Horace in London Consisting of imitations of the first two books of the odes of Horace. By the authors of the rejected addresses, or the new theatrum poetarum [Horace and James Smith] |
 | I. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
| XXII. |
| XXIII. |
| XXIV. |
| XXV. |
| XXVI. |
| XXVII. |
| XXVIII. |
| XXIX. |
| XXX. |
| XXXI. |
| XXXII. |
| XXXIII. |
| XXXIV. |
| XXXV. |
| XXXVI. |
| XXXVII. | ODE XXXVII. LOB'S POUND.
|
| XXXVIII. |
| II. |
| I. |
| II. |
| III. |
| IV. |
| V. |
| VI. |
| VII. |
| VIII. |
| IX. |
| X. |
| XI. |
| XII. |
| XIII. |
| XIV. |
| XV. |
| XVI. |
| XVII. |
| XVIII. |
| XIX. |
| XX. |
 | Horace in London |  |
109
ODE XXXVII. LOB'S POUND.
The Poet rejoiceth in the return of tranquillity, after the imprisonment of Sir Francis Burdett in the Tower.
Nunc est bibendum, nunc pede libero.
“Now broach ye a pipe of the best Malvoisie,”
'Tis sold at the Marmion tavern,
Come, feast upon turtle, and sing a Scotch glee,
And dance round the table in grand jubilee,
Like so many hags in a cavern.
'Tis sold at the Marmion tavern,
Come, feast upon turtle, and sing a Scotch glee,
And dance round the table in grand jubilee,
Like so many hags in a cavern.
'Tis wrong to draw corks in the midst of a row,
Old Port is the devil when shaken;
The caption was novel, I needs must allow;
An Englishman's house was his castle till now,
But castles are now and then taken.
Old Port is the devil when shaken;
The caption was novel, I needs must allow;
An Englishman's house was his castle till now,
But castles are now and then taken.
110
Dame Fortune had given Sir Francis a dram—
Your drunkards will never be quiet;
He said, “Mr. Serjeant, your warrant's a sham,
Upheld by the rabble; I'll stay where I am.”
So London was all in a riot.
Your drunkards will never be quiet;
He said, “Mr. Serjeant, your warrant's a sham,
Upheld by the rabble; I'll stay where I am.”
So London was all in a riot.
But soon Mr. Serjeant surmounted the basement,
Which only made John Bull the gladder;
For back he was push'd, to his utter amazement;
The baronet smil'd when he saw from the casement
His enemies mounting a ladder.
Which only made John Bull the gladder;
For back he was push'd, to his utter amazement;
The baronet smil'd when he saw from the casement
His enemies mounting a ladder.
At length all the constables broke in below;
Quoth Gibbs, “It is legal, depend on't.”
Thus riding in chace of a Doe or a Roe,
The flying bumbailiff cries “yoix! tally ho!”
And seizes the luckless defendant.
Quoth Gibbs, “It is legal, depend on't.”
Thus riding in chace of a Doe or a Roe,
The flying bumbailiff cries “yoix! tally ho!”
And seizes the luckless defendant.
Sir Francis, determin'd the question to try,
Was quietly reading law latin;
Not able, and therefore not willing to fly,
He saw all the Parliament forces draw nigh,
As firm as the chair that he sat in.
Was quietly reading law latin;
Not able, and therefore not willing to fly,
He saw all the Parliament forces draw nigh,
As firm as the chair that he sat in.
111
His lady was by, and she play'd on her lute,
And sung “Will you come to the bower,”
The Serjeant at Arms, who was hitherto mute,
Advanced and exclaim'd, like an ill-natur'd brute,
“Sir Knight, will you come to the Tower?”
And sung “Will you come to the bower,”
The Serjeant at Arms, who was hitherto mute,
Advanced and exclaim'd, like an ill-natur'd brute,
“Sir Knight, will you come to the Tower?”
He mounted the carriage, by numbers oppress'd,
But first, with a dubious intention,
Like Queen Cleopatra he secretly press'd
Two serpents, in tender adieu, to his breast,
Whose names I had rather not mention.
But first, with a dubious intention,
Like Queen Cleopatra he secretly press'd
Two serpents, in tender adieu, to his breast,
Whose names I had rather not mention.
'Tis thus other Wimbledon heroes attain
The summit of posthumous fame;
They dodge their pursuers through alley and lane,
But when they discover resistance is vain,
They kick up a dust, and die game.
The summit of posthumous fame;
They dodge their pursuers through alley and lane,
But when they discover resistance is vain,
They kick up a dust, and die game.
| Horace in London | |