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] |  |
ODE III.
Peter administereth sage Advice to mercenary Artists, and telleth a most delectable Story of a Country Bumpkin and a Peripatetic Razorseller.
Forbear, my friends, to sacrifice your fame
To sordid gain, unless that you are starving:
I own that hunger will indulgence claim
For hard stone heads, and landscape carving,
In order to make haste to sell and eat;
For there is certainly a charm in meat:
And in rebellious tones will stomachs speak,
That have not tasted victuals for a week.
To sordid gain, unless that you are starving:
I own that hunger will indulgence claim
For hard stone heads, and landscape carving,
In order to make haste to sell and eat;
For there is certainly a charm in meat:
And in rebellious tones will stomachs speak,
That have not tasted victuals for a week.
But yet there are a mercenary crew,
Who value fame no more than an old shoe;
Provided for their daubs they get a sale;
Just like the man—but stay—I'll tell the tale.
Who value fame no more than an old shoe;
Provided for their daubs they get a sale;
Just like the man—but stay—I'll tell the tale.
A fellow in a market town,
Most musical, cried razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,
As ev'ry man wou'd buy, with cash and sense.
Most musical, cried razors up and down,
And offer'd twelve for eighteen pence;
Which certainly seem'd wondrous cheap,
And for the money quite a heap,
As ev'ry man wou'd buy, with cash and sense.
103
A country bumpkin the great offer heard:
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a thick, black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
‘This rascal stole the razors, I suppose:
Poor Hodge, who suffer'd by a thick, black beard,
That seem'd a shoe-brush stuck beneath his nose:
With cheerfulness the eighteen pence he paid,
And proudly to himself, in whispers, said,
‘This rascal stole the razors, I suppose:
‘No matter if the fellow be a knave,
Provided that the razors shave:
It sartinly will be a monstrous prize:’
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Provided that the razors shave:
It sartinly will be a monstrous prize:’
So home the clown, with his good fortune, went,
And quickly soap'd himself to ears and eyes.
Being well lather'd from a dish or tub,
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor!—then the rest he try'd—
All were impostors—‘Ah,’ Hodge sigh'd!
‘I wish my eighteen pence within my purse.’
Hodge now began with grinning pain to grub,
Just like a hedger cutting furze:
'Twas a vile razor!—then the rest he try'd—
All were impostors—‘Ah,’ Hodge sigh'd!
‘I wish my eighteen pence within my purse.’
In vain to chase his beard, and bring the graces,
He cut, and dug, and winc'd and stamp'd, and swore;
Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd, and made wry faces,
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er:
He cut, and dug, and winc'd and stamp'd, and swore;
Brought blood, and danc'd, blasphem'd, and made wry faces,
And curs'd each razor's body o'er and o'er:
His muzzle, form'd of opposition stuff,
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it—laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
Razors! a damn'd confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!’
Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff;
So kept it—laughing at the steel and suds:
Hodge in a passion, stretch'd his angry jaws,
Vowing the direst vengeance, with clench'd claws,
On the vile cheat that sold the goods.
Razors! a damn'd confounded dog,
Not fit to scrape a hog!’
Hodge sought the fellow—found him, and begun—
‘P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster knives.
Sirrah! I tell you, you're, a knave,
To cry up razors that can't shave.’
‘P'rhaps, Master Razor-rogue, to you 'tis fun,
That people flay themselves out of their lives:
You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing,
Giving my scoundrel whiskers here a scrubbing,
With razors just like oyster knives.
104
To cry up razors that can't shave.’
‘Friend,’ quoth the razor-man, ‘I am no knave:
As for the razors you have bought
Upon my soul I never thought
That they wou'd shave.’
‘Not think they'd shave!’ quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
‘What were they made for then, you dog?’ he cries:
‘Made!’ quoth the fellow, with a smile,—‘to sell.’
As for the razors you have bought
Upon my soul I never thought
That they wou'd shave.’
‘Not think they'd shave!’ quoth Hodge, with wond'ring eyes,
And voice not much unlike an Indian yell;
‘What were they made for then, you dog?’ he cries:
‘Made!’ quoth the fellow, with a smile,—‘to sell.’
| The Works of Peter Pindar [i.e. John Wolcot] | |