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BIRCH FOR PETER PINDAR, Eſq. A BURLESQUE POEM.
BY PINDAROMASTIX.
—STULTA EST CLEMENTIA CUM TOT UBIQUE
VATIBUS OCCURRAS, PERITURAE PARCERE CHARTAE.
JUV.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR G. G. J. AND J. ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
M.DCC.LXXXVIII.
TO THE CRITICAL REVIEWERS.
[]O YOU who high on learned benches ſit,
Dread arbiters of dulneſs and of wit,
Whoſe taſk it is to mark with eagle eye
Where poets ſink too low, or ſoar too high,
Judge well my ups and downs, my wit and metre,
And ſwear that Pindar's ſelf was never greater;
But ah! you won't, for none can pleaſe like Peter.
In Peter's praiſe you're louder ſtill and louder,
I fear that rogue has giv'n you all love-powder.
O ſay, dread ſirs, what Sop in Pan will pleaſe you;
Will fatteſt haunch of buck or doe appeaſe you?
Shall rump and dozen ſpeedily be ſent you?
Shall pheaſant, hare, and partridge, compliment you?
What Bard can bribe with Sop of* better ſavour?
Nor you reject a poet's proffer'd favour;
Then, grateful, deign a little helping puff,
One gentle blaſt from you would be enough.
[iv]
Say but, the work's replete with wit and fun,
Quick thro' the land, like wild-fire, it would run,
And ere the moon her circling courſe had roll'd,
Two thouſand copies would be fairly ſold.
In my good luck you all ſhould have a ſhare,
And, ſure, you'll own ſuch offer's very fair.
—Perchance your doublets, ſirs, are waxing bare—
—Perchance your linen wants ſome ſmall repair—
Or if your hats of G—e the Second's reign,
Too long expos'd to ſun, and wind, and rain,
Have loſt their ſtiff'ning and their jetty hue,
Your learned heads I'd ſtraightway crown anew;
No longer ſhould your ſhabby garb proclaim
Neglected merit, and a nation's ſhame.
T' equip you all genteelly, comme il faut,
On R—ns our friends, I'd boldly draw;
Nor fear diſhonour of proteſted bill
'Midſt rapid ſale of Birch, and thriving till.
But if ten thouſand copies once were ſold,
Your brazen-headed canes ſhould blaze with burniſh'd gold.
And now, dread ſirs, if all this will not win you,
Why then, dread ſirs, the D—l, ſure, is in you.
But neither you nor he, my ſportive Muſe ſhall hinder,
I will have one more ſlap at wicked Peter Pindar.
BIRCH FOR PETER PINDAR, ESQ. &c.
[]AH well-a-day!
Ah well-a-day!
What ſhall I ſay?
What ſhall I ſay?
Ah! in what dictionary ſhall I find
Meet words to vent the grief that labours in my mind?
O Muſe! a hapleſs brother Bard deplore,
Who's fallen, fallen, fall'n to riſe no more.
Mourn all ye friends of Peter and of fun,
Mourn very hard indeed—and when ye've done,
[2]Come liſten to my lay,
And mind what I've to ſay.
Now you muſt know this cock of rhyme
Was hatch'd in ſome unlucky time.
Some planet of malignant pow'r
Preſided o'er his natal hour.
I ſee, I ſee
The Fates decree,
Or do or ſay whate'er we can
To ſerve this poor unhappy man,
Some dire diſaſter muſt attend,
And ſo he'll come to no good end.
You know,* at Court I got him plac'd,
But now he's ouſted and diſgrac'd.
Did I not give him good advice,
And that not once, but twice or thrice?
[3]But all advice, I fear, is vain,
The rogue has been at his old tricks again.
Nay, what is worſe than all that's paſt,
He now is held in durance faſt;
As you will hear, if you'll attend
The following ſtory to its end.
Scarce had he warm'd himſelf at Court
Before he fell to wicked ſport.
Well fed and cloth'd, he there begun
To play all ſorts of wanton fun.
Complaints were brought from ev'ry quarter—
—One while he'd ſteal a maid of honour's garter,
And by ſuch flatt'ring token prove
How high he ſtood in maiden's love.
Another while, perdue as dead
He'd couch 'neath maid of honour's bed,
As if intent on nightly wickedneſs;
But now I'm well aſſur'd 'twas nothing leſs.
[4] Bromfield and Hawkins both declare
That he could do no miſchief there,
(I mean in maid of honour's bed)
For all his miſchief's in his head.
In ambuſh thus he only lay
To hear what they in ſleep would ſay,
And then forſooth the wag would run
And tell their ſecrets all in fun.
On this the maidens all combin'd,
And in petition formal join'd
With loud complaints againſt our Bard,
Declaring it was very hard
That he their private chambers ſhould invade,
And hear what they in midnight dreaming ſaid;
Such teſt was far too much for any mortal maid.
Of waking maids, all own, there are great numbers;
But ah! what earthly maid can anſwer for her ſlumbers?
[5]But what they moſt of all things fear'd,
Was, that he'd publiſh all he heard.
They knew that Peter had a tattling tongue,
Which blabb'd out all, but chief if aught was wrong.
Should he in nightly ambuſcade diſcover
That they, in ſleeping fancy only, had a lover,
Of courtly maids, this ſland'rous tale
In Peter Pindar's Ode would ſtand,
And fly forthwith in Palmer's mail
To all the goſſips in the land.
In ſhort—if he muſt be indulg'd in ſuch-like ſport,
The ſiſters, one and all, reſolv'd to quit the Court.
The virtuous maidens rueful plaints were heard,
And full of reaſon and of truth appear'd.
Peter was queſtion'd on theſe heads
Of maidens garters and their beds,
Was by his maſter reprimanded,
And to his proper poſt remanded,
[6]With charge, no more to be ſo rude
As thus indecently t' intrude,
To gratify a curious whim;
For maids or not, what was't to him?
But not the virtuous maids alone,
His fellow-ſervants ev'ry one
Complain'd of ſaucy Peter,
His gibing and his metre.
But chief of all the Laureat-Bard
With reaſon good averr'd, 'twas hard
That he could never make a Birth-day Song
To 'ſcape the witty malice of his tongue.
That when he did his very beſt,
Of all his words, he'd make a jeſt.
Oft as he form'd a ſober rhyme,
Or ſtrove to ſoar in verſe ſublime,
The rogue was ſure to mock him with another,
And now would call him Tom, and now would call him Brother.
[7]Long had he borne his arch grimace,
But now grew weary of his place.
Rather than be the butt of monkey Peter,
He'd quit the trade, and deal no more in metre.
To fly from ſuch intol'rable attack,
He'd forfeit both his bays, and marks, and ſack.
Of chaplains all he'd make a jeſt,
For Peter never lov'd a prieſt.
He always was a very wicked boy,
And never would the Sabbath-day employ
In conning over* Bible-phraſe ſublime;
His Sabbaths all were giv'n to fiddling and to rhyme.
His mother told him 'twas a ſhameful thing
To make ſuch wicked ſongs about his K—g.
Ah! ſon, ſhe'd ſay, 'twill bring thee to the gallows,
As ſure as ſpending Sabbath-day in ale-houſe.
[8]And as he added year to year,
He more and more alarm'd her fear,
Leſt he ſhould take to wicked ways,
And in a halter end his days.—
—But after this digreſſion ſhort,
Let's now reſume our thread at Court,
And Peter's farther pranks report.
Bed-chamber lord or page in waiting
Was ſure to bear his waggiſh baiting.
Whoever came to Court
Was Peter's butt and ſport.
At ev'ry human ailing,
At ev'ry human failing,
Whether halt, or blind, or lame,
He'd loll his tongue, and make his game.
With haſty ſpeech, and utt'rance quick,
He'd play you ev'ry monkey trick.
[9]'Tis ſaid his r—l maſter didn't eſcape
The mimic wagg'ry of this rhyming ape.
At length the courtiers, one and all,
Determin'd to effect his fall.
And yet the queſtion may admit of doubt,
Wheth'r all their efforts could have got him out;
So much his maſter lov'd him,
Till he a traitor prov'd him.
Now, gentle reader, let us ſtraight repair
To council-hall, and learn what paſſes there.
And merry people all, throughout the nation,
Pray liſten to this droll examination.
[10]P—y C—l met.
Lord Teſty thus ad⯑dreſſes the Board.
My Lords, you're ſummon'd here
A horrid tale to hear,
Of Peter Pindar's dark deſign
(Which calls for puniſhment condign)
To kill the K—g, enſlave the nation,
And bring us all to deſolation.
Battalions thick in armour ſtood,
Prepar'd t' embark and ſhed our blood,
To force our wives, our fortunes to devour,
And bring in Popiſh faith and arbitrary pow'r.
I wiſh this dev'liſh imp of rhyme
Could be hang'd now—'twould ſave our tin
But this is not our Engliſh way,
For ev'ry rogue muſt have fair play.
In our proceedings let there be no flaw;
The culprit muſt be hang'd by reg'lar courſe of law.
[11]A Frenchman appears before the C—l to inform againſt Peter Pindar.
Ld. T—y.
Where is this Frenchman? If he's in the way,
We now will hear what he has got to ſay.
But French I do not underſtand;
Is no interpreter at hand?
Interpreter.
O, oui, Milor, and 'tis pour dat I'm here.
Ld. T—y.
O, are you ſo?—a fine interpreter!
Why man, you nought but French can ſplutter;
I'm ſure you can't two words of Engliſh utter.
Interp.
O, my good Lor, you pleaſe, pardonnez moi;
Der is long time I am in dis emploi,
Pour all my contremen dat come from France,
Pour civilize your peuple, and for teach de dance.
Ld. T—y, aſide.
Confound your French impertinence!
But for a moment—truce with impudence.
Well; firſt of all, what's this man's name, d'ye ſay?
Interp.
Milor, ſon nom, his name, be*Parler Vrai.
Ld. T—y.
[12]Now, your name, Monſieur, if you pleaſe?
Interp.
* Interpreteur fidele, bien a votre ſervice.
Ld. T—y.
Who is this Parler Vrai, Monſieur?
Interp.
Milor, attendez, you ſhall hear.
Milor, he have de grand bonheur
To be un gentilhomme d'honeur.
Ld. T—y.
Indeed? Then, if you pleaſe, let's hear
What bus'neſs brought his honour here.
Interp.
Milor, to Londres he have come pour his plaiſir,
And 'tis pour dat, Milor, he is in England here.
Ld. T—y.
And pray what might he do in his own nation?
Had he no ſort of trade or occupation?
Interp.
Milor, when he do live in his own place,
He acammode de head, and ſhave de face.
Ld. T—y.
I thought as much:—you know him?—
—Interp.
O que oui.
Monſieur be my good friend, mon bon ami.
Ld. T—y.
[13]O, is he ſo?—Then let this Parler Vrai
Speak out, and tell us what he has to ſay.
Interp.
to P. V.
A preſent parlez haut & parlez tout.
Ld. T—y.
What's that?—
—Interp.
Milor, I tell him to ſpeak out.
Parler Vrai
depoſes.
Quand j'étois à la cour de France
Je faiſois très-grande connoiſſance.
Et j'avois auſſi le bonheur
De travailler chez un friſeur,
Un homme d'eſprit & de bon Sens
Qui coiffoit* l'Archevêque de Sens.
Il connut auſſi bien ſon ſécretaire
Qui lui racontoit une etrange affaire,
D'un certain drole ici en grand emploi,
Même accoucheur, il avoit dit, a Roi.
Ld. T—y
[14]in⯑terrupting.
Hark ye, Monſieur Interpreter!
Pray check his honour's glib career,
Or elſe of all this length'ning tale
We ne'er ſhall make or head or tail.
Before his honour further goes,
You'll pleaſe t' explain in verſe or proſe,
To ſatisfy each Engliſh head
Of what he has already ſaid.
As ſoon as this is clearly done,
You'll bid his honour then go on;
But pleaſe to ſtop him now and then,
(I leave to your diſcretion, when)
And give the Engliſh ſenſe, as well as you are able,
Or elſe 'twill be confuſion all, like tow'r of Babel.
Interp.
Milor, I vil de Engliſh meaning tell,
And you ſhall ſay, I ſpeak your language well.
Milor, when at de court of France
He ſay he make grand acquaintance,
[15]And dat he have de happineſs
To work vid one friſeur who dreſs
De peruque, and who ſhave de face
Of Monſeigneur de Sens his grace;
Which courtier have good ſenſe to tell
When he do hear ſome ting nouvelle.
And dat Milor of Sens his ſecretaire
Did one day tell him of one ſtrange affaire,
Of ſome droll fellow in your nation
En grand emploi and occupation,
Who ſay dat he have de honneur
To be your K—g his accoucheur.
Ld. T—y in⯑terrupting.
Why, what the d—l's that, Monſieur?
Interp.
Patience, Milor, and you ſhall hear:
It is for make accouche your K—g,
When he want do one certain ting.
Dat be one drole affaire, ma foi,
To make accoucher un gros Roi,
Like when your wife, Milor, accouche for little boy.
[16]Inſtant on this, burſt forth ſuch loud uproar
As ne'er was heard at C—l Board before;
Beards, wigs, and noſes, wagged all,
And unextinguiſh'd laughter ſhook the hall.
Not more when merry Gods above
Surround the feſtal board of Jove;
While nectar and ambroſia crown the feaſt,
And Peter Pindar cracks his witty jeſt.
P. V.
to In⯑terp. aſide.
Mais pourquoi fait-on tant d'eclat de rire?
Interp.
Mon ami, o'eſt la mode en Angleterre.
Ld. T—y.
Come, leave your prattling—if you don't go on
With this curs'd bus'neſs, we ſhall ne'er have done.
Interp.
to P. V.
De finir ce rapport, depechez vous,
Monſieur en grand peruque eſt faché contre nous.
Parler Vrai
proceeds.
Je dis qu'un drole ici en grand emploi,
Même accoucheur, il avoit dit, a Roi,
Pindar ſon nom, ſon nom de Baptême Pierre,
Il avoit bien écrit, que le derrière
[17]Du Roi ici il garde—la clef pour cela il tient—
Et que ſans lui le Roi ne jamais feroit rien.
Interp.
Dat is, Milor, dis Peter Pindar
He write, dat he your K—g can hinder
From do one certain ting when he have mind,
Becauſe he keep de key of his behind.
On this Lord T—y gave him ſuch a look!
But not a nerve of dauntleſs Peter ſhook.
Parler Vrai continues.
Et que pour penſion bonne de dix mille livres
Pour lui apprêter, comme il faut, des vivres,
Il ſera prêt de fermer bien ſon Roi
En ſorte qu'il ne faſſe rien pour tout un moi,
Pendant ce temps lequel eſt bien critique
Pour ſervir à leurs plans de politique.
Interp.
Dat is, Milor, dis Peter Pindar mention
If dey vil give five hundred pound of pemſion,
Dat he may have roaſt-beef and wine,
(On which he dearly love to dine)
[18]He vil not let your England K—g
Pour tirty day do dat ſame ting;
By dis to give ſome better chance
To ſerve de politique of France.
Ld. T—y.
Bravo! Interpreteur fidele,
Thou doſt thy office very well.
Now let thy brother Parler Vrai
Declare what more he has to ſay.
Interp.
Milor, I know he have no more to tell.
Ld. T—y.
Then you'll withdraw—ſo far we go on well.
Ld. T—y,
addreſſing P. Pindar.
So!—here are pretty doing, maſter Peter—
—Since firſt I heard of thee and thy d—n'd metre,
I've all along had ſome fore-boding thought
That ſtocks or pillory would be thy lot;
But hanging now, I ſee, and nothing leſs
Will ſerve thy turn:—Come then; thou'dſt beſt confeſs.
Thou'lt ſave much coſt by ſuch a reſolution,
And eaſe us of the plague of proſecution.
Peter,
[19]in⯑trepidly.
Hold, hold, my Lord; not quite ſo faſt!
If you are, I am not in haſte.
I've ſome ſmall ſkill in law as well as rhyme,
And mean t' avail myſelf of further time.
I'm not to be brow-beaten ſo
In ev'ry action that I do:
I know how far 'tis ſafe to go.
Produce your Frenchman—let him ſwear
To any given day or year,
I'll prove that at the very time
I was employ'd in making rhyme,
Or making up a pill,
Or bolus, which you will.
Next, let him ſwear to place—then I
Will ſwear and prove an alibi.
Think not I'm ſo abandon'd and forlorn,
I've ne'er an affidavit-friend to ſerve a turn,
If letters ſign'd by me are brought to light,
I'll prove that I can neither read nor write,
[20]And, ſpite of you and all your law,
I'll ſave my bacon by ſome flaw.
Ld. T—y.
Was ever impudence a match for this!
Quondam empiric! ſay'ſt thou, common Fame?
No, no, thou'rt wrong in thy hypotheſis;
Old Rock himſelf was ne'er ſo void of ſhame.
Some quondam ſcrivener, I ween,
Of brazen front, and perjur'd tongue,
To lie and ſwear thro' thick and thin,
And make the rightful cauſe appear the wrong.
But, Peter, truſt not to thy ſkill
In quirks and quibbles of the law;
I'll ſqueeze thee in attainder's bill;
Where's then thy bacon-ſaving flaw?
Peter.
Well; if I muſt be hang'd, I muſt;
All men muſt die, and come to duſt.
Then what imports it, when or where,
Or ſoon or late, or here or there?
[21]Reclin'd on couch, or propp'd in eaſy chair,
Or pendent high in ambient field of air?
No form of death can ſcare your dauntleſs bard;
I'll kiſs my friend the hangman, and die hard.
Ld. T—y.
Well, Peter, juſtice ſhall be done thee,
Whatever judgment falls upon thee.
Meanwhile I'd have thee better ſpend thy time,
And leave off this bad trade of making rhyme.
Peter
in⯑trepid to the laſt.
No, that, my Lord, I ſurely will not do;
I'll make one more d—n'd ode for you.
Inſult not o'er my fallen ſtate,
Perhaps yourſelf, or ſoon or late,
May fall like me—it was the ca [...]
Of better men who held your place.
The loſing gameſters by and by may win,
Ins may go out, and outs once more come in.
And oh!
If ſo,
[22]Then your fell foe
Will work your woe.
Impeachments thick
Will follow quick,
And make you kick
Againſt the prick;
But F—x will ſtick
As cloſe as tick,
Nor quit you till he ſends you to old Nick.
Ld. T—y,
aſide.
Sure never impudence on this ſide Hell
This raſcal Peter Pindar's did excel.
Addreſſing the C—l.
My Lords, this is a horrid, horrid thing,
A foul conſpiracy againſt the K—g,
To ſtop the paſſage of his r—l life,
I do not ſay by poiſon or by knife,
But by a method ſtill more deep and dark,
Such as would leave no indicating mark,
Nor aught of outward ſymptom that might lead
To trace the author of ſuch ſhocking deed.
[23]My Lords, in all my reading,
My Lords, in all my pleading,
A caſe in point I never knew,
The caſe is altogether new.
Search all King-killing caſes,
The Jeſuits were but aſſes,
Compar'd with this aſtrictive fellow Peter—
—D—n'd coſtive in his plot, however lax in metre!
My Lords, I freely own I'm no phyſician,
I cannot ſpeak with Warwick-lane preciſion—
Nor Galen nor Hippocrates my book,
But old black-letter Littleton with Coke.
But lawyers, ſure, may have as good pretence
As any other men to common ſenſe.
Allow me this, and I can reaſon give
Why in ſuch caſe no mortal man can live.
To ſhut ſuch channel muſt be certain death,
Not more ſo, ſtopping up the vital breath.
[24]How long ſuch caſe might go, I will not ſay,
I cannot fix the limits to a day;
But to my reaſon it appears moſt plain
That half a month would kill the ſtouteſt man.
And ſure, you'll own, my Lords, in ſuch-like ail
The K—g's prerogative can nought avail.
In caſes of evacuation,
And ev'ry other operation
Pertaining to our common frame,
The r—l functions are the ſame
With thoſe which Nature calls from you and me:
In this, my Lords, at leaſt, I truſt, we all agree.
Then from your own experience freely ſpeak,
And ſay what man among you ever went a week.
This ſaid, a gentle murm'ring ſound
Of hear him! hear him! circled round,
Re-echoed by a large majority,
Tho' not unanimous the fav'ring cry.
[25]The Scottiſh corps, in deepeſt wonder,
All ſat amaz'd, as ſtruck with thunder,
To hear Lord T—y talk at ſuch a rate—
Then crowding all together tête à tête,
Their notes poſterior they compar'd,
And all with one conſent declar'd
Such argument was void of ſenſe,
And counter to their own experience.
Some ſaid the mon was mad—but all agreed
He'd got a glaſs o' whiſky in his head.
At length Tweed-ſide on T—y fix'd his eye,
And holding forth his leg, up-roſe to make reply
Ld. Tweed-ſide.
Hoot mon, ye talk juſt like a fule
I'll ſend ye croſs the Tweed to ſchule,
And there ye'll ſee our bonny lads can gang
Without the like o' this the winter lang.
Wous! mon, were we to caſt away our meat
Wi' ilka moon, we'd ſoon hae nought to cat.
[26]Fra ſide o' Tweed to Johnny Groats,
Ye wadna find a peck o' oats.
But here's ſic waſtefu' wark as ne'er was ſeen!
Ye cram your weams fra morning until e'en,
And gin ye canna lat it out,
Ye're than au fou o' bile and gout.
Not ſae wi' us—we gang a moon and mare,
And yet our weams are neither ſick nor ſare.
My Lords, I dinna ſpeak from partiality,
Nor any cauſe, my Lords, of nationality.
This Peter Pundar, ye may ſee,
Is nought to me nae mare than ye.
My Lords, I trow, ye ken full [...]eel
I never countenanc'd the cheel,
Nor mean to do't for this ane thing,
The fallow does nae like his K—g,
Becauſe he wadna buy his ſang;
In that, I own, he's very wrang.
[27]But as to this conſpiracy,
I'll wager that it's au a lie.
I canna think that ſic a deed
Could ever enter the loon's head.
But if it did, how could he do't?
My Lords, I canna mak that out.
Ye ken full weel, to Court he never gangs,
The kallon gets his bread by making ſangs.
My Lords, his time's employ'd the leeve-lang day
To win baubees by lilting o' the lay.
As to your idle tales o' this and that,
Of accoucheur a Roi, and G— knows what,
My Lords, I wad believe as ſoon
[Ld. T—y giving Ld. Tweed-ſide a look of diſapprobation.]
We're juſt now ſitting i' the moon.
Hoot mon! don't luke at me ſae ſurly,
And mak not au this hurly-burly
About a thing o' nought,
Till ye hae further ſought.
[28]Conſider weel what ye're about,
Or elſe ye'll get us au turn'd out.
Troth mon, I did nae think ye ſic a fule,
To bring us here to be the ridicule
Of folks o' ilka rank and ſtation,
Bath high and low throughout the nation.
A ballad-maker ſtop up the K—g's weam!
O Lourd! O Lourd! we'll au be brought to ſhame.
My Lords, we munna ſhew our faces,
The folks will call us fules and aſſes.
And weel I wat ſome cheel will tak the hint,
And ſtick us au together in a print.
Yes, yes, my Lords, ye'll ſee your ſels in etches,
Your Lawland lads are deev'liſh quick at ſketches.
Beſides, that fallow Pundar ther ere lang
Will link us au into a bonny ſang.
Troth, now I think on't, 'twad be better,
Before we riſe, to tuck up Peter.
[29]We ſoon could put him out o' th' way,
And ſtop the lilting o' his lay.
The loſs o' ſic a loon wad nae be much—
I've got a bit o' inkle i' my pouch;
If auld friend T—y will but gie the beck,
We'll mak a nooſe, and put it round his neck,
And ſae e'en lat him ſwing,
But dinna tell the K—g;
If he ſhould ſpeer for Peter, we may ſay
The loon brak out o' jail, and ran away:
And now, my noble Lords, what ſay ye au?
Wha votes for Highland execution law?
We'd find ſome hole about the C—l Houſe
Where he wad lig as ſtill as ony mouſe.
I ſee ye laugh, my Lords, and weel ye may,
I dinna mean to hang the lad to-day;
I only meant a fling at T—y there,
For bringing us like April ninnies here.
[30]Gude faith! I'd hae him luke about,
And ſee how he can get us out
O' ſic a ſcrape as this—for ſhould the K—g
Surpriſe us in't, 'twad be a ſerious thing.
He'd turn us out to ſeek our bread,
Wi' auld friend T—y at our head.
For wha wad keep ſic fules about him?
Sic c—l's only fit for Gotham.
My Lords, I fear, I've tedious been,
And by friend T—y's lukes and ein,
He's in a deev'liſh angry mood I find;
I dinna care for that—I'll ſpeak my mind.
In points o' law, I readily allow,
To him we au mun doff our hats and bow;
On this ſide Tweed, I mean—but in a caſe
O' coſtive weam he talks juſt like an aſs.
I ſee he does nae ken what he's about,
If he wad let me, I could help him out;
[31]But this he winna do—he'll hae his way,
And, troth, I fear he'll lead us au aſtray—
—I ſee this ſilly bus'neſs mun gang on.
Weel, weel, among ſae many fules I am but one.
Now let's ſuppoſe this Frenchman's tale a fact,
I canna deem't a treaſonable act;
For what's a moon? that could nae kill a K—g.
Did I not tell you, 'twas a common thing
For my North-Britiſh countrymen to gang
Twa moons or three?—And yet we are as ſtrang
As ye are here—as free fra ails, ſave now and then
A little bit o' yuking outwardly i' th' ſkin.
As to that babbling Frenchman's ſilly chat
About a penſion, or the like o' that,
The tale appears to me an arrant fiction,
And fraught wi' nonſenſe and wi' contradiction.
If penſion was the object o' his game,
Ye ken, my Lords, he might hae that at hame.
[32]But penſion'd ſlave he winna be,
Nor ſell his Wulks-and-Liberty
For au that K—gs and Courts can gie.
He does nae like their ſtrait-lac'd ways,
Their proclamations, and their Sabbath-days.
Kirk-ganging orders mak him ſick;
He likes to wag his feedle-ſtick,
And thinks it is the better way
To chaſe the muckle Deel away,
By playing Bobbing Joan, and ſic like airs,
Than ſinging pſalms at kirk, and ſaying pray'rs.
Lord Sidewind.
Here, by your leave, my Lord,
Let me put in a word.
Permit me to object,
That tho' he did reject
A handſome proffer'd penſion here,
Nathleſs the culprit might elſewhere
Make hearty zealous application,
Mov'd both by int'reſt and by inclination.
[33]What tho' a G—e has ever been his ſnarling,
Does this evince that Louis is n't his darling?
I apprehend this was the very matter
Which prompted Peter to become a traitor;
For Brunſwick's line he bears a crabb'd affection,
Becauſe the Houſe of Bourbon is his predilection
Ld. Tweed⯑ſide,
in reply.
Hoot, hoot, I canna think him ſic a ninny,
To pouch a loui rather than a guinea,
And au for nought but love and itch o' treaſon:
Sic deed wad prove the fallow void o' reaſon,
A ſubject fit, in murky cell
Wi' Bedlamites for aye to dwell.
No, no, my Lords, ſay what ye will,
The kallon has ſome conſcience ſtill.
K—g G—e he ſays has bairns, and times are hard,
And for this cauſe he lately has declar'd
It gangs againſt his grain, and he's nae willing,
To tak fra him a ſingle ſiller ſhilling.
[34]Weel then, I argue thus a fortiori—
Gude faith, 'twad be a ſtrange unlikely ſtory,
That, fond of Louis, as ye ſay he is,
He'd aſk for ſiller at a time like this.
Hoot, hoot, ye ken full weel, my Lords, I trow,
The Grand Monarque's a broken-merchant now;
And to their ſorrow, creditors have found
He canna pay a mark in ilka pound.
Is this a time to aſk for penſion,
Amang ſic quarrel and diſſenſion,
That Louis canna get a ſous
To pay his tradeſmen's bills, and keep his houſe?
But now, my Lords, I fear ye're weary grown
O' my long talk, and T—y 'gins to frown.
He ſeems to be in a moſt deev'liſh paſſion,
As if he'd gie us Pundar's ſang—D—n
Seize ye au.—Weel, now I've ſaid my ſay,
And now my auld friend T—y fire away.
[35]The colour glow'd in T—y's cheek,
Thrice he eſſay'd, but could not ſpeak.
With blow of fiſt (ſo fierce his choler burn'd)
'Tis ſaid, he ſplit the C—l Board in twain.
At length, when wonted pow'rs of voice return'd,
He thus begun in high indignant ſtrain.
Ld. T—y.
My Lords, I don't regard one ſingle jot
Of all that ſell from that dry-bellied Scot.
Quick, rous'd at this, and fraught with ire,
His eye-balls flaſhing hoſtile fire,
Tweed-ſide retorted:—D—n your blude,
Gin I had not a mind as gude
For this illib'ral national reflaction
To make your life and ſaul pay ſatisfaction;
For au ye luke ſae grim, and talk ſae big,
I neither heed ye, nor your muckle wig.
Order! order! order! all!
Order echoed through the hall.
Lord Hopeful.
[36]O fie! O fie! my Lords, command your paſſion,
Or elſe our C—ls will diſgrace the nation.
Rude language this, unmeet to fall
From members grave in C—l hall.
O, may this fray be never told;
O, may no tongue the tale unfold;
And yet, I ſpeak it with great ſorrow,
The tale will all be told to-morrow.
Perhaps ev'n now ſome patriot-ſpy
In corner ſnug is ſtanding by,
To catch up ev'ry word that falls
Within the compaſs of theſe walls.
O, tell it not in Gath!
O, tell it not in Bath!
But ſure it will be told afar,
And ſure it will be publiſh'd near.
Then what will foreign nations ſay
When they're inform'd of this affray?
[37]They'll ſay our C—l is all riot,
No better than a Poliſh diet.
O, glorious news for Sh—d—n and F—x!
O, welcome ſubject for their witty jokes!
How will they chuckle when they once find out
We make as much fracas within as they without!
But in one point they're wiſer far than we;
Among themſelves they very well agree.
My Lords, our meaſures only they oppoſe;
Diſdain not to learn wiſdom from your foes.
Ld. Courtly.
My Lords, I hope you'll one and all attend,
And mark the prudence of our premier-friend.
A forward youth he is, of wond'rous parts,
He charms our ears, and captivates our hearts:
Perſuaſion ever dwells upon his tongue
So very much, I never think him wrong.
Endow'd with all his father's force and fire,
In wiſdom grave the ſon excels the ſire.
[38]In years advanc'd thrice ten, or little more,
He boaſts the cautious temper of three ſcore.
My Lords, let loſs of place alarm our fears,
And bind us to this youth, who's wiſe above his years.
Ld. Make-peace.
My Lords, this prudent motion I for one
(In which, I truſt, I ſhall not ſtand alone)
Moſt cordially approve:—And now, my Lords,
I'm up—I wiſh to utter a few words;
Happy, if any thing that falls from me
Should be the means to make us all agree.
Revolving this ſtrange matter in my mind,
The only proper method I can find,
Is to call in two men of famous ſkill,
Well read in ev'ry book on coſtive ill.
The ſons of Aeſculapius beſt will know
How far a caſe like this may ſafely go.
My Lords, you'll own, this is a point that falls
Without the competency of theſe walls.
[39]The queſtion was no ſooner mov'd,
Than by the Board nem. con. approv'd.
Enter two Phyſicians.
Ld Category.
Well, doctors, you have heard the caſe, no doubt;
What are your thoughts upon it? Pray ſpeak out.
Dr. Primus.
My Lord, I think the matter
Is poſſible in nature,
For any man or woman
(Tho' 'tis not very common)
In ſuch-like caſe to go
For thirty days or ſo,
Secure from all alarms of diſſolution,
Or any injury to conſtitution.
Ld. C—y.
Did ever caſe like this in all
Your practice and experience fall?
Dr. P.
I cannot ſay it did—
—Ld. C—y.
Then reaſon give
How coſtive patient in ſuch caſe could live.
Dr. P.
[40]My Lord, in fault of ſuch evacuation,
Our ſyſtem operates by tranſpiration,
That is, my Lord, by porous exſudation.
Ld. C—y
to Dr. Secundus.
Now, Doctor, give us your advice.
Dr. Secundus.
I will, my Lord, and in a trice,
And partly with my friend I ſay—Content.
In other points I widely muſt diſſent.
For in default of ſuch evacuation,
I own my learned Brother's tranſpiration,
In plainer terms, his porous exſudation,
Might help Dame Nature for twelve days or ſo;
Further than this no mortal man can go.
The ſtouteſt K—g that ever wore a crown
In half a month muſt lay his ſceptre down.
Ld. C—y
to the Board.
My Lords, this caſe is harder than we thought,
And G—knows when to iſſue 'twill be brought.
What do you ſay? Our time ſhould now be ſpent
In thinking of ſome new expedient.
Ld. Din⯑ner-bell.
[41]My Lords, if my poor feeble voice be heard,
This puzzling point had better be deſerr'd,
And to the learned corps in W—k-lane reſerr'd.
Meanwhile, my Lords, we may go home and dine,
Recruit our ſpirits with a glaſs of wine,
May take a little private recreatiion,
And then reſume this deep deliberation.
Done, done,
Nem. con.
Now, gentle reader, ſhould ſome Lord invite thee,
Perhaps a ſumptuous dinner may delight thee;
But if no lordly invitations come,
Then cat thy mutton-chop, and be content at home.
But if nor houſe nor home be thine,
Nor mutton-chop, nor ſilver coin,
Alas, thy caſe is very hard,
Thou'dſt better change it with our Bard.
Peter lives well, and at free charge,
Until he's ſet once more at large;
[42]And that, I think, muſt be ere long,
Unleſs Lord T—y, right or wrong,
To ſhew how far his pow'r can go
In wreaking vengeance on a foe,
Should graſp him in his arbitrary paw,
And give him* Biſhop Atterbury's law.
But if he does, this won't hang Peter,
Nor ſtop th' effuſions of his metre.
'Tis true, ſuch law would make him prance,
And ſend him croſs the ſea to France;
But T—y's utmoſt malice
No further goes than Calais.
From thence our Bard may ſtrait proceed,
And at Verſailles its merits plead.
What tho' the plot did not ſucceed,
His will was ready for the deed.
Ev'n good intentions of this ſort
Are well receiv'd at Bourbon's Court.
[43]It ever was the Gallic nature
To hug a rebel and a traitor;
Whene'er they find a rogue in grain,
For future jobs his ſervice they retain.
Here may our Bard ſnug refuge take,
As did ere while that Yankee ſnake,
Like Peter foſter'd by his K—g
Till he ſhot forth his vengeful ſting,
To wound the land which gave him bread,
And rais'd from earth his recreant head.
And if capricious Fortune ſhould befriend him,
And old Ben Franklin's wond'rous luck attend him,
Peter, high-honour'd by our Gallic foe,
May figure at Verſailles a rebel Plenipo.
But now 'tis time our bus'neſs ſhould go on,
I wiſh theſe guzzling C—l Lords were done;
For ſure they take a tedious while to dine—
—Oh! here they come well-fluſh'd with roſy wine;
[44]Two-bottle men, I warrant you, or more;
Two did I ſay?—More likely three or four.
Preſident of the Board.
Once more, my Lords, we're all in C—l met.
Let ev'ry noble member take his ſeat.
And now I hope you'll be good boys,
Refrain from quarrel and from noiſe;
Commit no outrage or diſorder,
Or I muſt call you all to order.
Ld. T—y.
My Lord, you've ſpoken like a prudent man,
And keep us all to order, if you can.
Ld. Category
Is there no meſſage come from W—k lane?
Can't all the learned there this caſe explain?
Dr. De⯑puty.
My Lord, in due obedience to your high command,
Deputed from our learned body here I ſtand.
With long deliberation
On points of tranſpiration,
Or-porous exſudation,
Our minds are all in deep and dark confuſion,
And cannot grope the way to fair concluſion.
[45]My Lords, the members of our college
Do all with one conſent acknowledge
The caſe is not within their knowledge.
The point ſuſpended muſt remain,
Till France, and Italy, and Spain,
With ev'ry other learned nation,
Have penn'd a Latin diſſertation.
When all our rays of ſcience are collected,
We hope ſufficient light will be reflected,
Some fair concluſion to make out,
And clear this point beyond all doubt.
Meantime, my Lords, you'll not forget
That we've receiv'd no money yet.
You know, my Lords, with men of our deſcription
The maxim is—no guinea, no preſcription.
In this one caſe our brethren all agree,
That nothing muſt be done without a fee.
This wanting, not a word they'll write or ſpeak,
But keep within their teeth their Latin and their Greek.
[46]If then you'd know our whole collected ſenſe,
You muſt not be too ſparing of your pence.
Our name is Legion—we are many,
And ev'ry man muſt have his guinea.
—Down with a hundred thouſand pounds or ſo—
We'll then begin, and ſee how far 'twill go.
Inſtant at name of hundred thouſand pounds,
Lord Hopeful, ſtarting from his ſeat, cry'd—Zounds!
This Peter Pindar plagues us more than Haſtings,—
Amidſt ſuch laviſh ſpendings, and ſuch waſtings,
My ſinking fund will ne'er go on,
And then, my Lords, we're all undone;
For F—x and B—ke will pour forth fierce orations,
And drive us from our places and our ſtations.
Doctor, we give no anſwer now;
To-morrow you ſhall further know.
[47]Dr. Deputy withdraws.
Ld. T—y
to the Board.
My Lords, we nothing further can diſcover;
This Peter Pindar's trial muſt—ſtand over.
When W—k-lane this puzzling queſtion clears,
Or ſtronger evidence from France appears,
I'll ſend a proper ſummons to you all,
And hope you'll meet me here in C—l Hall,
Meanwhile, till we have fairly try'd him,
Pen, ink, and paper, ſhall not be denied him.
Peter.
Thank you, my Lord, I'll uſe your favour well,
And this, my next d—n ode ſhall tell.
C—l adjourns.
Peter, I ſee thy cauſe will tire them out.
Yes, yes, thou'lt get off now, I make no doubt.
But what avails this one eſcape?
Thou'lt ſoon be in another ſcrape.
For ah! my ill-ſtarr'd rhyming brother,
Thou muſt be hang'd one day or other.
[48]What ſay'ſt thou, Peter, to all this?
Peter.
Why, faith, I take it much amiſs,
That thou'ſt ſtopp'd ſhort of thy intention,
To ſport thy Muſe with my ſuſpenſion.
Long while I've been in tip-toe expectation
To ſee how thou'dſt perform the operation.
But this poſtponing is an artful ſcheme,
My penetrating eye perceives thy driſt,
Thy Muſe, unequal to the lofty theme,
Would hide her nakedneſs with this poor ſhift.
Forgive me, if I do thee wrong
By raſh conjecture of thy ſong.
I grant thou haſt ſome little ſkill—
—I ſee that thou haſt words at will
In common chat, and ſuch-like humble ſport—
Sermoni propiora—ſeems thy forte.
But where's thy ſimile, and phraſe ſublime?
For Fancy's flights, I fear, thou haſt no rhyme.
[49]No;—loftineſs of ſong is not for thee,
But Homer, Virgil, Milton, and for ME.
And now my hand is fairly in,
I'll ſhew thee how thou muſt begin,
If thou would'ſt boldly ſoar in epic line,
And rival Homer's lofty ſong or mine.
Now cock thine eye,
And ſee me fly.
"Of T—y's direful wig, of vengeful laws,
"Of plot and coſtive K—g, the tragic cauſe
"Which launch'd from Tyburn-tree to Pluto's reign
"The ſoul of tuneful Bard untimely ſlain,
"Sing heav'nly Muſe, &c."—Thus muſt thy numbers flow
To hurl a lofty Bard to ſhades below;
And always end thy ſong with brilliant daſh,
Which Frenchmen call eclat, and Engliſhmen call flaſh.
Obſerve my leſſons well, and by and by
Thy feeble unfledg'd Muſe may learn to fly.
[50]Now, Peter Pindar, without joking,
Thou'rt grown ſo ſaucy and provoking,
Thou'lt rouſe my chol'ric indignation
To give thee ſuch a flagellation
As thou hadſt never yet,
And wilt not ſoon forget.
Then take this little ſample of my ſkill,
And own I've ſimiles, as well as words, at will.
1. Fox and Grapes Simile.
As Fox which eyes the ripen'd grapes,
And knows no fruit is ſweeter,
But if he can't, won't have thoſe grapes;
So'rt thou, O Reynard Peter.
2. The diſappointed Swain Simile.
As Swain who woos a pretty maid,
And fain at church would meet her;
But ah! whoſe rival wins that maid;
So'rt thou, green-willow Peter.
[51]3. The Old Maid Simile.
As ancient Maid who will not wed,
If ſuitors won't entreat her,
And ſorely rails at marriage-bed;
So'rt thou, forſaken Peter.
4. Grub-ſtreet Bard Simile.
As vileſt Bard who mocks his K—g
In motley dogg'rel metre,
Still diſregarded by his K—g;
So'rt thou, O Grub-ſtreet Peter.
5. Pindar and his Muſe, like to like,
As is thy darling and prolific Muſe
Of eaſy virtue, and unbluſhing face;
So'rt thou (forgive me if I wrong accuſe)
Devoid of honour, loyalty, or grace.
Peter.
[52]What? touch my honour! rather ſtrike me dead.—
—My deareſt rhyming Brother Peter,
So well I love thee and thy metre,
I would not touch a hair upon thy head.
With ſuch a pleaſant and facetious fellow
I'd ſooner drink a bottle, and be mellow.
My deareſt Bard, with thee O may I ſwing,
If I don't love thee, as thou lov'ſt thy K—g.
But as to honour, Peter, ſay no more,
Repeat no grievance, aggravate no ſore.
Peter.
Honour I had—
—Yes, yes, no doubt, no doubt,
But uſage hard has worn thy honour out.
But 'tis no loſs, for what canſt thou
With this ſame honour have to do?
It never ſold thy bolus or thy pill,
It never paid thy printer K—y's bill.
If then thy honour brings no profit,
What good to thee can e'er come of it?
[53]Thy brother wit, Jack Falſtaff, us'd to ſay
That of ſuch uſeleſs bauble he'd have none,
Which could not keep him out of danger's way,
Nor heal a wound, nor ſet a broken bone.
Of Falſtaff's prudence I produce this ſample,
For Peter Pindar's leſſon and example;
For, ſure, you are congenial ſouls
As ever met o'er flowing bowls,
Or e'er carous'd with giddy heir apparent,
Or made diſloyal jeſt of r—l parent.
O, had I Shakeſpeare's deathleſs lyre,
O, would his Muſe my verſe inſpire,
Thy name, O Peter, ſtill ſhould float along
The ſtream of Time in never-drowning ſong;
And whilſt the years in long ſucceſſion roll,
Still Jack and Peter ſhould ſwim cheek by jowl.
—But now of flouriſhing enough.
Let's find the thread where we broke off.
[54]My Muſe forgets—O fie upon her!—
—But now I recollect—'twas honour.
Of this I tell thee once again,
That honour's loſs will be thy gain.
This honour would not let thee ſing,
Nor mock and ridicule thy K—g.
Such loyal monitor would ſtrike thee dumb,
And poet Pindar turn to poet mum;
And this would be thy certain ruin,
Thy woeful ſtarving and undoing.
—But this is only waſting precious time—
I'm now to give thee ſimile ſublime.
The Gibbet Simile.
As when ſome rogue's on lofty gibbet hung,
Some rogue as impudent as ever ſwung,
His ghaſtly corpſe all dangling in the air,
Retaining ev'n in death a dire King-killing air.
[55]Sure, Peter, this muſt freeze thy very blood;
Thou'rt very bad if this won't make thee good.
But ſince thou'rt ſo ambitious and preſumptuous grown,
I'll hoiſt thee higher ſtill—but then I'll fetch thee down.
But be n't afraid, 'tis all in ſport,
And thou'lt receive but little hurt.
Nay, in this game thou'lt be the only winner,
For thou, not I, wilt carry off the dinner.
The Kite Simile.
As when ſome C-ts-w-d Kite aſcends on high,
Waves in the wind, or ſails along the ſky,
If prey's in view, and hunger preſſes hard,
Slap down he comes to ſnatch a chick from poultry yard.
Now, Peter, thou haſt ſtol'n that chicken,
'Twill ſerve thee for a little picking.
I gueſs that thou'rt a greedy elf,
Thou'lt eat it ev'ry bit thyſelf.
[56]Perchance to K—y thou wouldſt help a wing,
But deuce a bit to me, or ev'n to G—e thy K—g.
Peter, I like not ſhooting in the dark,
Becauſe not one in three may hit thy mark.
Give me that open day-light rebel poet
Who tells his name, nor cares if all men know it.
But thou behind this Pindar's maſk art ſnug
As biting vermin latent cloſe in rug,
By Gods unnam'd, by Britiſh men clep'd—bug.
Yes; this buſh-fight
Is thy delight.
How oft like coward ſavage haſt thou laid
In dark and ſilent nightly ambuſcade,
Thy ſpiteful feather'd ſhaft to wing
And wound the heart of G—e thy K—g,
A K—g who never injur'd thee,
But very much offended me,
[57]By ſuch diſuſe of r—l ſhears,
And ſuch neglect of Peter Pindar's ears.
Such cowardly attack
I never will forgive;
I'll point thee out a black
As long as e'er I live.
I've more to add—which further ſtill will grate;
For tho' thou art a witty fellow,
With thee I never will be mellow:
Aſſaſſins ever were my mortal hate.
Yes; now more ſeriouſly I come to think,
I muſt recall my former haſty motion;
If e'er with rebel rogues like thee I drink,
May baneful juice of hemlock be my potion.
Moreover, Peter; if the Fates decree
That judgment muſt o'ertake both thee and me
For this our crime
Of wicked rhyme;
[58]If thou and I muſt both be ſhipp'd away,
To found new families at Bot'ny Bay;
Before ſuch foreign trip I take,
This firſt inquiry will I make,
What paſſengers are going?
And if I find that thou art there,
I'll cry, raſh mariner! forbear,
Nor be thy own undoing.
If life, or ſhip, or cargo, thy regard,
For once O take a convict's word;
From ſteerage drag that wicked, wicked Bard,
And toſs him headlong over-board.
Now, reader, faith my Muſe is at ſtand
What further ſport to give thee on the land;
And ſo to end the matter,
I'll daſh him in the water.
And here I've ſuch a ſimile to treat with,
As every day, I'm ſure, thou wilt not meet with;
[59]Thou'lt ſwear that even Pindar Peter
Ne'er made a longer or a better.
I'll launch him off in majeſtoſo,
Becauſe 'tis fit that he ſhould go ſo.
As when ſome convict cleaves the wat'ry way:
Condemn'd to colonize at Bot'ny Bay;
The bark unequal to the ſinful freight,
Her timbers groan beneath the preſſive weight.
Lo! how the welkin low'rs! what clouds ariſe!
See! angry Neptune mounts into the ſkies.
On ev'ry ſide tremendous billows roar,
Old Ocean's rous'd, and foams from ſhore to ſhore.
See! lightnings flaſh; hark! dreadful thunders roll,
And rend the black'ning ſky from pole to pole.
The trembling pilot quits the helm, and leaves
His bark the ſport of raging winds and waves.
Hark! what ſhrieks and diſmal ſkies,
Hark! what craſhing,
Hark! what ſlaſhing,
[60]Hark! what bumping,
Hark! what thumping,
Rumbling, jumbling,
Fumbling, tumbling,
Curſing, ſwearing,
Ripping, tearing,
Shouting, bawling,
Main-maſt falling,
Planks all ſtarting,
Decks all parting,
Friends lamenting,
Foes relenting,
Ranting, raving,
Mercy craving,
Peter trembling,
Not diſſembling,
Pindar quaking
For ode-making,
[61]Veſſel rocking, found'ring, ſinking,
Sailors wicked and unthinking,
(Ah! not lov'd grog, but briny water drinking)
Drowning, and blaſting one another's eyes.
* There!—down ſhe goes with Peter Pindar in her:
This 'tis to have on board a grievous ſinner.
—But lo! who's he that floats upon the main?
By Jupiter, 'tis Peter up again.
Do all I can to keep him down,
This buoyant fellow will not drown.
I ſee our poet's tuneful breath
Will not be ſtopp'd by wat'ry death.
But now again I'm at a ſtand
How I ſhall get him back to land.
O, would ſome veſſel but appear in view,
Or paſſing to the old world or the new.—
[62]—Huzza!—a dolphin, charm'd by Peter's ſong,
Beſtrid by Peter, nimbly glides along.
Alternate up and down he ſteers his courſe,
Like Maſter Tommy riding hobby-horſe.
Say, Peter, didſt thou ever ride ſo prettily before?
Cheer up, my boy:—Thou'lt ſoon behold thy native ſhore.
Kind dolphin, ſpeed thy way to Plymouth Sound,
And land thy poet ſaſc on Corniſh ground,
Rejoice, O friends of Peter and of ode,
You'll ſee him ſoon: he's poſting on the road.
Eſcap'd from perils both of land and main,
Your Bard is turn'd upon your hands again.
FINIS
Notes
*
The C—l Reviewers have done the Author the honour to remark, that his Sop in the Pan was not ſufficiently ſavoury. Quaere, may not their palates have been vitiated by too long feaſting on Peter Pindar's ragoûuts?
*
Vide & eme Sop in the Pan.
*
The phraſe is rather ſtiff-rump'd, but Peter Pindar muſt anſwer for it.
*
Speak-Truth.
*
Faithful Interpreter.
*
The Abp. of Sens is now a fellow-ſufferer with Peter, and they may condole with each other. Peter, in his next plot, muſt make his overtures to Monſieur Neckar.
*
Vide State Trials, Bp. A—y's Caſe.
*
Pauſe ad libitum.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 3535 Birch for Peter Pindar Esq A burlesque poem By Pindaromastix. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5E12-7