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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The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||
Painters, improve your education;
That surely stands in need of reformation.
I've heard that some can neither write nor read,
Which does no honour to the hand or head.
That surely stands in need of reformation.
I've heard that some can neither write nor read,
Which does no honour to the hand or head.
Many, I know, would rather paint a bear,
Or monkey playing his quaint tricks,
Than some sweet damsel, whom all hearts revere,
Would rather see a stump with strength express'd,
Than all the snowy fulness of her breast,
Or lip, that innocence so sweetly moves,
Or smile, the fond Elysium of the loves.
This brings those days to mem'ry, when my tongue
To Cynthia's beauty pour'd my soul in song;
When, on the margin of the murm'ring stream,
My fancy frequent form'd the golden dream
Of Cynthia's grace—of Cynthia's smiles divine,
And made those smiles and peerless beauty mine.
Or monkey playing his quaint tricks,
Than some sweet damsel, whom all hearts revere,
Would rather see a stump with strength express'd,
Than all the snowy fulness of her breast,
Or lip, that innocence so sweetly moves,
Or smile, the fond Elysium of the loves.
This brings those days to mem'ry, when my tongue
To Cynthia's beauty pour'd my soul in song;
When, on the margin of the murm'ring stream,
My fancy frequent form'd the golden dream
Of Cynthia's grace—of Cynthia's smiles divine,
And made those smiles and peerless beauty mine.
It brings to mem'ry too, those dismal times,
When nought my sighs avail'd, and nought my rhimes;
When at the silent, solemn close of day,
My pensive steps would court the darkling grove,
To hear, in Philomela's lonely lay,
The fainting echoes of my luckless love;
Till night's increasing shades around me stole,
And mingled with the gloom that wrapp'd my soul.
When nought my sighs avail'd, and nought my rhimes;
When at the silent, solemn close of day,
My pensive steps would court the darkling grove,
To hear, in Philomela's lonely lay,
The fainting echoes of my luckless love;
83
And mingled with the gloom that wrapp'd my soul.
Reader—dost choose a sonnet of those days?
Take it—and say not I'm a foe to praise.
Take it—and say not I'm a foe to praise.
The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | ||