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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| XII. | ODE XII. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
118
ODE XII.
Peter increaseth in Wisdom, and adviseth wisely—Seemeth angry at the Illiberality of Nature in the Affair of his good Acquaintance, the Lord High Chancellor of England and Mr. Pepper Arden—Peter treateth his Readers with Love-Verses of past Times.
Copy not nature's forms too closely,
Whene'er she treats your sitter grossly:
For when she gives deformity for grace,
Pray show a little mercy to the face.
Indeed 'twould be but charity to flatter
Some dreadful works of seeming drunken nature:
Whene'er she treats your sitter grossly:
For when she gives deformity for grace,
Pray show a little mercy to the face.
Indeed 'twould be but charity to flatter
Some dreadful works of seeming drunken nature:
As for example, let us now suppose
Thurlow's black scowl, and Pepper Arden's nose:
But when your pencil's powers are bid to trace
The smiles of Devonshire—Duncannon's grace—
To bid the blush of beauteous Campbell rise,
And wake the radiance of Augusta's eyes
(Gad! Muse, thou art beginning to grow loyal),
And paint the graces of the Princess Royal,
Try all your art—and when your toils are done,
You show a flimsy meteor for a sun.
Thurlow's black scowl, and Pepper Arden's nose:
But when your pencil's powers are bid to trace
The smiles of Devonshire—Duncannon's grace—
To bid the blush of beauteous Campbell rise,
And wake the radiance of Augusta's eyes
(Gad! Muse, thou art beginning to grow loyal),
And paint the graces of the Princess Royal,
Try all your art—and when your toils are done,
You show a flimsy meteor for a sun.
Or should your skill attempt her face and air,
Who fir'd my heart and fix'd my roving eye—
The loves, who robb'd a world to make her fair,
Would quickly triumph, and your art defy.
Who fir'd my heart and fix'd my roving eye—
The loves, who robb'd a world to make her fair,
Would quickly triumph, and your art defy.
Sweet nymph!—But, reader, take the song,
Which Cynthia's charms alone inspir'd;
That left of yore the poet's tongue,
When love his raptur'd fancy fir'd.
Which Cynthia's charms alone inspir'd;
That left of yore the poet's tongue,
When love his raptur'd fancy fir'd.
119
SONG.
From her, alas! whose smile was love,
I wander to some lonely cell:
My sighs too weak the maid to move,
I bid the flatterer, Hope, farewell.
I wander to some lonely cell:
My sighs too weak the maid to move,
I bid the flatterer, Hope, farewell.
Be all her siren arts forgot,
That fill'd my bosom with alarms:
Ah! let her crime—a little spot,
Be lost amidst her blaze of charms.
That fill'd my bosom with alarms:
Ah! let her crime—a little spot,
Be lost amidst her blaze of charms.
As on I wander slow, my sighs
At ev'ry step for Cynthia mourn:
My anxious heart within me dies,
And sinking, whispers, ‘Oh, return!’
At ev'ry step for Cynthia mourn:
My anxious heart within me dies,
And sinking, whispers, ‘Oh, return!’
Deluded heart! thy folly know—
Nor fondly nurse the fatal flame—
By absence thou shalt lose thy woe,
And only flutter at her name.
Readers. I own the song of love is sweet,
Nor fondly nurse the fatal flame—
By absence thou shalt lose thy woe,
And only flutter at her name.
Most pleasing to the soul of gentle Peter:
Your eyes then with another let me treat,
O gentle sirs, and in the same sweet metre.
SONG TO DELIA.
Say, lonely maid, with down-cast eye—
O Delia, say, with cheek so pale;
What gives thy heart the length'ned sigh,
That tells the world a mournful tale?
O Delia, say, with cheek so pale;
What gives thy heart the length'ned sigh,
That tells the world a mournful tale?
Thy tears, that thus each other chase,
Bespeak a bosom swell'd with woe:
Thy sighs, a storm that wrecks thy peace,
Which souls like thine should never know.
Bespeak a bosom swell'd with woe:
Thy sighs, a storm that wrecks thy peace,
Which souls like thine should never know.
120
O tell me doth some favour'd youth,
With virtue tir'd, thy beauty slight;
And leave those thrones of love and truth,
That lip and bosom of delight?
With virtue tir'd, thy beauty slight;
And leave those thrones of love and truth,
That lip and bosom of delight?
Perhaps, to nymphs of other shades
He feigns the soft impassion'd tear,
With songs their easy faith invades,
That treach'rous won thy witless ear.
He feigns the soft impassion'd tear,
With songs their easy faith invades,
That treach'rous won thy witless ear.
Let not those maids thy envy move,
For whom his heart may seem to pine—
That heart can ne'er be blest by love,
Whose guilt could force a pang from thine.
For whom his heart may seem to pine—
That heart can ne'er be blest by love,
Whose guilt could force a pang from thine.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |