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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['Tis hard, Messieurs Reviewers, 'pon my soul] |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
8
['Tis hard, Messieurs Reviewers, 'pon my soul]
[_]
The following Address to the Reviewers was written for a poetical Friend, who had suffered by their Severity.
'Tis hard, Messieurs Reviewers, 'pon my soul,
You thus should lord it o'er the world of wit:
No higher court your sentence to control,
You hang, or you reprieve, as you think fit!
You thus should lord it o'er the world of wit:
No higher court your sentence to control,
You hang, or you reprieve, as you think fit!
Whether, in calf, your labours of the year
Rank with immortal bards, or boxes line;
Or, torn for secret services, oh dear!
Are offer'd up at Cloacina's shrine;
Rank with immortal bards, or boxes line;
Or, torn for secret services, oh dear!
Are offer'd up at Cloacina's shrine;
Whether you look all rosy round the gills,
Or hatchet-fac'd like starving cats so lean;
Whether your criticism each pocket fills
With halfpence, keeping you close shav'd and clean:
Or hatchet-fac'd like starving cats so lean;
Whether your criticism each pocket fills
With halfpence, keeping you close shav'd and clean:
Whether in gorgeous raiment you appear,
Or tatters ready from your backs to fall;
Whether with pompous wigs to guard each ear,
Or whether you've no wigs or ears at all:
Or tatters ready from your backs to fall;
Whether with pompous wigs to guard each ear,
Or whether you've no wigs or ears at all:
Whether you look like gentlemen or thieves,
I hate usurpers of the critic throne;
Therefore his compliments the poet gives,
And humbly hopes you'll let his lines alone.
I hate usurpers of the critic throne;
Therefore his compliments the poet gives,
And humbly hopes you'll let his lines alone.
Stay till he asks your thoughts, ye forward sages;
Officiousness the modest bard abjures:
'Tis surely pert to meddle with his pages,
Who never deign'd to look in one of yours.
Officiousness the modest bard abjures:
'Tis surely pert to meddle with his pages,
Who never deign'd to look in one of yours.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |