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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HYMN TO LIFE. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
344
HYMN TO LIFE.
Parent of Pleasure, and of many a groan,
I should be loath to part with thee, I own,
Dear life!
To tell the truth, I'd rather lose a wife,
Should Heav'n e'er deem me worthy of possessing
That best, that most invaluable blessing.
I should be loath to part with thee, I own,
Dear life!
To tell the truth, I'd rather lose a wife,
Should Heav'n e'er deem me worthy of possessing
That best, that most invaluable blessing.
Some people talk of thee with much sang froid,
As one too pitiful to be enjoy'd;
But thou'rt a most delightful girl with me—
A hundred thousand pretty things are thine;
Indeed, of golden treasure thou'rt a mine,
Thy manners greatly with my heart agree.
As one too pitiful to be enjoy'd;
But thou'rt a most delightful girl with me—
A hundred thousand pretty things are thine;
Indeed, of golden treasure thou'rt a mine,
Thy manners greatly with my heart agree.
I love thy sweet acquaintance from my heart;
Will make a bargain with thee not to part,
Till fate shall strike our system off its hinges:
Consenting to a little gout sometimes;
That spoils my appetite to meat and rhimes,
Those very sharp memento-mori twinges.
Will make a bargain with thee not to part,
Till fate shall strike our system off its hinges:
Consenting to a little gout sometimes;
That spoils my appetite to meat and rhimes,
Those very sharp memento-mori twinges.
I thank thee that thou brought'st me into being;
The things of this our world are well worth seeing,
And, let me add moreover, well worth feeling;
Then what the dev'l would people have,
These gloomy hunters of the grave,
For ever sighing, groaning, canting, kneeling?
The things of this our world are well worth seeing,
And, let me add moreover, well worth feeling;
Then what the dev'l would people have,
These gloomy hunters of the grave,
For ever sighing, groaning, canting, kneeling?
I cannot rise from thee as from a feast,
As Horace says, uti conviva satur—
No such matter:
I'll answer for myself at least.
As Horace says, uti conviva satur—
No such matter:
I'll answer for myself at least.
345
No, when it comes that thou and I must part,
Life, I shall leave thee with a sighing heart;
Leave the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
With ling'ring longing looks, says Gray.
Life, I shall leave thee with a sighing heart;
Leave the warm precincts of the cheerful day,
With ling'ring longing looks, says Gray.
Some wish they never had been born, how odd!
To see the handy works of God,
In sun, and moon, and starry sky;
Though last, not least, to see sweet woman's charms;
Nay more, to clasp them in our arms,
And pour the soul in love's delicious sigh,
Is well worth coming for, I'm sure,
Supposing that thou gav'st us nothing more.
To see the handy works of God,
In sun, and moon, and starry sky;
Though last, not least, to see sweet woman's charms;
Nay more, to clasp them in our arms,
And pour the soul in love's delicious sigh,
Is well worth coming for, I'm sure,
Supposing that thou gav'st us nothing more.
Yet, thus surrounded, Life, dear Life, I'm thine;
And could I always call thee mine,
I would not quickly bid this world farewell:
But whether here, or long, or short my stay,
I'll keep in mind, for ev'ry day,
An old French motto, vive la bagatelle!
And could I always call thee mine,
I would not quickly bid this world farewell:
But whether here, or long, or short my stay,
I'll keep in mind, for ev'ry day,
An old French motto, vive la bagatelle!
Before us Heav'n hath plac'd the tear and smile;
Each may be won with very trifling toil—
But if there be in Nature such a mule,
Who, willing with misfortune to be curst,
Should, like an idiot, madly choose the first,
In God's name let him suffer like a fool.
Each may be won with very trifling toil—
But if there be in Nature such a mule,
Who, willing with misfortune to be curst,
Should, like an idiot, madly choose the first,
In God's name let him suffer like a fool.
Misfortunes are this lott'ry world's sad blanks;
Presents, in my opinion, not worth thanks:
The pleasures are the twenty-thousand prizes,
Which nothing but a downright ass despises.
Presents, in my opinion, not worth thanks:
The pleasures are the twenty-thousand prizes,
Which nothing but a downright ass despises.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |