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] |  |
425
ODE ON THE PASSIONS.
The passions are all prone to sad disorders,
Whose objects never should approach their borders!
‘O lead us not into temptation!’
Is a choice pray'r, and which I much admire—
So many things are dangerous to desire!
So ripe for soul-assassination!
Whose objects never should approach their borders!
‘O lead us not into temptation!’
Is a choice pray'r, and which I much admire—
So many things are dangerous to desire!
So ripe for soul-assassination!
Young women, par exemple, O how sweet,
How fascinating each wild sense they greet!
How much we long to smell to the fair flow'r!
How long the blushing peach to pluck it,
And suck it—
To use an epicurish phrase, devour!
How fascinating each wild sense they greet!
How much we long to smell to the fair flow'r!
How long the blushing peach to pluck it,
And suck it—
To use an epicurish phrase, devour!
Now such desires are very dangerous things—
It does not signify to talk about it:
Yet seemed Solomon, first of wise kings,
And eke his father David, much to doubt it.
For wheresoe'er they met a pretty lass,
Snap was the word—they could not let her pass.
It does not signify to talk about it:
Yet seemed Solomon, first of wise kings,
And eke his father David, much to doubt it.
For wheresoe'er they met a pretty lass,
Snap was the word—they could not let her pass.
How many a time I thought it not a sin
To press the virgin's cheek and dimpled chin,
And press her pouting lip, that dew-clad cherry!
And peep upon her neck of Alpine snow,
And pressing, panting, to her bosom grow,
Rich banquet—very—I repeat it—very!
To press the virgin's cheek and dimpled chin,
And press her pouting lip, that dew-clad cherry!
And peep upon her neck of Alpine snow,
And pressing, panting, to her bosom grow,
Rich banquet—very—I repeat it—very!
But lo! I stand reform'd, thank Heav'n,
So much of grace to me is giv'n!
O youths! whene'er the wishes warm of nature,
Tumultuous rise—destroy their dangerous dance;
The curb of reason to your aid advance,
And souse them with her buckets of cold water.
So much of grace to me is giv'n!
426
Tumultuous rise—destroy their dangerous dance;
The curb of reason to your aid advance,
And souse them with her buckets of cold water.
No harm is in the passions, to be sure;
But then they must not gallop wild to door—
Close keep them, just like hounds that long for hare;
Or muzzle them, indeed, like ferrets;
And thus suppress their wanton spirits,
That lawless wish to be as free as air.
But then they must not gallop wild to door—
Close keep them, just like hounds that long for hare;
Or muzzle them, indeed, like ferrets;
And thus suppress their wanton spirits,
That lawless wish to be as free as air.
Well I remember (but the times are past,
Thank Heav'n, this wickedness can't always last)
When if a petticoat but caught my eye—
A petticoat surrounding some fair maid,
Lord bless us! how my heart's brisk fountain play'd!
Grace was abjur'd, and Prudence forc'd to fly.
Thank Heav'n, this wickedness can't always last)
When if a petticoat but caught my eye—
A petticoat surrounding some fair maid,
Lord bless us! how my heart's brisk fountain play'd!
Grace was abjur'd, and Prudence forc'd to fly.
The passions, sudden wak'd to watch her,
And, hound-like, scamper'd in full cry to catch her.
And, hound-like, scamper'd in full cry to catch her.
The passions, as I've said, are far from evil;
But if not well confin'd, they play the devil.
But if not well confin'd, they play the devil.
Learn from that candle—mark its govern'd flame,
How in its lustre, gentle, steady, tame,
So mild, such trembling modesty, so quiet!—
But let him touch your curtains, or your bed,
Who on such stuff delighteth to be fed,
Lo, in a brace of minutes, what a riot!
He pulls (for nought th' unbridled rogue reveres)
Like Samson, an old house about his ears!
How in its lustre, gentle, steady, tame,
So mild, such trembling modesty, so quiet!—
But let him touch your curtains, or your bed,
Who on such stuff delighteth to be fed,
Lo, in a brace of minutes, what a riot!
He pulls (for nought th' unbridled rogue reveres)
Like Samson, an old house about his ears!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |