The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

Hope whisper'd fine things in my ear;
I believ'd her, though trick is her trade;
She told me that Fortune was near,
Who had always behav'd like a jade.

Great names, little people astound—
How 'witching the title, your Grace!—
My Lord Duke, Lady Duchess, what sound!
Big with honour, and dinner, and place.

In fancy I join'd the duke's table,
Where his Grace so instructively chats;
Despising my garret, that stable,
My joint-stool, and my penn'orth of sprats.

In fancy I jok'd with his Grace,
And felt a huge torrent of bliss—
Then I flatter'd the duchess's face,
And whisper'd love-stories to Miss .

In fancy his Grace I beheld,
Heard his mouth with sound criticism ope;
That mouth most deliciously swell'd
With quotations from Dryden and Pope.

In fancy I heard him aloud
Read his prologue so sweet to his guests;
Saw wonderment stare from the crowd,
And rapture burst wild from their breasts.

361

Now I heard him delightfully thrum;
Now in praise of old music a raver;
Now Handel's huge choruses hum;
Now a critic on crotchet and quaver.

In fancy a bonfire I blaz'd;
At my wit heard them call out ‘encore;’
While the room with astonishment gaz'd,
Prepar'd ev'ry moment to roar.

But the duke has secreted his face;
To the bard what a terrible blow?
And gone are the smiles of her grace,
And the smiles of each Anguish al-so.

But I'm not deluded alone;
To another he sadly behav'd:
Doctor Jackson, by promises won,
Cut his curls from his pate, and was shav'd.

Though the doctor look'd smart with his locks,
Sublime too, and swarthy, and big;
He was told, when a bishop, his flocks
Would expect a full bushel of wig.

A wig was accordingly bought,
As a cauliflow'r large, and as fair;
Where the barber too, blest with good thought,
Wove religion and pomp in each hair.

In short, 'twas so solemn a quiz,
So form'd for concerns of the soul;
People scarce could decide on its phiz,
Which look'd wisest, the caxon or jowl.

But after this grand operation
Of clipping and wigging, I trow,
Sore balk'd was poor Con's exaltation,
But why—none with certainty know.

362

Some thought Heav'n with the wig was displeas'd;
But people may think as they list:
Others said (with maliciousness seiz'd)
Heav'n hated the pride of the priest.

So the doctor no bishop was made,
Nor at present a bishop is he;
And it also may safely be said,
That a bishop he never will be.

But the duke too is thwarted I ween;
Who looks up like a hawk to the crown;
But, alas! our good king and good queen
Have never vouchsaf'd to look down.

Now to duke and to duchess adieu;
Adieu to my honours like-wise;
The vision departs from my view,
And Hope, the false flatterer, flies.

My teeth too are robb'd of sweet picking;
Ah teeth, to good eating attach'd!
And thus have I counted my chicken,
Poor blockhead, before they were hatch'd.

Miss Anguish.

Con, i. e. Consequential Jackson—a constant appellative bestowed on him at the University of Oxford.