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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SUSAN AND THE SPIDER. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
SUSAN AND THE SPIDER.
‘Come down, you toad,’ cry'd Susan to a spider,
High on the gilded cornice a proud rider,
And, wanton, swinging by his silken rope;
‘I'll teach thee to spin cobwebs round the room;
You're now upon some murder, I presume—
I'll bless thee—if I don't, say I'm no pope.’
High on the gilded cornice a proud rider,
And, wanton, swinging by his silken rope;
‘I'll teach thee to spin cobwebs round the room;
You're now upon some murder, I presume—
I'll bless thee—if I don't, say I'm no pope.’
Then Susan brandish'd her long brush,
Determin'd on a fatal push,
To bring the rope-dancer to ground,
And all his schemes of death confound.
Determin'd on a fatal push,
To bring the rope-dancer to ground,
And all his schemes of death confound.
The spider, blest with oratory grace,
Slipp'd down, and, staring Susan in the face,
‘Fie, Susan! lurks there murder in that heart?
O barb'rous, lovely Susan! I'm amaz'd!
O can that form, on which so oft I've gaz'd,
Possess of cruelty the slightest part?
Slipp'd down, and, staring Susan in the face,
‘Fie, Susan! lurks there murder in that heart?
O barb'rous, lovely Susan! I'm amaz'd!
O can that form, on which so oft I've gaz'd,
Possess of cruelty the slightest part?
‘Ah! can that swelling bosom of delight,
On which I've peep'd with wonder many a night,
Nay, with these fingers touch'd too, let me say,
Contain a heart of cruelty?—no, no!
That bosom, which exceeds the new-fall'n snow,
All softness, sweetness, one eternal May.’
On which I've peep'd with wonder many a night,
Nay, with these fingers touch'd too, let me say,
Contain a heart of cruelty?—no, no!
That bosom, which exceeds the new-fall'n snow,
All softness, sweetness, one eternal May.’
‘How!’ Susan screech'd, as with disorder'd brain—
‘How, Impudence! repeat those words again:
Come, come, confess with honesty—speak, speak,
Say, did you really crawl upon my neck?’
‘How, Impudence! repeat those words again:
Come, come, confess with honesty—speak, speak,
Say, did you really crawl upon my neck?’
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‘Susan, by all thy heav'nly charms, I did;
I saw thee sleeping by the taper's light;
Thy cheek, so blushful, and thy breast so white:
I could not stand it, and so down I slid.’
I saw thee sleeping by the taper's light;
Thy cheek, so blushful, and thy breast so white:
I could not stand it, and so down I slid.’
‘You did, sweet Mister Spider? so you saw!’
‘Yes, Susan! Nature's is a pow'rful law.’
‘Yes, Susan! Nature's is a pow'rful law.’
‘Arn't you a murd'rer?’ gravely Susan cries;
‘Arn't you for ever busy with that claw,
Killing poor unoffending little flies,
Merely to satisfy your nasty maw?’
‘Arn't you for ever busy with that claw,
Killing poor unoffending little flies,
Merely to satisfy your nasty maw?’
‘But, Susan, don't you feed on gentle lamb?
Don't you on pretty little pigeons cram?
Don't you on harmless fishes often dine?’
‘That's very true,’ quoth Susan, ‘true indeed;
Lord! with what eloquence these spiders plead!
This little rascal beats a grave divine.
Don't you on pretty little pigeons cram?
Don't you on harmless fishes often dine?’
‘That's very true,’ quoth Susan, ‘true indeed;
Lord! with what eloquence these spiders plead!
This little rascal beats a grave divine.
‘It was no snake, I verily believe,
But a sly spider that seduc'd poor Eve.
But a sly spider that seduc'd poor Eve.
‘But then you are so ugly.’—‘Ah! sweet Sue,
I did not make myself, you know too well:
Could I have made myself, I had been you,
And kill'd with envy ev'ry beauteous belle.’
I did not make myself, you know too well:
Could I have made myself, I had been you,
And kill'd with envy ev'ry beauteous belle.’
‘Heav'ns! to this spider!—what a 'witching tongue
Well! go about thy business—go along;
All animals indeed their food must get:
And hear me—shouldst thou look, with longing eyes,
At any time on young, fat, luscious flies,
I'll drive the little rascals to thy net.
Well! go about thy business—go along;
All animals indeed their food must get:
And hear me—shouldst thou look, with longing eyes,
At any time on young, fat, luscious flies,
I'll drive the little rascals to thy net.
‘Lord! then how blind I've been to form and feature!
I think a spider, now, a comely creature!
I think a spider, now, a comely creature!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |