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 FOR BOYS AND GIRLS.
Love is a pretty passion, to be sure;
And long, say I indeed, may love endure!
Yet now and then to Prudence should it look—
Yes, take a little leaf from Wisdom's book.
And long, say I indeed, may love endure!
Yet now and then to Prudence should it look—
Yes, take a little leaf from Wisdom's book.
Our boys, alas! begin too soon to sigh,
Mourn the pierc'd heart, and lay them down to die;
Just like expiring swans, with tuneful breath,
Sweet rhiming in the agonies of death.
Mourn the pierc'd heart, and lay them down to die;
Just like expiring swans, with tuneful breath,
Sweet rhiming in the agonies of death.
Too soon the girls abuse of pens the nib,
And pour their little groaning souls on paper:
Love should not come till Time removes the bib;
Misses should learn to walk before they caper.
And pour their little groaning souls on paper:
Love should not come till Time removes the bib;
Misses should learn to walk before they caper.
Love, though it deals in sweets, has many sours;
It does not always furnish happy hours,
Putting us oft in dismal situations:
The novelty sets people's souls a longing—
What thousands to their ruin thus are thronging!
Indeed we see the evil in all nations.
It does not always furnish happy hours,
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The novelty sets people's souls a longing—
What thousands to their ruin thus are thronging!
Indeed we see the evil in all nations.
I fear Love does at times a deal of harm:
It keeps the world alive, it is confess'd;
So far, indeed, I like the pleasing charm—
Yet, yet, through Love, what thousands are distress'd!
It keeps the world alive, it is confess'd;
So far, indeed, I like the pleasing charm—
Yet, yet, through Love, what thousands are distress'd!
‘Give me,’ exclaims the youth, ‘but heav'nly kissing,
And lo, I seek nought else—for nought is missing:
Let me for ever dwell on Chloe's lip;
On Chloe's bosom let me only lie;
There pour in sweetest ecstasy the sigh,
And, like the bee, the honey'd treasure sip.
And lo, I seek nought else—for nought is missing:
Let me for ever dwell on Chloe's lip;
On Chloe's bosom let me only lie;
There pour in sweetest ecstasy the sigh,
And, like the bee, the honey'd treasure sip.
‘I heed not fragrant wines, nor flesh, nor fish;
Chloe is all I want, and all I wish!’
Chloe is all I want, and all I wish!’
And thus again the raptur'd nymph exclaims,
‘Sweet are of Love the sighs, and dear the flames!
Love smiles away the dark'ning clouds of life:
Love feels no rains, nor storms, nor pinching cold:
Love wants not fire nor candle, meat, clothes, gold:
All bliss is center'd in that one word—wife.’
‘Sweet are of Love the sighs, and dear the flames!
Love smiles away the dark'ning clouds of life:
Love feels no rains, nor storms, nor pinching cold:
Love wants not fire nor candle, meat, clothes, gold:
All bliss is center'd in that one word—wife.’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |