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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III. | EPISTLE III. |
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The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
253
EPISTLE III.
O friendship, thy sighs I revere!
Sweet balm on the heart that has bled!
O Love, what a treasure thy tear!
A rich pearl on the tomb of the dead.
Sweet balm on the heart that has bled!
O Love, what a treasure thy tear!
A rich pearl on the tomb of the dead.
How d'ye relish this flight? rather rare,
And sublime for the lead of these days!
And now let me talk of a fair,
Sweet object of pity and praise.
And sublime for the lead of these days!
And now let me talk of a fair,
Sweet object of pity and praise.
To Blackheath when the messenger came,
And announc'd the small hopes of a cure,
He expected a smile from the dame,
With a purse for his news, to be sure.
And announc'd the small hopes of a cure,
He expected a smile from the dame,
With a purse for his news, to be sure.
When she put her white hand to her pocket,
He thought some rare gift would appear.
Ah! her handkerchief only!—She took it,
Sweet mourner, to hold a fond tear;
He thought some rare gift would appear.
Ah! her handkerchief only!—She took it,
Sweet mourner, to hold a fond tear;
A tear to which Friendship gave birth,
And Love, of the Passions the queen;
Pure pearl! had it dropp'd to the earth,
In treasure how rich it had been!
And Love, of the Passions the queen;
Pure pearl! had it dropp'd to the earth,
In treasure how rich it had been!
When he said that the little and great,
That kings, like their subjects, must die;
She look'd up with a visage so sweet,
Bade farewell, with so tender a sigh?
That kings, like their subjects, must die;
She look'd up with a visage so sweet,
Bade farewell, with so tender a sigh?
Her fate is uncommonly cruel—
Yet a lustre she casts on her race—
By the lord, Cousin Nic, she's a jewel,
And her heart is as fair as her face.
Yet a lustre she casts on her race—
By the lord, Cousin Nic, she's a jewel,
And her heart is as fair as her face.
But Scandal has always her mud,
At Merit, poor Merit, to throw;
Of ink has for ever a flood,
To blacken a bosom of snow!
At Merit, poor Merit, to throw;
Of ink has for ever a flood,
To blacken a bosom of snow!
254
Sweet stranger! from splendour withdrawn,
On wisdom and charity bent,
To Health, and the breeze of the lawn,
To the cottage of Peace and Content.
On wisdom and charity bent,
To Health, and the breeze of the lawn,
To the cottage of Peace and Content.
Cousin Nic, with the subject I'm fir'd—
Yes! I've really drunk deep of the stream;
Yet a goose must be really inspir'd,
When the Virtues and Loves are the theme.
Yes! I've really drunk deep of the stream;
Yet a goose must be really inspir'd,
When the Virtues and Loves are the theme.
T. S.
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||