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SOP IN THE PAN FOR PETER PINDAR, ESQ. OR, A LATE INVITATION TO CHELTENHAM: A BURLESQUE POEM.
BY PINDAROMASTIX.
LONDON: PRINTED FOR G. G. J. AND J. ROBINSON, PATERNOSTER-ROW.
MDCCLXXXVIII.
TO THE PUBLIC.
[]SOME apology may be required for my making ſo free with an old favourite of yours. So many of you as are in the habit of admiring the ſublime performances of our Engliſh Pindar, will, do doubt, exclaim againſt me for aſſigning a poſt at Court, the moſt humiliating of all others, to your darling Poet. But this is the very thing I intended: for this favourite of yours (like many other favourites) has been ſpoiled by too much indulgence, and is grown ſo intolerably ſaucy, that he ought to be taken down a little. But there may be others among you who will acknowledge P. Pindar to be fair game, and who may ſay that this gentle caſtigation is not half ſo much as he deſerves for that impudent mockery and caricature which he has ſo often pointed at his S—n. To all ſuch, it may not be amiſs to intimate, that I have another birch in ſoak for Maſter Peter, which, I think, will give him a ſmart flagellation. The few lines which I now hazard the publication of, are only meant as preparatory to the introduction of this other labour of my ſportive Muſe, provided that I find this my firſt eſſay is tolerably well received, and that it is acknowledged to be of ſufficient merit to intitle me, in ſome ſmall degree, to the ſigna⯑ture of
PINDAROMASTIX.
SOP IN THE PAN, &c.
[]HAIL! funny Bard, of never-ceaſing lay,
To Chelt'nham's fav'rite fountain ſpeed thy way.
Where'er thy commons be, and mimic joke,
Whether with guzzling cits 'midſt London ſmoke,
Or, far remov'd to thy own native moors,
With Corniſh tinners, 'ſquires, or hugging boors;
Or whether thou'rt ſtill at thy old fav'rite ſport,
Eaves-dropping ſlily at St. James's Court,
To catch another Kitchen Tale,
In Ode Pindaric to retail;
Where'er this friendly call may find thee,
Quick, mount thy Pegaſus, and take thy muſe behind thee;
[2](Not winged Pegaſus in Poet's Fable,
But hackney Pegaſus in liv'ry ſtable)
And whilſt thou'rt jogging on the turn-pike road,
Set all thy brains at work to hatch a merry Ode
To tickle thy lov'd King
At Chelt'nham's purging ſpring:
So ſhall thy Muſe the royal favour gain,
And give thee rank among the courtly train;
That rank for which, ſure, Fate and Nature fram'd thee,
Since neither ſtocks nor pillory has claim'd thee.
Yes, witty Peter,
Thy merry metre,
If right I ween, will very ſoon
Exalt thee to be Court Buffoon,
With title and with penſion,
And all that thou canſt wiſh or mention.
No more Pindaric Ballads ſhalt thou ſing,
Which poor, precarious, ſcanty dinner bring
[3]To meagre Poetaſter;
But pamper'd, courtly ſongſter ſhalt thou be,
Of jolly plight, and full of heart-felt glee,
The darling of thy Maſter.
Thus when the K—g,
From Chelt'nham ſpring,
To Cloacina's temple ſhall repair
To pour the due libation,
His funny fav'rite only ſhall attend him there,
To help the operation.
Nor, faithleſs, thou this preſage deem
Deluſive ſport of Poet's dream;
For whilſt thy brother Bard of late
On Cloacina's tripod ſat,
My fancy wand'ring to and fro,
I heard theſe accents rumble in the vault below.
"Haſte thee Bard of funny lay,
"Peter Pindar come away,
[4]"Friend and fav'rite of thy K—g
"Hie thee down to C—m ſpring."
The ſounds which ſtruck my raviſh'd ear
Were more than mortal lugs could bear.
I ſat amaz'd,
I gaſp'd, I gaz'd,
So wond'rous was the ſtrain,
It almoſt crack'd my brain.
My ſoul was ſtruck with dire affray,
I button'd up and ran away.
Now, Peter, if thou'lt not believe this true,
Then, Peter, thou'rt an unbelieving Jew;
But if thou art a Jew, it may be prov'd from hence,
That thou art circumcis'd, by plaineſt conſequence.
This thou know'ſt beſt, and 'tis thy own affair,
For, circumcis'd or not, I very little care.
But what I ſay is true as true can be,
And if thou'lt not believe, then hear and ſee.
[5] [Now, gentle reader, thou art to ſuppoſe a Voice is heard as thus:]
Funny Peter,
Funny Peter,
Full of metre,
Full of metre.
Peter.
Hark! what ſounds aſſail mine ear?
Sure 'tis my S—n's voice I hear.
O yes, from none but him theſe words can flow,
The r—l duplicates full well I know.
G—e.
Yes, Peter, 'tis thy lov'd and loving K—g;
For thee my bowels yearn at C—m ſpring.
Now, Peter, run with utmoſt ſpeed,
To help thy K—g in time of need.
Put thy better foot before,
As thou didſt in days of yore,
In thy youthful occupation;
Whether ſome pregnant Corniſh dame,
Or ſome hapleſs virgin's ſhame,
Call'd for quick obſtetrication.
[6]Friend Peter, thou'rt ſo very droll, I find,
So full of humour and of comic matter,
To thee this courtly office I've aſſign'd,
To help the paſſage of my C—m water.
Not one of all my ſubjects do I know
So fit to fill this pretty poſt as thou.
Act well thy part in this, and by and by
In other points thy talents I may try.
But, for the preſent, this will ſuit thee beſt,
'Twill give thee ſcope for many a merry jeſt;
For well I know that ev'ry thing thou'lt tell,
To make the people laugh at C—m well.
But, Peter, in this fun of thine there are
Some things in which thy jokes are puſh'd too far.
My r—l ſpeech to make the ridicule
Of ev'ry little ſilly grinning fool;—
My words of Majeſty for thee to play with,
Are liberties I neither can nor will away with.
[7]I fear thou'lt turn out one of that vile ſort
Of varlets which infeſt each monarch's court,
Who wear our livery ſuits and ſpite us,
Who eat our pudding and backbite us.
Peter.
O, good my Liege, let me, your ſlave,
In humbleſt wiſe your pardon crave:
Periſh that rhyme and doggrel jeſt,
If aught offends your r—l breaſt.
But, Sire, if you'll believe me,
You widely miſconceive me,
Or elſe ſome courtier's envious tongue
Has done your ſlave this mighty wrong.
Where'er your ſacred ſpeech I quoted,
And in Pindarics fondly noted,
My ſole intention was to prove
My zeal, my loyalty and love.
Of friends and lovers 'tis the uſual way
To ſpeak of all their fav'rites do and ſay,
[8]Of ev'ry little pleaſing anecdote to tell,
On ev'ry cuſtom'd word and ſyllable to dwell.
My Liege, I long'd to let your people know
How wond'rous wiſe and quick your queſtions flow,
To make your loving ſubjects all rejoice
To hear the pleaſing echo of your voice,
For which, believe me, there is ſuch demand,
From folks of all degrees throughout the land,
That Kearſley's preſſes groan both night and day,
And his poor Dev'ls have neither reſt nor play.
Ev'n ſubterraneous tinners club their groats,
And hungry Scotchmen ſell their very oats,
To purchaſe this delicious treat,
For which they gladly forfeit drink and meat.
O, if you knew how well your ſubjects love you,
I'm ſure it would with joy and tranſport move you.
It glads the cockles of my heart to tell
How rapidly my Odes Pindaric ſell;
Sure never monarch's words went off ſo well.
G—e.
[9]Peter, I fear, in coming to this water,
Thou'lt void thy wit, and only learn to flatter.
Already, I perceive, thou'ſt got thy cue,
I gueſs, from ſome of my St. J—s's crew.
But think not thou t' obtain my favour
By words of ſuch inſipid favour.
Think'ſt thou I'm hither for palaver come,
With which, thou know'ſt, I'm ſurfeited at home?
'Twas not for this thou heard'ſt me ſay
Funny Peter, haſte and come away;
For thee my bowels yearn at C—m ſpring,
O come to meet thy lov'd and loving K—g.
Whilſt here I live in vacant eaſe,
And do and ſay juſt what I pleaſe;
Now take my ride, now take my walk,
Now with my C—m ſubjects talk:
Exempt from cabinets and public toils,
Releas'd from Th—w, P-tt, and council broils;
[10]Whilſt here I purge away my gout and bile,
Thy merry jeſts ſhall tickle me the while.
I know thou art a clever dog,
A witty and facetious rogue,
So full of humour and of comic matter,
Thy fun promotes the paſſage of this water.
Beſides, I find thy witty folly
A ſovereign cure for melancholy.
Now whilſt my couriers evil tiding bring
Of P—a's ſlipp'ry oſcillating K—g,
Whene'er thou ſeeſt my r—l breaſt
O'ercharg'd with ſorrow and with grief,
Let off ſome pun, or witty jeſt,
So ſhalt thou give me ſure relief.
Then ceaſe thy fawning and grimace,
Suit thy demeanor to thy place.
Further—'tis thine to tell me public rumour,
And bolt out truth whenever 'tis thy humour.
[11]This priv'lege rare all jeſters hold,
Allow'd from merry times of old.
But, Peter, lik'ſt thou ſuch a birth as this?
Peter.
O yes, yes, yes, my Liege—O yes, yes, yes.
G—e.
Peter, leave off that haſty way of ſpeaking,
Habits indulg'd are very hard of breaking.
I can't divine where thou this trick haſt got,
For ſure I am, from me thou hadſt it not.
Peter.
This trick, my Liege, I caught in mockery and play,
And, truſt me, now I can't leave off this apiſh way.
G—e.
Aye, very like; for mocking's catching, I've heard ſay.
But let's digreſs no farther, leſt we loſe our way.
Now, Peter, know it is our r—l will,
That thou this merry office ſhalt fulfil.
In rhyme or proſe diſplay thy future jeſt;
But rhyme thou'ſt us'd me to, and ſo I like that beſt.
Mark well my words: I charge thee ſpeak thy mind;
So ſhalt thou prove thy Maſter ever kind.
[12]Whene'er I aſk thee for advice,
Be ſure to give it in a trice.
And now I'll try thy honeſty and ſkill,
To ſee how well thy duty thou'lt fulfil.
I long to put thy talents to the teſt,
And from thy anſwers now, I'll judge of all the reſt.
Now, Peter, truths there are, I hear,
Deep lodg'd in courtly well,
Which ſeldom come to Princes' ear,
And none but friends, like thee, will tell.
Then ſpeak out, Peter, in thy own blunt way,
What do the people of my meaſures ſay?
Peter.
Why, truly, Sire, they ſay it is a ſad diſaſter
That ſervants ſhould rebel againſt ſo good a Maſter.
G—e.
True, Peter, true; 'tis even ſo;
But, in this caſe, what can I do?
That Th—w looks ſo grim, and talks ſo big,
When he gets on that awful C—y wig;
[13]With fiſt uprear'd, he gives me ſuch a frown,
As if he really meant to knock me down.
Then B—y P-tt, that ſtubborn, head-ſtrong boy,
Is doom'd no leſs my quiet to annoy.
What would they more?
They've all the loaves and fiſhes;
They taſte of all my ſtore
Of ſugar-plums and diſhes;
And yet they quarrel all the while,
Like thieves dividing ſtolen ſpoil.
They're juſt like all my former friends,
Nor K—g nor common-weal they mind, but their own ends.
Now, Peter, tell me, what is thy advice?
Peter.
O yes, I will, my Liege, and in a trice.
When ſaucy ſervants give themſelves ſuch airs,
Exert your r—l foot, and kick the knaves down ſtairs.
Nought like a ſudden tumble,
To make proud ſpirits humble.
G—e.
Why, Peter, thy advice is full and round,
But whether altogether ſafe and ſound,
[14]I muſt conſider on't
When I have ſlept upon't.
But, Peter, ſay, haſt thou no private end?
No fav'rite of thy own to recommend?
Peter.
Not I, my Liege, upon my troth;
On this I'll take my Bible oath.
All one to Peter whether Whig or Tory;
I only wiſh your happineſs and glory.
To me it matters not who guides the helm,
So but proſperity attend the realm.
Yet, if theſe thankleſs fellows were turn'd out,
There is a man or two I could point out.
What ſays my Liege of C—s F—x?
G—e.
On him and all his crew a p—x.
Peter.
But, then, my Liege, there's P—d's honeſt Duke.
G—e.
O name him, name him not, 'twill make me puke.
Peter, methinks, I ſmell a rat,
And ſhrewdly gueſs what thou'dſt be at.
But play me none of theſe dog's tricks;
I reliſh not thy politics.
[15]But now I feel another motion
From this ſame C—m's wat'ry potion.
Peter, attend me, thou know'ſt where,
And do thy proper office there.
So ſhalt thou merit my regard,
And all thy ſervice meet a full reward.
[Dialogue between G—e and Peter ends.]
Now! brother craft in doggrel rhyme,
I hope thou'lt take my word another time.
No lying Bard, thou ſeeſt, I was,
For all I ſung is come to paſs.
O, Peter, 'tis a goodly thing
To be man-midwife to a lab'ring K—g,
At C—m ſpring.
Such office to a T will fit thee,
Sure nothing better could have hit thee;
Thy work ſo eaſy, thou'lt think nought no't,
Thy birth ſo ſweet, I'm glad thy Maſter thought on't.
[16]Now breed no more Pindaric riot,
But eat and drink, and ſleep in quiet;
No longer tittle tattles tell
Of what, what, what? and well, well, well.
Henceforth forbear, poor Laureat Warton
And Birth-day Song to be ſo ſmart on.
Whate'er Tom's model and deſign
For future Ode, e'en paſs it by;
'Tis neither fleſh nor fiſh of thine,
Thou'ſt other fiſh to fry.
A truce with all,
Both great and ſmall;
With ev'ry brother courtier thou canſt name us,
From B—y P-tt quite down to B—y Ramus:
Birds alike of courtly feather
Flock and fatten all together.
Now, Peter, hold thy blabbing tongue,
And tell no tales, be't right or wrong.
If curious goſſips want to pry,
Make Iriſh Paddy's ſhort reply:
[17]"By Jaſus! honey, now I ſee and don't ſee,
"And many a thing, my dear, I ſee and won't ſee."
Peter, I know thou'rt given to tattling;
Once more I charge thee, curb thy prattling.
I really wiſh, with all my heart,
Thou may'ſt not fail in this weak part.
If counſel good thou'lt not remember,
And ſteadily purſue it,
And govern thy unruly member,
I tell thee, thou ſhalt rue it.
Diſgrac'd at court, what canſt thou do?
Or where for food and raiment go?
Both ins and outs will flout thee,
Ev'n Printers' Devils will ſcout thee.
Thoſe Printers, Peter, are a wicked race;
All Authors know it:
Without remorſe, they'll grind the very face
Of friendleſs Poet.
To cope with them, there was but one
Of all our corps, and he is gone:
[18]Athletic Johnſon, with an angry frown,
Could clinch his fiſt, and knock theſe fellows down.
He kept them all in awe ſo well,
Though ſoundly drubb'd, they durſt not tell.
But now our champion is no more,
And long may we his loſs deplore.
For cracking Printers' crowns with fiſt or cane,
We ne'er ſhall ſee the like of Sam again.
And now of his ſupport bereft,
And friendleſs and defenceleſs left,
They'll wreak their ſpite upon us all,
The weakeſt ſtill muſt go to th' wall.
'Tis true, in fair and proſp'rous times,
And eager call for Poets' rhymes,
Theſe Printers can be civil;
But when Pindarics will not ſell,
They'll d—n both them and thee to h-ll
Headlong, to ſerve the D—l.
O, Peter, Printers are a broken reed
For Bards to reſt uupon in time of need.
[19]Thrice happy thou! whom Fortune's golden ſhow'r
Has kindly plac'd beyond their griping power.
Then if thou know'ſt when thou art well,
Thy courtly pudding eat, and nothing tell.
But if thy ſaucy gibe muſt needs break out,
Search out for game among that rebel rout
Which thwarts thy Maſter's pleaſure;
On B—ke and Sh—d-n, and wicked F-x,
Thou may'ſt pour forth Pindaric jokes,
Sans number and ſans meaſure.
What though thy quondam cronies mouth and bellow,
And call thee turn-coat, knave, and ſh-tt-n fellow?
Tell them that thou haſt done no more
Than patriots oft' have done before.
Tell them 'tis aye
The Patriots' way,
To ſnarl and grin,
Till they get in.
[20]Aſk where's the man,
Of all their clan,
Since time began,
Or reivers ran,
Whom ſop in pan
(Say what they can)
Did not trepan.
Come, then, my Buck,
Cheer up thy pluck,
As Brother W—d ſays;
A fig for all the patriot clan,
Enjoy thy goodly ſop in pan,
And happy be thy days.
FINIS.
- Citation Suggestion for this Object
- TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 5404 Sop in the pan for Peter Pindar Esq Or a late invitation to Cheltenham a burlesque poem By Pindaromastix. University of Oxford Text Archive. University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-DF35-5