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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
Pindar, Peter (1738-1819)

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VOL. I.
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VOL. II.
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VOL. III.
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VOL. IV.
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TALES OF THE HOY;
  
[epigraph]
  
['Twas in that month when Nature drear]
  
THE PRAISE OF MARGATE.
  
AN ODE OF CONDOLENCE TO GEORGE ROSE, ESQ.
  
[Whate'er from dirty Thames to Margate goes]
  
[Now, as our immortal Milton sublimely would have sung:]
  
[Or, as the no less immortal author of Hudibras would have quaintly said;]
  
[Again, as the illustrious Butler would have said, or sung:]
  
[Thus oft it happens that the sky]
  
SONG.
  
CORINNA'S EPITAPH.
  
SONG.
  
THE WIDOW OF EPHESUS;
  
THE DRUNKEN FLY.
  
VERSES ON A FLY
  
Verses on the Fall of the Statue of Apollo from the Summit of the Organ, on the Head of Shield, as he was playing.
  
POOR TOM.
  
THE SHEPHERD'S PIPE.
  
[Thus, as the flocks amid the valley feed]
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TEARS AND SMILES;
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ORSON AND ELLEN;
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NEW-OLD BALLADS.
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ODES.
  
A POETICAL EPISTLE TO BENJAMIN COUNT RUMFORD, Knight of the White Eagle, &c. &c.
  
THE ISLAND OF INNOCENCE;
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THE MIDDLESEX ELECTION;
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PITT AND HIS STATUE;
  
LORD B--- AND HIS MOTIONS.
  
PROH IMPUDENTIAM! AN ODE.
  
TEMPORA MUTANTUR.
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GREAT CRY AND LITTLE WOOL;
  
AN INSTRUCTIVE EPISTLE TO JOHN PERRING, ESQ. Lord Mayor of London;
  
THE HORRORS OF BRIBERY;
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TRISTIA;
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ONE MORE PEEP AT THE ROYAL ACADEMY;
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ODES TO THE HEADS.
  
ANTICIPATION: OR, THE PRIZE ADDRESS;
  
A SOLEMN SENTIMENTAL, AND REPROBATING EPISTLE TO MRS. CLARKE.
  
A SECOND SOLEMN, SENTIMENTAL, AND REPROBATING, EPISTLE TO MRS. CLARKE.
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CARLTON-HOUSE FETE;

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17

CORINNA'S EPITAPH.

HERE sleeps what was innocence once, but its snows
Were sullied and trod with disdain;
Here lies what was beauty, but pluck'd was its rose,
And flung like a weed to the plain.
O pilgrim, look down on her grave with a sigh,
Who fell the sad victim of art;
Ev'n Cruelty's self must bid her hard eye
A pearl of compassion impart.
Ah! think not, ye prudes, that a sigh, or a tear,
Can offend of all Nature the God;
Lo! Virtue already has mourn'd at her bier,
And the lily will bloom on her sod.
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