[ 376 ] [Ami, 



ODE TO FLATTERY. 



MADAM Flattery ! polite and charming 

 Thy doses exhilarant and warming 



Who dare thy name traduce? 

 Or with grave, formal impudence, pretend 

 That they esteem Sincerity a friend, 



And load thee with abuse ? 



Now these folks fib Sincerity all hate 

 From the low shed to canopies of state, 



All like sugar honey : 



Self-dubbed saints take praise, not by compulsion 

 Huge draughts they love of that sweet emulsion ; 



But these next to money. 



I'll be frank. Fate grant bat this petition 

 Deprive me not of dear imposition, 



Nor see me ill-treated 



By ugly scarecrow truths, so blunt and plain, 

 That busy conscience echoes them again : 



Rather Pd be cheated 



By dear delusions of affection 

 Friendship ! Patronage ! Protection ! 



Love ! pray who'd repel it ? 

 A fine, rich, capillaire collection ; 

 Paris or London's the direction 



Where they buy or sell it. 



Pray, who from such phant'sies would awake, 

 Like little children with the belly-ache, 



To fret, and to be sore 

 When the old fav'rite recipe again 

 (In somewhat larger dose) would ease the pain, 



If taken as before ? 



Save me from Honesty, vile optician ! 

 That prys and looks to our condition 



With frightful microscope; 

 Save me from nodders, shruggers, winkers, 

 Give me thy best charming, patent blinkers, 



And drive me on with Hope. 



Give me some sweetly-sugared, soothing drop, 

 Or some such rich, intoxicating sop, 



As would charm a dragon : 

 You'll find in me no silly, sulky clown ; 

 Thy largest dose, in truth, I'd swallow down, 



Though it were a flagon. 



Thou soft warm water, trickling down one's back 

 Thou luscious draught of Malmsey, or of sack 



Or whiskey-punch of Pat 

 Or Martinique noyau or rich liqueur 

 Or cordial called, in France, parfait amour ! 



You take me? Verbum sat. 



How delightful ! when some tongue rehearses, 

 " Really, you write such clever verses !" 



Let them this flattery call : 

 Why, Sir, it matters not to me a rush ; 

 No! Jay it on with large, thick, rich pound brush! 

 A Poet can take all. 



POLLIO. 



