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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| V. | ELEGY V. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ELEGY V.
He condemns the Licentiousness of the Age.
To false delights the youth of Britain fly,
Who court for happiness the wanton's arms;
Who darts on all the fond inflaming eye,
And choiceless yields to all, for gold, her charms.
Who court for happiness the wanton's arms;
Who darts on all the fond inflaming eye,
And choiceless yields to all, for gold, her charms.
When in the Syren's fond embrace you sigh,
And on her lip impress the burning kiss,
Doth friendship mingle with th' unhallow'd joy,
Or Love's pure spirit swell the surge of bliss?
And on her lip impress the burning kiss,
Doth friendship mingle with th' unhallow'd joy,
Or Love's pure spirit swell the surge of bliss?
When droops enjoyment, what is then the fair?
A flow'r that blooms, but quickly doom'd to fade;
A sun that pours a momentary glare,
And 'mid the tempest sinks o'erwhelm'd in shade.
A flow'r that blooms, but quickly doom'd to fade;
A sun that pours a momentary glare,
And 'mid the tempest sinks o'erwhelm'd in shade.
O swains, to Modesty's fair daughters turn:
By mental beauty let your hearts be led:
Bid by your flight the venal fair-one mourn,
And press in tears her solitary bed.
By mental beauty let your hearts be led:
Bid by your flight the venal fair-one mourn,
And press in tears her solitary bed.
When round your neck her fondling arms she glues,
And, bent to please, exhausts each winning art;
With false delights she shamefully subdues,
And leads the passions captive, not the heart.
And, bent to please, exhausts each winning art;
With false delights she shamefully subdues,
And leads the passions captive, not the heart.
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Their midnight orgies whilst they madly hold,
I of a tender maid shall be possest:
What bliss her tender beauties to enfold,
And sooth my slumbers on her faithful breast!
I of a tender maid shall be possest:
What bliss her tender beauties to enfold,
And sooth my slumbers on her faithful breast!
Time from her bosom all its snows may steal,
His iron hand her cheeks' pure blush invade,
Still to my Julia will I fondly kneel,
And love her most when all her roses fade.
His iron hand her cheeks' pure blush invade,
Still to my Julia will I fondly kneel,
And love her most when all her roses fade.
Who spurns the weeping fair-one from his breast,
Hard is his heart—in ev'ry virtue poor:
Hard is his heart to wound the fair distrest,
Who sighs that she can charm his eye no more.
Hard is his heart—in ev'ry virtue poor:
Hard is his heart to wound the fair distrest,
Who sighs that she can charm his eye no more.
Cruel to bid with grief her bosom heave,
Because her cheeks no longer glowing warms:
Base, to forget the joys her beauty gave—
And oh, forget it faded in his arms!
Because her cheeks no longer glowing warms:
Base, to forget the joys her beauty gave—
And oh, forget it faded in his arms!
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |