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] |  |
Who
, and what are ye, sceptred bullies?—speak,
That millions to your will must bow the neck,
And, ox-like, meanly take the galling yoke?
Philosophers your ignorance despise;
Ev'n Folly, laughing, lifts her maudlin eyes,
And freely on your wisdoms cracks her joke.
That millions to your will must bow the neck,
And, ox-like, meanly take the galling yoke?
Philosophers your ignorance despise;
Ev'n Folly, laughing, lifts her maudlin eyes,
And freely on your wisdoms cracks her joke.
How dare ye on the men of labour tread,
Whose honest toils supply your mouths with bread;
Who, groaning, sweating, like so many hacks,
Work you the very clothes upon your backs?
Clothes of calamity, I fear,
That hold in ev'ry stitch a tear.
Whose honest toils supply your mouths with bread;
Who, groaning, sweating, like so many hacks,
Work you the very clothes upon your backs?
Clothes of calamity, I fear,
That hold in ev'ry stitch a tear.
448
Who sent you?—Not the Lord who rules on high,
Sent you to man on purpose from the sky,
Because of wisdom it is not a proof:
Show your credentials, sirs:—if ye refuse,
Terrific gentlemen, our smiles excuse,
Belief most certainly will keep aloof.
Sent you to man on purpose from the sky,
Because of wisdom it is not a proof:
Show your credentials, sirs:—if ye refuse,
Terrific gentlemen, our smiles excuse,
Belief most certainly will keep aloof.
Old virtuous rugged Cato, on a day,
Thus to the Soothsayers was heard to say,
‘Augurs! by all the gods it is a shame,
To gull the mole-ey'd million at this rate;
Making of gaping blockheads such a game,
Pretending to be hand and glove with Fate!
Thus to the Soothsayers was heard to say,
‘Augurs! by all the gods it is a shame,
To gull the mole-ey'd million at this rate;
Making of gaping blockheads such a game,
Pretending to be hand and glove with Fate!
‘On guts and garbage when ye meet,
To carry on the holy cheat,
How is it ye preserve that solemn grace,
Nor burst with laughter in each other's face?’
To carry on the holy cheat,
How is it ye preserve that solemn grace,
Nor burst with laughter in each other's face?’
Thus to our courtiers, sirs, might I exclaim—
‘In Wonder's name,
How can ye meanly grov'ling bow the head
To pieces of gilt gingerbread?
Fetch, carry, fawn, kneel, flatter, crawl, tell lies,
To please the creature that ye should despise?’
‘In Wonder's name,
How can ye meanly grov'ling bow the head
To pieces of gilt gingerbread?
Fetch, carry, fawn, kneel, flatter, crawl, tell lies,
To please the creature that ye should despise?’
Tyrants, with all your wonderful dominion,
Ye ar'n't a whit like God, in my opinion;
Though you think otherwise, I do presume:
Hot to the marrow with the ruling lust,
Fancying your crouching subjects so much dust,
Your lofty selves the mighty sweeping broom.
Ye ar'n't a whit like God, in my opinion;
Though you think otherwise, I do presume:
Hot to the marrow with the ruling lust,
Fancying your crouching subjects so much dust,
Your lofty selves the mighty sweeping broom.
Open the warehouses of all your brains;
Come, sirs, turn out—let's see what each contains:
Heav'ns, how ridiculous! what motley stuff!
Shut, quickly shut again the brazen doors;
Too much of balderdash the eye explores;
Yes, shut them, shut them, we have seen enough.
Are these the beings to bestride a world?
To such sad beasts, has God his creatures hurl'd?
Come, sirs, turn out—let's see what each contains:
Heav'ns, how ridiculous! what motley stuff!
Shut, quickly shut again the brazen doors;
Too much of balderdash the eye explores;
Yes, shut them, shut them, we have seen enough.
449
To such sad beasts, has God his creatures hurl'd?
Men want not tyrants—overbearing knaves;
Despots that rule a realm of slaves;
Proud to be gaz'd at by a reptile race:
Charm'd with the music of their clanking chains,
Pleas'd with the fog of state that clouds their brains,
Who cry, with all the impudence of face,
Despots that rule a realm of slaves;
Proud to be gaz'd at by a reptile race:
Charm'd with the music of their clanking chains,
Pleas'd with the fog of state that clouds their brains,
Who cry, with all the impudence of face,
‘Behold your gods! down, rascals, on your knees!
Your money, miscreants—quick, no words, no strife;
Your lands too, scoundrels, vermin, lice, bugs, fleas;
And thank our mercy that allows you life!’
Your money, miscreants—quick, no words, no strife;
Your lands too, scoundrels, vermin, lice, bugs, fleas;
And thank our mercy that allows you life!’
Thus speak the highwaymen in purple pride,
On Slavery's poor gall'd back so wont to ride.
On Slavery's poor gall'd back so wont to ride.
Who would not laugh to see a tailor bow
Submissive to a pair of satin breeches?
Saying, ‘O breeches, all men must allow
There's something in your aspect that bewitches!
Submissive to a pair of satin breeches?
Saying, ‘O breeches, all men must allow
There's something in your aspect that bewitches!
‘Let me admire you, breeches, crown'd with glory;
And though I made you, let me still adore ye:
Though a rump's humble servant, form'd for need,
To keep it warm, yet, Lord! you are so fine,
I cannot think you are my work indeed—
Though merely mortal, lo! ye seem divine!’
Who would not quick exclaim, ‘The tailor's mad?’
Yet tyrant-adoration is as bad.
And though I made you, let me still adore ye:
Though a rump's humble servant, form'd for need,
To keep it warm, yet, Lord! you are so fine,
I cannot think you are my work indeed—
Though merely mortal, lo! ye seem divine!’
Who would not quick exclaim, ‘The tailor's mad?’
Yet tyrant-adoration is as bad.
See! Crispin makes a pair of handsome shoes,
Silk and bespangled, such as ladies use—
Suppose the shoes so proud, upon each heel,
Perk it in Crispin's face, with saucy pride,
And all the meanness of his trade deride,
And all the state of self-importance feel:
Silk and bespangled, such as ladies use—
Suppose the shoes so proud, upon each heel,
Perk it in Crispin's face, with saucy pride,
And all the meanness of his trade deride,
And all the state of self-importance feel:
Tell him the distance between them and him,
Crispin would quickly cry, ‘A pretty whim!
Crispin would quickly cry, ‘A pretty whim!
450
Confound your little bodies, though so fine,
Is not the silk and spangles that ye boast
Put on you at my proper cost?
Whatever's on ye, is it not all mine?
Did not I put you thus together, pray?’
What could the simple shoes in answer say?
Is not the silk and spangles that ye boast
Put on you at my proper cost?
Whatever's on ye, is it not all mine?
Did not I put you thus together, pray?’
What could the simple shoes in answer say?
There too are some (thank Heav'n they do not swarm)
Who deem it foul to stay a tyrant's arm,
That falls with fate upon their humble skulls:
Some for a despot's rod have heav'd the sigh!
Let such on wiser Æsop cast an eye,
And read the fable of the Frogs, the fools.
Who deem it foul to stay a tyrant's arm,
That falls with fate upon their humble skulls:
Some for a despot's rod have heav'd the sigh!
Let such on wiser Æsop cast an eye,
And read the fable of the Frogs, the fools.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |