O Satan, whatsoever geer,
Thy Proteus form shall choose to wear,
Black, red, or blue, or yellow;
Whatever hypocrites may say,
They think thee (trust my honest lay)
A most bewitching fellow.
'Tis ordered (to deaf ears, alas!)
To praise the bridge o'er which we pass
Yet often I discover
A numerous band who daily make
An easy bridge of thy poor back,
And damn it when they 're over.
Why art thou, then, with cup in hand,
Obsequious to a graceless band,
Whose souls are scarce worth taking;
O prince, pursue but my advice,
I'll teach your highness in a trice
To set them all a quaking.
Plays, operas, masquerades, destroy:
Lock up each charming fille de joie;
Give race-horses the glander—
The dice-box break, and burn each card—
Let virtue be its own reward,
And gag the mouth of slander;
In one week's time, I'll lay my life,
There's not a man, nor maid, nor wife,
That will not glad agree,
If thou will chaim'em as before,
To show their nose at church no more,
But quit their God for thee.
Tis now full time my ode should end:
And now I tell thee like a friend,
Howe'er the world may scout thee;
Thy ways are all so wond'rous winning,
And folks so very fond of sinning,
They can not do without thee.
THE KING OF SPAIN AND THE HORSE. PETER PINDAR.
In seventeen hundred seventy-eight,
The rich, the proud, the potent King of Spain,
Whose ancestors sent forth their troops to smite
The peaceful natives of the western main,
With faggots and the blood-delighting sword,
To play the devil, to oblige the Lord!
For hunting, roasting heretics, and boiling,
Baking and barbecuing, frying, broiling,
Was thought Heaven's cause amazingly to further;
For which most pious reason, hard to work,
They went, with gun and dagger, knife and fork,
To charm the God of mercy with their murther!
I say, this King, in seventy-eight surveyed,
In tapestry so rich, portrayed,
A horse with stirrups, crupper, bridle, saddle:
Within the stirrup, lo, the monarch tried
To fix his foot the palfry to bestride;
In vain!—he could not o'er the palfry straddle!