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 |
 | I. |
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
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.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |