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

The Poet addresseth Sir William Chambers, a Gentleman of Consequence in the Election of R. A.'s—He accuseth the Knight of a partial and ridiculous Distribution of the academic Honours—Threateneth him with Rhime— Adviseth a Reformation.

One minute, gentle irony, retire—
Behold! I'm graver than a mustard-pot;
The Muse, with bile as hot as fire,
Could call fool, puppy, blockhead, and what not;
As brother Horace has it—tumet jecur:—
Nor in her angry progress will I check her.

I'm told, that Satan has been long at work
To bring the Academy into disgrace;
Oh! may that member's b*ck**de feel his fork,
Who dares to violate the sacred place!
Who dares the Devil join
In so nefarious a design?
Yet, lo! what dolts the honours claim!
I leave their works to tell their name.

Th' Academy is like a microscope—
For, by the magnifying power, are seen
Objects, that for attention ne'er could hope;
No more, alas! than if they ne'er had been.

So rare a building, and so grac'd
With monuments of ancient taste,
Statues and busts, relievos and intaglios;
For such poor things to watch the treasure,
Is laughable beyond all measure—
'Tis just like eunuchs put to guard seraglios.

Think not, Sir William, I'm in jest—
By Heaven! I will not let thee rest:
Yet thou mayst bluster like bull-beef so big;
And of thy own importance full,
Exclaim, ‘Great cry, and little wool!’
As Satan holla'd, when he shav'd the pig.

Yes, thou shalt feel my tomahawk of satire,
And find that scalping is a serious matter:
Shock'd at th' abuse, how rage inflames my veins!
Who can help swearing, when such wights he sees
Crept to th' Academy by ways and means,
Like mites and skippers in a Cheshire cheese?

What beings will the next year's choice disclose,
The academic list to grace?
Some skeletons of art, I do suppose,
That ought to blush to show their face.

Sir William! tremble at the Muse's tongue;
Parnassus boasts a formidable throng!
All people recollect poor Marsyas' fate,
Save such as are dead, drunk, or fast asleep:
Apollo tied the culprit to a gate,
And flay'd him as a butcher flays a sheep:
And why?—Lord! not as history rehearses,
Because he scorn'd his piping, but his verses:
In vain, like a poor pillory'd punk, he bawl'd,
And kick'd and writh'd, and said his pray'rs, and sprawl'd;

'Twas all in vain—the God pursu'd his sport,
And pull'd his hide off—as you'd pull your shirt!
Then bid not rage the Muse's soul inflame,
Whose thund'ring voice damnation makes or fame.

You'll ask me, p'rhaps, ‘Good master Peter, pray
What right have you to speak?’—then pertly smile.
I'll tell you, sir—My pocket help'd to pay
For building that expensive pile,
A pile that credit to the nation gains,
And does small honour to your worship's brains.

It made a tax on candles and shoe-leather,
Of monstrous use in dirty weather:
It also made a tax on butchers' shops,
So spread its influence o'er poetic chops;
A most alarming tax to ev'ry poet,
Whose poor lank greyhound ribs with sorrow show it.

Therefore, Sir Knight, pray mend your manners:
And don't choose cobblers, blacksmiths, tinkers, tanners:
Some people love the converse of low folks,
To gain broad grins for good-for-nothing jokes—
Though thou, 'midst dulness, mayst be pleas'd to shine,
Reynolds shall ne'er sit cheek-by-jowl with swine.