyrant's claws resigns its breath,
Unhappy humming till it sleeps in death.
Who wishful burns not for the blooming maid;
Whose pulses calm as sleeping puppies lie;
Who rusheth not to prey upon her charms,
Full of Love's mad emotions, mad alarms,
Just like a famish'd spider on a fly,
That in the tyrant's claws resigns its breath,
Unhappy humming till it sleeps in death.
Blest is the man who marks the cherry lip,
And sigheth not the nectar'd sweets to sip,
Nor press the heaving hills of purest snow;
Who marks the love-alluring waist so taper,
Without one wish, or pulse's single caper,
And to his hurrying passions cries out, ‘No!
Stop, if you please, young imps, your hot career,
And shun the precipice of Fate so near;
Draw in, or, with the horses of the sun,
You drive, like Phaëton, to be undone.
And sigheth not the nectar'd sweets to sip,
Nor press the heaving hills of purest snow;
Who marks the love-alluring waist so taper,
Without one wish, or pulse's single caper,
And to his hurrying passions cries out, ‘No!
Stop, if you please, young imps, your hot career,
And shun the precipice of Fate so near;
Draw in, or, with the horses of the sun,
You drive, like Phaëton, to be undone.
O pope, I've heard that, when a friar
(And Fame, in this, is not a liar),
Thou oft didst smuggle beauty to thy cell,
And, 'stead of flogging thy own sinful back,
Didst give a sweet Italian girl the smack—
The smacks indeed of love that lead to Hell.
(And Fame, in this, is not a liar),
Thou oft didst smuggle beauty to thy cell,
And, 'stead of flogging thy own sinful back,
Didst give a sweet Italian girl the smack—
The smacks indeed of love that lead to Hell.
And lo, thou sinner, pope, instead
Of counting ev'ry sacred bead,
Thou wickedly didst count the damsel's charms:
Instead of clasping the most holy cross,
Such was of sanctity thy loss,
Thou squeezed'st mortal limbs amid thy arms:
Instead of kissing the most sacred wood,
Lo, were thy lips defil'd by flesh and blood.
Of counting ev'ry sacred bead,
417
Instead of clasping the most holy cross,
Such was of sanctity thy loss,
Thou squeezed'st mortal limbs amid thy arms:
Instead of kissing the most sacred wood,
Lo, were thy lips defil'd by flesh and blood.
Instead of psalmody, the skies to greet,
In sinful catches didst thou deal, and glee;
And lo, to put the angels in a sweat,
Thou dandled'st the young harlot on thy knee,
Singing that wanton song of shame,
‘A lovely lass to a friar came!’
In sinful catches didst thou deal, and glee;
And lo, to put the angels in a sweat,
Thou dandled'st the young harlot on thy knee,
Singing that wanton song of shame,
‘A lovely lass to a friar came!’
Instead of begging gracious Heav'n,
For all thy sins to be forgiv'n,
Ready wert thou to manufacture more!
Thy passions, ev'ry one a mutineer,
Just like a cask of cider, ale, or beer,
Fermenting, frothing, frisking, foaming o'er.
For all thy sins to be forgiv'n,
Ready wert thou to manufacture more!
Thy passions, ev'ry one a mutineer,
Just like a cask of cider, ale, or beer,
Fermenting, frothing, frisking, foaming o'er.
The songs of harlots to thine ear,
So full of witchery, were dear,
And bosom of desire that hook'd thine eye!
Dear as an execution to a judge,
A well-known wight who seems to grudge
Life and enjoyment to a fly;
Who fond of hanging, robs the very cats,
And on a gibbet mounts his captive rats
And moles,
To look like dangling men and maids, poor souls!
So full of witchery, were dear,
And bosom of desire that hook'd thine eye!
Dear as an execution to a judge,
A well-known wight who seems to grudge
Life and enjoyment to a fly;
Who fond of hanging, robs the very cats,
And on a gibbet mounts his captive rats
And moles,
To look like dangling men and maids, poor souls!
Instead of loudly crying, ‘Let us pray,’
Thou in thy twilight cell so snug,
Didst to an armful of rich beauty say—
In whisper soft, ‘Bettina, let us hug.’
Thou in thy twilight cell so snug,
Didst to an armful of rich beauty say—
In whisper soft, ‘Bettina, let us hug.’
Instead of turning upwards thy two eyes
Devoutly, for a blessing from the skies;
What was thy most unhallow'd action? Oh!
Vile didst thou cast those eyes on things below.
Devoutly, for a blessing from the skies;
What was thy most unhallow'd action? Oh!
Vile didst thou cast those eyes on things below.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |