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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ODE TO HEALTH. |
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 | The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] |  |
ODE TO HEALTH.
Peter protesteth against Physic.
Sweet nymph, of rosy cheek and sprightly mien,
Who, vagrant, playful, on the hills art seen,
E'er Sol illumines the grey world below;
Now, doe-like, skipping wild from vale to vale,
Enamour'd of the rills and fresh'ning gale,
From whose mild wing the streams of fragrance flow.
Who, vagrant, playful, on the hills art seen,
E'er Sol illumines the grey world below;
Now, doe-like, skipping wild from vale to vale,
Enamour'd of the rills and fresh'ning gale,
From whose mild wing the streams of fragrance flow.
O! 'midst those hills and vales contented stray—
Thou wilt be ruin'd if thou com'st away—
Doctors too much like man-traps lie in wait—
They'll tell thee, beauteous nymph, ten thousand lies,
That they can mend thy bloom, and sparkling eyes—
Avoid, avoid, my dear, the dangerous bait.
Thou wilt be ruin'd if thou com'st away—
Doctors too much like man-traps lie in wait—
325
That they can mend thy bloom, and sparkling eyes—
Avoid, avoid, my dear, the dangerous bait.
Like the first woodcock of the year,
The instant that he dares appear,
The country's up to kill him—dog and gun!
So when thou showest, nymph, thy rosy face,
I see at once an Æsculapian chase;
And, oh! if caught, thou wilt not find it fun.
The instant that he dares appear,
The country's up to kill him—dog and gun!
So when thou showest, nymph, thy rosy face,
I see at once an Æsculapian chase;
And, oh! if caught, thou wilt not find it fun.
Lo, this proclaims he vendeth at his shop
Rich immortality in his dear drop;
Another dire impostor, bawling louder,
Swears that it lodges only in his powder.
Rich immortality in his dear drop;
Another dire impostor, bawling louder,
Swears that it lodges only in his powder.
These raggamuffins have the name of quack,
Prepar'd to put thy beauties on the rack—
But then, the regulars!—ay, what are they?
The regulars, my love, are gentlemen,
Whom very justly nine in ten,
I with an eye of no small dread survey.
Prepar'd to put thy beauties on the rack—
But then, the regulars!—ay, what are they?
The regulars, my love, are gentlemen,
Whom very justly nine in ten,
I with an eye of no small dread survey.
The regulars in physic, I'm afraid,
And all th' irregulars who ply the trade,
Are just like men that form an army;
Whichever at you lifts his gun, alas!
Will soon convince you what must come to pass—
The shot will very comfortably warm ye.
And all th' irregulars who ply the trade,
Are just like men that form an army;
Whichever at you lifts his gun, alas!
Will soon convince you what must come to pass—
The shot will very comfortably warm ye.
Indeed, the only diff'rence will be this,
Nor quack nor regular the mark will miss;
The art of killing they are all so pat in;
On broken English, fate by that you seek;
By this, upon the wings of mongrel Greek,
And pie-bald Latin.
Nor quack nor regular the mark will miss;
The art of killing they are all so pat in;
On broken English, fate by that you seek;
By this, upon the wings of mongrel Greek,
And pie-bald Latin.
Then once more let me bid thee, blooming lass,
To keep, like Babylon's great king, at grass,
And thou wilt find it not an idle notion:
Tis fair, that I should try to save thy life—
And know that Death is never half so rife,
As when the country swarms with pill and potion.
To keep, like Babylon's great king, at grass,
And thou wilt find it not an idle notion:
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And know that Death is never half so rife,
As when the country swarms with pill and potion.
O blooming wand'rer of the breezy hills,
Beware then of those potions and those pills—
Be kisses all thy physic, rose-lipp'd Health;
Kisses, my easy nostrum, ne'er are rife,
For ever pregnant, lovely nymph, with life,
And sweeter when they are enjoy'd by stealth.
Beware then of those potions and those pills—
Be kisses all thy physic, rose-lipp'd Health;
Kisses, my easy nostrum, ne'er are rife,
For ever pregnant, lovely nymph, with life,
And sweeter when they are enjoy'd by stealth.
I've built a neat snug cottage on the plain,
Pr'ythee drop in some evening on thy swain.
Pr'ythee drop in some evening on thy swain.
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |