The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] :: :: University of Virginia Library

O son of wicked Satan, with a soul
Hot as his hell, and blacker than his coal!
Thou false, thou foul-mouth'd cens'rer of the times,
I do not care three straws for all thy rhimes.
Thy wit is blunter than old worn-out sheers:—
I'll make a riddle with thee for thy ears;
Write any sort of verse, thou blust'ring blade!
Egad! I'll say, like Kecksy, ‘Who's afraid?’—
Thank God, I've talk'd to greater folks than thee:
In that I will not yield to any he;
No, not to any he that wears a head—
Again I'll say, like Kecksy, ‘Who's afraid?’—
Thank God, whene'er I wish like kings to fare,
I go, unask'd, and dine with my lord may'r.
But thou, who asks thee, varlet! to their houses?
Fear'd by the husbands, dreaded by the spouses.
May God Almighty hear what now I speak!—
Some aldermen would gladly break thy neck.
Thou tell'st us thou hast struck thy lyre to kings—
Yes, faith, and sounded very pretty things.
Thou blockhead, thou pretend to think thy rhimes
Shall live to see the days of after-times.

118

Fool, to pretend on subjects great to shine,
Or e'en to printers' dev'ls to tune the line!
Sir, let me humbly beg you to be civil—
Thou know'st not that I was a printer's dev'l:
So, sir, your satire wants the pow'r to drub,
In thus comparing Nichols to a grub.
Whate'er thou say'st, I'm not of vengeance full,
Nor did I ever bellow like a bull:
And grant I am a bull, I sha'nt suppose
A cur like thee can nail me by the nose.
Thou liest when thou sayest, like a top,
With anger rais'd, I spinn'd about my shop:
Nor did I ever, madden'd by thy stripes,
Thou prince of liars, kick about my types.
Books have I written; books I still will write,
And give, I hope, to gentlefolks delight:
With charming print, and copper-plates so fine,
Whose magazine goes off so well as mine?
Who, pray, like me, the page so fond of filling?
Who gives more curious matter for a shilling?
England's first geniuses I keep in pay;
Much prose I buy, and many a poet's lay:
The silk-worm Hayley spins me heaps of verse,
And Gough, antiquities exceeding scarce:
Great Horace Walpole too, with sweet good-will,
Sends me choice anecdotes from Strawb'ry-hill:
Miss Seward, Mistress Yeardsley, and Miss More,
Of lines (dear women!) send me many a score.
These are the nymphs at whom thine envy rails—
Fool! of their gowns not fit to hold the tails—
These are the men, of prose and verse the knights,
With genius flashing, like the northern lights;
These are the men whose works immortal show
The men of literature from top to toe.—
But thou'rt a wen,—a blue, black, bloated tumour,
Without one single grain of wit or humour:
Thy Muse too all so consequential struts,
As if all Helicon were in her guts;—
A fish-drab, a poor, nasty, ragged thing,
Who never dipp'd her muzzle in the spring.

119

Thou think'st thyself on Pegasus so steady;
But, Peter, thou art mounted on a Neddy:
Or, in the London phrase,—thou Dev'nshire monkey,
Thy Pegasus is nothing but a donkey.
I own, my vanity it well may raise,
To find so many gaping for my praise;
Who send such flatt'ring things as ne'er were seen,
To get well varnish'd in my Magazine:
Indeed I often do indulge the elves,
And suffer authors to commend themselves;
Wits of themselves can write with happiest spirit,
And men are judges of their proper merit.
Lumps have I giv'n them too of beef and pudding,
That helps a hungry genius in its studying;
And humming porter, when their Muse was dry—
For this be glory unto God on high!
And not to me, who did not make the pudding,
Nor beef assisting genius in its studying.
To authors, yes, I've giv'n both boil'd and roast,
And many a time a tankard with a toast—
But God forbid, indeed, that I should boast!
And halfpence too, and sixpences, ecod!
But boast avaunt!—the glory be to God!
To bards, good shoes and stockings I have giv'n—
But not to me the glory, but to Heav'n!
Yes, yes, I see how much it swells thy spleen,
That I'm head master of the Magazine;
Who let no author see the house of Fame,
Before he gets the passport in my name.
Art thou a doctor? Yes of thinning skill;
For thousands have been poison'd by thy pill.
But let my soul be calm:—it shan't be said
I fear thee, O thou monster!—‘Who's afraid?’
What though I know small Latin, and less Greek,
Good sterling English I can write and speak:
Yet thousands, who presume to be my betters,
Can't spell their names, and scarcely know their letters.
Belike, the curious world would hear with joy
What trade I was design'd for when a boy?

120

‘A barber, or a tailor,’ said my mother—
‘No,’ cried my father, ‘neither one nor t'other;
A soldier, a rough soldier, John shall wander,
Pull down the French, and fight like Alexander.’
But unto letters was I always squinting,
So ask'd my daddy's leave to study printing;
And got myself to uncle Bowyer's shop,
Where, when it pleas'd the Lord that he should drop,
The trade and good-will of the shop was mine:
Where, without vanity, I think I shine;
And where, thank God, in spite of dull abuse,
I'm warm, and married, and can boil my goose.
And had I been to swords and muskets bred,
P'rhaps I had shin'd a Cæsar, or a Swede:
Hadst thou a soldier been, thou sorry mummer,
Thy rank had never rose above a drummer.
How dar'st thou say, that should his Royal Highness.
(A prince renown'd for modesty and shyness)
Be generalissimo of all our forces,
A jack-ass's old back, and not a horse's,
Should carry the good prince into the field,
Whose arm a broomstick, for a staff, should wield,
That very, very broomstick which his wife
Oft us'd to finish matrimonial strife?
Why dost not praise the virtues of the *****,
As great in soul, as noble in her mien,
Whose virtues make the soul of Envy sick,
Strong as her snuff, and as her di'monds thick?—
But wherefore this to Peter do I say?
Owls love the dark, and therefore loath the day.—
The ****, as wise a man as man can be;
The *****, so mild, who cannot kill a flea!
Brave Glo'ster's Highness, and his sober wife,
Who lead the softest, sweetest, calmest life;
Richmond and Leeds, each duke a first-rate star,
One fam'd for politics, and one for war;
The open Hawksb'ry, stranger to all guile,
Who never of a sixpence robb'd our isle:
The modest Pitt, the Joseph of the day,
Who never with lew'd women went astray;

121

And many others, that I soon could mention,
Are much oblig'd, indeed, to thy invention!
But where's the oak that never feels a blast?
Or sun, at times, that is not overcast?
Alas! ev'n people drest in gold and ermine
May feel at times the bites of nasty vermin:
And when thou dar'st great quality attack,
What art thou but a bug upon its back?
What harm, pray, hath my friend Sir Joseph done,
So good, and yet the subject of thy fun?
Just in his ways to women and to men—
Indeed he swears a little now and then.
Behold, his breakfasts shine with reputation!
His dinners are the wonder of the nation!
With these he treats both commoners and quality,
Who praise, where'er they go, his hospitality:
Ev'n from the north and south, and west and east,
Men send him shell, and butterfly, and beast.
Sir William Hamilton sends gods and mugs;
And, for his feast a sow's most dainty dugs.
And shall such mob as thou, not worth a groat,
Dare pick a hole in such a great man's coat?
Whenever at St. James's he is seen,
Is not he spoke to by the king and queen?
And don't the lords at once about him press,
And, like his sov'reigns, much regard profess?
Tell him they'll come one day to him, and dine,
Behold his rarities, and taste his wine?
Such are the honours, to delight the soul,
On which thy longing eyeballs vainly roll:
Such are the honours that his heart must flatter,
On which thy old dog's mouth in vain may water.
Whether in Dev'nshire thou hast got a house,
I value not three capers of a louse;
Whether in Cornwall thou a house hast got,
And at elections only, boil'st thy pot;
Whether a doctor, devil, or a friar,
I know not—but I know thou art a liar.
Whene'er I die, I hope that I shall read
This honest epitaph upon my head:—

122

‘Here lies John's body; but his soul is seen
In that fam'd work, the Ge'mman's Magazine:
Brave, yet possess'd of all the softer feelings;
Successful with the Muses in his dealings;
Mild, yet in virtue's cause as quick as tinder—
Who never car'd one f--- for Peter Pindar.’

PETER's APOLOGY.
[_]

Mr. Peter Pindar's Apology for the variety of entertainment in his pretty poetical Olio, is the first thing I shall present to the public.

Ladies, I keep a rhime-shop—mine's a trade;
I sell to old and young, to man and maid:
All customers must be oblig'd; and no man
Wishes more universally to please;
I'd really crawl upon my hands and knees,
T'oblige—particularly lovely woman.

Yet some (the Devil take such virtuous times),
Fastidious, pick a quarrel with my rhimes,
And beg I'd only deal in love-sick sonnet—
How easy to bid others cease to feed!
On beauty I can quickly die indeed,
But, trust me, can't live long upon it.

If there is not a deal of impudent double entendre in this sonnet, I do not know what purity meaneth —sweetly wrapped up, indeed, 'Squire Pindar!

Instead of a formal commentary on every composition, I shall make short work with them, by giving them their true character in a few words, as for example:

Impudence, egotism, and conceit.

123

ODE TO MY BARN.
[_]

The expulsion of a most excellent set of players from Kingsbridge in Devonshire, with the asylum offered them by the Author's Barn in an adjoining parish, is the foundation of the following Ode.

Sweet haunt of solitude and rats,
Mice, tuneful owls, and purring cats;
Who, whilst we mortals sleep, the gloom pervade,
And wish not for the sun's all-seeing eye,
Your mousing mysteries to spy;
Blest, like philosophers, amidst the shade;

When Persecution, with an iron hand,
Dar'd drive the moral-menders from the land,
Call'd players,—friendly to the wand'ring crew,
Thine eye with tears survey'd the mighty wrong,
Thine open arms receiv'd the mournful throng—
Kings without shirts, and queens with half a shoe.

Alas! what dangers gloom'd of late around—
Monarchs and queens with halters nearly bound—
Duke, dukeling, princess, prince, consign'd to jail!
And, what the very soul of Pity shocks,
The poor old Lear was threat'ned with the stocks,
Cordelia with the cart's unfeeling tail.

Still cherish such rare royalty forlorn—
A Garrick in thy bosom may be born,

124

A Siddons too, of future fair renown:
For Love is not a squeamish god, they say;
As pleas'd to see his rites perform'd on hay,
As on the goose's soft and yielding down.

The same impudence, egotism, and conceit, as in the first Ode.

TO MY BARN.

By Lacedæmon men attack'd,
When Thebes, in days of yore, was sack'd,
And nought the fury of the troops could hinder;
What's true, yet marv'lous to rehearse,
So well the common soldiers relish'd verse,
They scorn'd to burn the dwelling-house of Pindar.

With awe did Alexander view
The house of my great cousin too,
And, gazing on the building, thus he sigh'd—
‘General Parmenio, mark that house before ye!
That lodging tells a melancholy story:
There Pindar liv'd (great bard!) and there he died.

‘The king of Syracuse, all nations know it,
Was celebrated by this lofty poet,
And made immortal by his strains:
Ah! could I find like him a bard to sing me;
Would any man, like him, a poet bring me;
I'd give him a good pension for his pains.

‘But, ah! Parmenio, 'mongst the sons of men,
This world will never see his like agen;
The greatest bard that ever breath'd is dead!

125

General Parmenio, what think you?’—
‘Indeed 'tis true, my liege, 'tis very true,’
Parmenio cry'd, and, sighing, shook his head:

Then from his pocket took a knife so nice,
With which he chipp'd his cheese and onions,
And from a rafter cut a handsome slice,
To make rare toothpicks for the Macedonians;
Just like the toothpicks which we see
At Stratford made, from Shakspeare's mulb'ry-tree.

What pity that the 'squire and knight
Knew not to prophesy as well as fight;
Then had they known the future men of metre;
Then had the general and the monarch spied,
In Fate's fair book, our nation's equal pride,
That very Pindar's Cousin Peter!

Daughter of thatch, and stone, and mud,
When I, no longer flesh and blood,
Shall join of lyric bands some half a dozen;
Meed of high worth, and, 'midst th' Elysian plains,
To Horace and Alcæus read my strains,
Anacreon, Sappho, and my great old Cousin;

On thee shall rising generations stare,
That come to Kingsbridge and to Dodbrook fair :
For such thy history, and mine shall learn;
Like Alexander shall they ev'ry one
Heave the deep sigh, and say, ‘Since Peter's gone,
With rev'rence let us look upon his Barn.’

Held annually at those places.

126

ODE TO AFFECTATION.
[_]

The following Ode of Mr. Pindar's is what rhetoricians would call ironical. The leading feature seems to be impudence.

Nymph of the mincing mouth, and languid eye,
And lisping tongue so soft, and head awry,
And flutt'ring heart, of leaves of aspen made;
Who were thy parents, blushful virgin? say—
Perchance Dame Folly gave thee to the day,
With Gaffer Ignorance's aid.

Say, virgin, where dost thou delight to dwell?
With maids of honour, startful virgin? tell—
For I have heard a deal of each fair Miss;
How wicked lords have whisper'd wicked things
Beneath the noses of good queens and kings,
And sigh'd for pleasures far beyond a kiss!

Great is thy delicacy, dainty maid;
At slightest things, thy cheek with crimson glows.
Say art thou not asham'd, abash'd, afraid,
Whene'er thou stealest forth to pluck a rose?
Or hast thou lost, O nymph, thy pretty gall;
So never pluckest any rose at all?

I'm told, thou keepest not a single male;
Nothing but females, at thy board to cram;
That no he-lapdog near thee wags his tail,
Nor cat by vulgar people call'd a ram.

I've heard too, that if e'er, by dire mishap,
Some ravishers should make thy fav'rites wh---s,
Staring as stricken by a thunder-clap,
Thy modesty hath kick'd them out of doors.

'Tis said, when wagtails thou behold'st, and doves,
And sparrow, busy with their feather'd loves;

127

Lord! thou hast trembled at their wicked tricks;
And snatching up thy blush-concealing fan,
As if it were a lady and a man,
Hast only peep'd upon them through the sticks.

And yet so variously thou'rt said to act,
That I have heard it utter'd for a fact,

That often on old Thames's sunny banks,
Where striplings swim, with wanton pranks,
On bladders some outstretch'd, and some on corks,
Thou squinting, most indiff'rent girl art seen,
In contemplation of each youthful skin,
Admiring God Almighty's handy-works.

Prim nymph, thou art no fav'rite with the world:
I hear the direst curses on thee hurl'd!
Sorry am I, so ill thy manners suit:
'Tis said, that if a mouse appear to view,
We hear a formidable screech ensue,
As if some huge devouring brute;

And if beneath thy petticoat he run,
Thou bellowest as if thou wert undone,
And kickest at a cow-like rate, poor soul;
When, if thou wert to be a little quiet,
And not disturb the nibbler by a riot,
The mouse would go into his proper hole.

I've heard it sworn to, nymph, that in the streets,
When running, dancing, capering at thy side,
Thy Chloe other dogs so brazen meets,
That, wriggling, ask thy bitch to be their bride;
Quick hast thou caught up Chloe in thy arms,
From violation to preserve her charms;

And, bouncing wildly from the view
Of those same saucy canine crew,
Hast op'd so loud and tunefully thy throat
(Seeming as thou hadst learnt to scream by note),
Loud as the Sabine girls that tried to 'scape
The speechless horrors of a Roman rape.

128

No novels readest thou, O nymph, in sight;
And yet again I'm told that ev'ry night,
In secret, thou art much inclin'd to doat
On rhimes that Rochester so warmly wrote.

Oft dost thou wonder how thy sex, so sweet,
Can fellows, those great two-legg'd monsters, meet,
And swoon not at each Caliban;
And wonder how thy sex can fancy blisses
Contain'd within the black rough-bearded kisses
Of such a bear-like thing as man.

'Tis also said, that if a flea at night,
Pert rogue, hath dar'd thy luscious lip to bite,
Or point his snout into thy snowy breast,
At once the house hath been alarm'd—the maids
Call'd idle, nasty, good-for-nothing jades;
Who, Eve-like, rushing to thy room undrest,

Have thought some wicked ravisher so dread,
On Love's delicious viands to be fed,
Had seiz'd thee, to obtain forbidden joys;
Which had he done, a most audacious thief,
Of ev'ry maid it was the firm belief
Thou wouldst not, nymph, have made a greater noise.

And yet 'tis said, again, O nymph so bright,
Thou sleep'st with John the coachman ev'ry night—
Vile tales! invented to destroy thy fame;
For wert thou, fearful lass, this instant married,
At night thy modest cheek would burn with shame,
Nor wouldst thou go, but to the bed be carried:

There, when thy Strephon rush'd, in white array'd,
To clasp with kisses sweet his white-stol'd maid,
And riot in the luxury of charms;
Flat as a flounder, seeing, hearing gone—
Mute as a fish, and fairly turn'd to stone—
O damsel! thou wouldst die within his arms.

129

TO FORTUNE.
[_]

More impudence, with a lick at one of the Ten Commandments.

Ah! loit'ring Fortune, thou art come too late:
Ah! wherefore give me not thy smiles before;
When all my youthful passions in a roar,
Rare hunters, fearless leap'd each five-bar gate?

Unknown by thee, how often did I meet
The loveliest forms of nature in the street,
The fair, the black, and lasting brown!
And, whilst their charms enraptur'd I survey'd,
This pretty legend on their lips I read—
‘Kisses, O gentle shepherd, for a crown.’

How oft I look'd, and sigh'd, and look'd agen,
Upon the charms of ev'ry Phillis!
How wish'd myself a cock, and her a hen,
To crop at once her roses and her lilies!
Indeed not only without paying—
But for her liberty without once staying.

‘At Otaheité,’ I have said with tears,
‘No gentleman a jail so horrid fears
For taking liberties with lasses:
Soon as they heard how love in England far'd,
The glorious Otaheitans all were scar'd,
And call'd us Englismen a pack of asses.—

‘But they, indeed, are heathens—have no souls
But such as must be fried on burning coals.
But I'm a Christian, and abhor a rape:
Yet if a lass would sell her lean and fat,
I'm not so great an enemy to that—
Though that might whelp a little kind of scrape;

130

Since 'tis believ'd that simple fornication,
May step between a man and his salvation.’

Damn'd Fortune! thus to make me groan!
To offer now thy shining pieces—
For now my passions are all flown,
Gone to my nephews and my nieces.

ODE TO MADAM SCHW---G & CO.

On their intended Voyage to Germany.

Written in the Year 1789.

We wish you a good voyage to that shore
Where all your friends are impudent and poor.
Oblige us, madam—don't again come over—
To use a cant phrase, we've been finely fobb'd,
Indeed have very dext'rously been robb'd—
You've liv'd just eight and twenty years in clover.

Pray let us breathe a little—be so good—
We cannot spare such quantities of blood;
At least for some ten years, pray cross the main;
Then, cruel, should you think upon returning,
To put us Britons all in second mourning,
We may support phlebotomy again.

To you and your lean gang we owe th' Excise:
Pitt cannot any other scheme devise,
To pay the nation's debt, and fill your purses.
With great respects I here assure you, ma'am,
Your name our common people loudly damn;
Genteeler folks attack with silent curses.

131

Madam, can you speak Latin?—No, not much—
I think you principally spew High Dutch:
But did you Latin understand (God bless it),
I'd offer up the pithiest, prettiest line,
Unto your Avarice's sacred shrine—
‘Crescit amor nummi quantum ipsa pecunia crescit.’

The which translation of this Latin line
Is this—‘Alas! that maw profound of thine
May like the stomach of a whale be reckon'd:
Throw into it the nation's treasury,
But for a minute it will pleasure ye;
That gullet will be gaping for a second.’

Madam, we wish you a long, long, adieu—
Good riddance of the snuff and di'mond crew!
Your absence, all, alone the state relieves;
For, hungry ladies, as I'm here alive,
A house can never hope to thrive,
That harboureth a nest of thieves.

The author thinks this expression, though a dirty one, more descriptive than any other of the guttural German; and therefore chooses not to sacrifice truth to a little bienseance.

ODE.
[_]

An insupportable Apology for keeping Mistresses, and a Laugh at that most respectable state, Matrimony.

That I have often been in love, deep love,
A hundred doleful ditties plainly prove,
By marriage never have I been disjointed;

132

For matrimony deals prodigious blows:
And yet for this same stormy state, God knows,
I've groan'd—and, thank my stars, been disappointed.

With love's dear passion will I never war;
Let ev'ry man for ever be in love,
Ev'n if he beats, in age, old Parr:
'Tis for his chilly veins a good warm glove;
It bids the blood with brisker motion start,
Thawing time's icicles around his heart.

Wedlock's a saucy, sad, familiar state,
Where folks are very apt to scold and hate:
Love keeps a modest distance, is divine,
Obliging, and says ev'ry thing that's fine.

Love writes sweet sonnets, deals in tender matter;
Marriage, in epigram so keen, and satire,
Love seeketh always to oblige the fair;
Full of kind wishes, and exalted hope:
Marriage desires to see her in the air,
Suspended, at the bottom of a rope.

Love wishes, in the vale or on the down,
To give his dear, dear idol a green gown:
Marriage, the brute, so snappish and ill bred,
Can kick his sighing turtle out of bed;
Turns bluffly from the charms that taste adores,
Then pulls his night-cap o'er his eyes, and snores.

Wedlock at first, indeed, is vastly pleasant;
A very showy bird, a fine cock-pheasant:
By time, it changeth to a diff'rent fowl;
Sometime a cuckow, oft'ner a horn-owl.

Wedlock's a lock, however large and thick,
Which every rascal has a key to pick.

O love! for heav'ns sake, never leave my heart:
No! thou and I will never, never part—
Go, wedlock, to the men of leaden brains,
Who hate variety, and sigh for chains.

[_]

A bare-faced Apology for leaving a loving Wife.

133

TO CHLOE.
[_]

An Apology for going into the Country.

Chloe, we must not always be in heav'n,
For ever toying, ogling, kissing, billing;
The joys for which I thousands would have giv'n,
Will presently be scarcely worth a shilling.

Thy neck is fairer than the Alpine snows,
And, sweetly swelling, beats the down of doves;
Thy cheek of health, a rival to the rose;
Thy pouting lips, the throne of all the loves!
Yet, though thus beautiful beyond expression,
That beauty fadeth by too much possession.

Economy in love is peace to nature,
Much like economy in worldly matter:
We should be prudent, never live too fast;
Profusion will not, cannot always last.

Lovers are really spendthrifts—'tis a shame—
Nothing their thoughtless, wild career can tame,
Till pen'ry stares them in th' face;
And when they find an empty purse,
Grown calmer, wiser, how the fault they curse,
And, limping, look with such a sneaking grace!
Job's war-horse fierce, his neck with thunder hung,
Sunk to an humble hack that carries dung.

Smell to the queen of flowers, the fragrant rose—
Smell twenty times—and then my dear, thy nose
Will tell thee (not so much for scent athirst)
The twentieth drank less flavour than the first.

134

Love, doubtless, is the sweetest of all fellows;
Yet often should the little God retire—
Absence, dear Chloe, is a pair of bellows,
That keeps alive the sacred fire.

ODE TO LAIS.
[_]

In the same impudently ironical style.

O nymph with all the luxury of skin,
Pea-bloom breath, and dimpled chin;
Rose cheek, and eyes that beat the blackest sloe;
With flaxen ringlets thy soft bosom shading,
So white, so plump, so lusciously-persuading;
And lips that none but mouths of cherubs know!

Oh, leering, lure me not to Charlotte-street,
That too, too fair, seducing form to meet;
Warm, unattir'd, and breathing rich delight;
Where thou wilt practise ev'ry roguish art,
To bid my spirits all unbridled start,
Run off with me full tilt, and steal my sight.
Then shall I trembling fall, for want of grace,
And die perhaps upon my face!

Ah! cease to turn, and leer, and smile,
My too imprudent senses to beguile!
Ah! keep that leg so taper from me,
Ah! form'd to foil a Phidias's art;
So much unlike that leg in ev'ry part
By me abhorr'd—and christ'ned gummy.

In vain I turn around to run away:
Thine eyes, those basilisks, command my stay;

135

Whilst through its gauze thy snowy bosom peeping
Seems to that rogue interpreter, my eye,
To heave a soft, desponding, tender sigh—
Like gossamer, my thoughts of goodness sweeping.

Pity my dear religion's dread debility,
And hide those orbs of sweet inflammability!—
Abound, I say, abound in grace, my feet;
And do not follow her to Charlotte-street.

Alas! alas! you have no grace, I see,
But wish to carry off poor struggling me;
Yes, the wild bed of beauty wish to seek!—
Yet, if you do—to make your two hearts ake,
A sweet, a sweet revenge I mean to take;
For, curse me if you shall not stay a week.

But let me not thus pond'ring, gaping, stand—
But, lo, I am not at my own command:
Bed, bosom, kiss, embraces, storm my brains,
And, lawless tyrants, bind my will in chains.
O lovely lass! too pow'rful are thy charms,
And fascination dwells within thy arms.

The passions join the fierce invading host;
And I and virtue are o'erwhelm'd and lost—
Passions that in a martingale should move;
Wild horses loosen'd by the hands of Love.

I'm off—alas! unworthy to be seen—
The bard, and Virtue a poor captive queen!
O Lais, should our deeds to sins amount,
Just Heav'n will place them all to thy account.

136

A CONSOLATORY STANZA TO LADY MOUNT E---,

On the Death of her Pig Cupid.
[_]

The following Stanza, on the death of Lady Mount E---'s favourite Pig Cupid, is verily exceeded by nothing in the annals of impertinence.

O dry that tear, so round and big;
Nor waste in sighs your precious wind!
Death only takes a single pig—
Your lord and son are still behind.

TO MR. J. NICHOLS,

On his History of the Progresses of Queen Elizabeth.
[_]

Superlatively impudent, and, I hope, untrue; sent to me two days after my publication of my Queen Elizabeth's Progresses, one of which is now actually in his Majesty's glorious library, at Buckingham-house.

John, though it asks no subtilty of brain
To write Queen Bess's progress through the land;
Excuse the freedom, if, I dare maintain
The theme too high for thee to take in hand.

137

On Vanity's damn'd rock what thousands split!
Thou shouldst have labour'd on some humbler matter—
On somewhat on a level with thy wit—
For instance—when her majesty made w---.

TO DELIA.
[_]

To show that I can be candid, even to people of no candour, I shall conclude this first part with a few Songs that are not totally destitute of merit.

Whilst poets pour their happiest lays,
And call thee ev'ry thing divine;
Not quite so lavish in thy praise,
To censure be the province mine.

Though born with talents to surprise,
Thou seldom dost those pow'rs display:
Thus seem they trifling in thy eyes;
Thus Heav'n's best gifts are thrown away.

Though rich in charms, thou know'st it not;
Such is thine ignorance profound:
And then such cruelty thy lot,
Thy sweetest smile inflicts a wound.

TO FORTUNE.

Yes, Fortune, I have sought thee long,
Invok'd thee oft, in prose and song;
Through half Old England woo'd thee:

138

Through seas of danger, Indian lands,
Through Afric's howling, burning sands:
But, ah! in vain pursued thee!

Now, Fortune, thou wouldst fain be kind;
And now I'll plainly speak my mind—
I care not straws about thee:
For Delia's hand alone I toil'd;
Unbrib'd by wealth, the nymph has smil'd;
And bliss is ours without thee.

TO CHLOE.

Chloe, a thousand charms are thine,
That give my heart the constant sigh!
Ah! wherefore let thy poet pine,
Who canst with ease his wants supply?

Oh haste, thy charity display;
With little I'll contented be:
The kisses which thou throw'st away
Upon thy dog, will do for me.

139

TO A FRIEND IN DISGRACE.

So then, thy sov'reign turns away his face!
Thank God, with all thy soul, for the disgrace.

This instant down upon thy knee,
And idolize the man who makes thee free;
No more endeavour Folly's hand to kiss:
At first I look'd with pity on thy state;
But now I humbly thank the foot of Fate,
That kindly kicks thee into bliss.

I've been disgrac'd too—felt a monarch's frown,
And consequently quitted town:—
But have my fields refus'd their smiles so sweet?
Say, have my birds grown sulky with the king?
My thrushes, linnets, larks, refus'd to sing?
My winding brooks to prattle at my feet?

No! no such matter!—Each unclouded day
On dove-like pinions gayly glides away:
In short, all nature seems dispos'd to please—
Then prithee quit thy qualms; look up and laugh;
The rural pleasures let us largely quaff,
And make our congé to the gods of ease.

By day, shall Nature's simple voice
Our walks, and rides of health rejoice,
Far from an empty court where tumult howls;
And should at night, by chance, an hour
Be with ennui inclin'd to low'r,
We'll go and listen to our owls;

Birds from whose throats 'tis said that wisdom springs—
How very diff'rent from the throats of kings!

I cannot, however, conclude this first part of Mr. Peter's lucubrations without a severe reprehension of his want of loyalty, as well as want of respect, for that first of courts, St. James's; and moreover, to prove that disloyalty and disrespect, I give the following Ode, which he, with all his impudence, dares not deny that he wrote. I suppose that it was written in the last reign, since it is impossible that it should be in the present.

University of Virginia Library

A ROWLAND FOR AN OLIVER, OR A POETICAL ANSWER TO THE BENEVOLENT EPISTLE OF MR. PETER PINDAR.

ALSO THE MANUSCRIPT ODES, SONGS, LETTERS, &c. &c. Of the above Mr. Peter Pindar, NOW FIRST PUBLISHED BY SYLVANUS URBAN.

A POETICAL ANSWER, &c

PETER's APOLOGY.[_] Mr. Peter Pindar's Apology for the variety of entertainment in his pretty poetical Olio, is the first thing I shall present to the public.

ODE TO MY BARN.[_] The expulsion of a most excellent set of players from Kingsbridge in Devonshire, with the asylum offered them by the Author's Barn in an adjoining parish, is the foundation of the following Ode.

TO MY BARN.

ODE TO AFFECTATION.[_] The following Ode of Mr. Pindar's is what rhetoricians would call ironical. The leading feature seems to be impudence.

TO FORTUNE.[_] More impudence, with a lick at one of the Ten Commandments.