The Poetical Works of Robert Lloyd :: :: University of Virginia Library

Words are, so Wollaston defines,
Of our ideas merely signs,
Which have a pow'r at will to vary,
As being vague and arbitrary.
Now damn'd for instance—all agree,
Damn'd's the superlative degree;
Means that alone, and nothing more,
However taken heretofore;
Damn'd is a word can't stand alone,
Which has no meaning of its own,
But signifies or bad or good
Just as its neighbour's understood.
Examples we may find enough,
Damn'd high, damn'd low, damn'd fine, damn'd stusf.
So fares it too with its relation,
I mean its substantive, damnation.
The wit with metaphors makes bold,
And tells you he's damnation cold;
Perhaps, that metaphor forgot,
The self-same wit's damnation hot.

And here a fable I remember—
Once in the middle of December,
When ev'ry mead in snow is lost,
And ev'ry river bound with frost,
When families get all together,
And feelingly talk o'er the weather;
When—pox on the descriptive rhyme—-
In short it was the winter time.
It was a Pedlar's happy lot,
To fall into a Satyr's cot:
Shiv'ring with cold, and almost froze,
With pearly drop upon his nose,
His fingers' ends all pinch'd to death,
He blew upon them with his breath.
“Friend, quoth the Satyr, what intends
“That blowing on thy fingers ends?
“It is to warm them thus I blow,
“For they are froze as cold as snow.
“And so inclement has it been
“I'm like a cake of ice within.”
Come, quoth the Satyr, comfort, man!
I'll chear thy inside, if I can;
You're welcome in my homely cottage
To a warm fire, and mess of pottage.

This said, the Satyr, nothing loth,
A bowl prepar'd of sav'ry broth,
Which with delight the Pedlar view'd,
As smoking on the board it stood.
But, though the very steam arose
With grateful odour to his nose,
One single sip he ventur'd not,
The gruel was so wond'rous hot.
What can be done?—-with gentle puff
He blows it, 'till it's cool enough.

Why how now, Pedlar, what's the matter?
Still at thy blowing! quoth the Satyr.
I blow to cool it, cries the Clown,
That I may get the liquor down:
For though I grant, you've made it well,
You've boil'd it, sir, as hot as hell.

Then raising high his cloven stump,
The Satyr smote him on the rump.
“Begone, thou double knave, or fool,
“With the same breath to warm and cool:
“Friendship with such I never hold
“Who're so damn'd hot, and so damn'd cold.