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] |
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 | II. |
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| II. |
| III. |
| IV. | ODE IV. THE ACTRESS.
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 | Horace in London |  |
122
ODE IV. THE ACTRESS.
Ne sit ancillæ tibi amor pudori.
An Actress! well, I own 'tis true,
But why should that your love subdue,
Or bid you blush for Polly?
When all within is sense and worth,
To care for modes of life, or birth,
Is arrant pride and folly.
But why should that your love subdue,
Or bid you blush for Polly?
When all within is sense and worth,
To care for modes of life, or birth,
Is arrant pride and folly.
A Polly, in a former age,
Resign'd the Captain, and the stage,
To shine as Bolton's Duchess.
Derby and Craven since have shown
That virtue builds herself a throne,
Ennobling whom she touches.
Resign'd the Captain, and the stage,
To shine as Bolton's Duchess.
Derby and Craven since have shown
That virtue builds herself a throne,
Ennobling whom she touches.
123
In each new pantomime that's hatched,
The Columbine is quickly snatched,
To wed some wealthy suitor:
'Tis “All for love, the world well lost”—
What pupil calculates the cost,
When passion is the tutor?
The Columbine is quickly snatched,
To wed some wealthy suitor:
'Tis “All for love, the world well lost”—
What pupil calculates the cost,
When passion is the tutor?
Why, all the world's a stage, and we,
Its pantomimic pageantry,
Change places and conditions:
Fortune's the magic Harlequin,
Whose touch diffuses o'er the scene
Fantastic transpositions.
Its pantomimic pageantry,
Change places and conditions:
Fortune's the magic Harlequin,
Whose touch diffuses o'er the scene
Fantastic transpositions.
Your Polly in her veins may bear
The blood, perchance, of London's Mayor,
Who smote the King's reviler;
Whose mace a monarch's life secures,
But slays an ancestor of yours,
In knocking down Wat Tyler.
The blood, perchance, of London's Mayor,
Who smote the King's reviler;
Whose mace a monarch's life secures,
But slays an ancestor of yours,
In knocking down Wat Tyler.
124
She who is artless, chaste, refin'd,
Disinterested, pure in mind,
Unsoil'd with vice's leaven,
Has that nobility within,
Which kings can neither give nor win;
Her patent is from heaven.
Disinterested, pure in mind,
Unsoil'd with vice's leaven,
Has that nobility within,
Which kings can neither give nor win;
Her patent is from heaven.
Discard your doubts—your suit prefer,
You dignify yourself, not her,
By honourable passion:
And if your noble friends should stare,
Go, bid them show a happier pair
Among the fools of fashion.
You dignify yourself, not her,
By honourable passion:
And if your noble friends should stare,
Go, bid them show a happier pair
Among the fools of fashion.
| Horace in London | |