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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| I. | [Ode I.] PROLOGUE. |
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| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
477
[Ode I.] PROLOGUE.
I hate most courtiers, from my soul!
Upon each other how they scowl!
Yet all politeness—wonderful good-nature—
Each tries to get the first employ,
By ev'ry engine to destroy,
Yet bows, and smiles, and still persists to flatter;
And when his rival he has sent to hell,
Kind whispers—‘Sir, I hope I see you well.’
Upon each other how they scowl!
Yet all politeness—wonderful good-nature—
Each tries to get the first employ,
By ev'ry engine to destroy,
Yet bows, and smiles, and still persists to flatter;
And when his rival he has sent to hell,
Kind whispers—‘Sir, I hope I see you well.’
How like old Ocean, the old knave!
This moment placid, smooth, a bright expanse—
The next he thunders, raises every wave,
Roars, riots, tumbles, kicks up such a dance,
Booms o'er the ship with such a shock,
And heaves her on the fatal rock!
This moment placid, smooth, a bright expanse—
The next he thunders, raises every wave,
Roars, riots, tumbles, kicks up such a dance,
Booms o'er the ship with such a shock,
And heaves her on the fatal rock!
Within a little hour, one little hour,
No more his foamy billows tow'r,
But all so crouching, humble, gentle, rot 'em!
With timid motion they advance,
Seem sorry for the sad mischance,
And, winding round the wreck, they kiss its bottom.
No more his foamy billows tow'r,
But all so crouching, humble, gentle, rot 'em!
With timid motion they advance,
Seem sorry for the sad mischance,
And, winding round the wreck, they kiss its bottom.
478
Reader, didst ever scald thy mouth with custard?
Then thou hast curs'd it twenty times, or more,
Or didst thou ever to a cat give mustard?
If so, grimalkin scratch'd, and spit, and swore.
Then thou hast curs'd it twenty times, or more,
Or didst thou ever to a cat give mustard?
If so, grimalkin scratch'd, and spit, and swore.
Thus at my rhimes our courtiers swear and spit,
Ready to slay me—tear me bit by bit.—
Ready to slay me—tear me bit by bit.—
I dearly love to hitch the rogues in rhime,
And tell the world each various crime;
And folly too, ah, often felt and seen!
Indeed the act of many a court
Would yield the nation charming sport,
And chase the gloomy cloud of spleen;
But that this folly mingles with much harm—
Aye, there's the rub!—the rub, too, to alarm.
And tell the world each various crime;
And folly too, ah, often felt and seen!
Indeed the act of many a court
Would yield the nation charming sport,
And chase the gloomy cloud of spleen;
But that this folly mingles with much harm—
Aye, there's the rub!—the rub, too, to alarm.
But, sirs, I'll have my thoughts, and speak them too,
In spite of ministerial chains:
If a court scoundrel meet my view,
I'll laugh at penalties and pains;
Smile at the ribbands that their shoulders deck,
And wish them good tight ropes about the neck.
In spite of ministerial chains:
If a court scoundrel meet my view,
I'll laugh at penalties and pains;
Smile at the ribbands that their shoulders deck,
And wish them good tight ropes about the neck.
I'll have my thoughts, and print them too,
Ev'n should there be an imprimatur;
Sing what is what, and who is who,
And, independent, scorn to flatter.
Ev'n should there be an imprimatur;
Sing what is what, and who is who,
And, independent, scorn to flatter.
There may be ministerial chains,
Not only for the tongue, but brains:
The time may come when ministerial sway
Makes despotism the order of the day—
Still will I talk and write as I think fit,
Whether man John be Addington or Pitt.
Not only for the tongue, but brains:
The time may come when ministerial sway
Makes despotism the order of the day—
Still will I talk and write as I think fit,
Whether man John be Addington or Pitt.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||