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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IV. | ODE IV. |
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The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
ODE IV.
With you, my lords, I'm ev'ry thing that's evil;
There's scarce a crime I've not committed;
The very essence of the devil;
Deserving by the dæmon to be spitted;
There's scarce a crime I've not committed;
The very essence of the devil;
Deserving by the dæmon to be spitted;
Just like a turkey, goose, or duck,
Prepar'd by Joan the cook to go to fire;
So wanton have you both been pleas'd to pluck
The swan that imitates his Theban sire.
Prepar'd by Joan the cook to go to fire;
So wanton have you both been pleas'd to pluck
The swan that imitates his Theban sire.
Of ev'ry quality am I bereft,
Not ev'n the shadow of a virtue left;
Not one small moral feather in my wings,
When dead, to lift me to the King of Kings.
Not ev'n the shadow of a virtue left;
Not one small moral feather in my wings,
When dead, to lift me to the King of Kings.
My lords, beware—by mouthing oft my name
Unwisely, you may damn me into fame:
By letting thus your spleen on Peter loose,
He builds triumphal arches on abuse!
Unwisely, you may damn me into fame:
By letting thus your spleen on Peter loose,
He builds triumphal arches on abuse!
In vain the bard turns oculist, and tries
To purge the film from this world's darken'd eyes:
In vain to printers and to printers' devils
I fly, and advertise to cure king's evils:
With huge contempt you look on me, alack!
My nostrums curse, and call the bard a quack.
To purge the film from this world's darken'd eyes:
In vain to printers and to printers' devils
I fly, and advertise to cure king's evils:
With huge contempt you look on me, alack!
My nostrums curse, and call the bard a quack.
In general, authors are such coward things,
They fear to speak their sentiments of kings,
Till those same kings are dead, and then the crowd,
Just like a pack of hounds, historian, bard,
With throats of thunder run his mem'ry hard,
And try to tear him piecemeal from his shroud.
They fear to speak their sentiments of kings,
Till those same kings are dead, and then the crowd,
Just like a pack of hounds, historian, bard,
64
And try to tear him piecemeal from his shroud.
Now, if we wish a monarch to reclaim,
In God's name let us speak before he's dead,
Or else 'tis ten to one we miss our aim,
By staying till the fates have cut his thread:
After this operation of their knife,
I ne'er knew reformation in my life.
In God's name let us speak before he's dead,
Or else 'tis ten to one we miss our aim,
By staying till the fates have cut his thread:
After this operation of their knife,
I ne'er knew reformation in my life.
And yet, what is the greatest king when dead,
When dust and worms his eyes and ears o'erspread,
And low he lies beneath the stone?
The man who millions call'd his own,
Howe'er his spectre may be willing,
Cannot give change t'ye for a shilling!
When dust and worms his eyes and ears o'erspread,
And low he lies beneath the stone?
The man who millions call'd his own,
Howe'er his spectre may be willing,
Cannot give change t'ye for a shilling!
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||