Leben und Werke Peter Pindars: (Dr. John Wolcot)

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W. Braumüller, 1900 - 150 pages
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Page 46 - This rascal stole the razors, I suppose. "No matter if the fellow be a knave, Provided that the razors shave; It certainly will be a monstrous prize.
Page 39 - Where be your gibes now ? your gambols ? your songs ? your flashes of merriment, that were wont to set the table in a roar ? Not one now, to mock your own grinning?
Page 47 - tis fun That people flay themselves out of their lives. You rascal! for an hour have I been grubbing Giving my whiskers here a scrubbing, With razors just like oyster-knives. Sirrah! I tell you you're a knave, To cry up razors that can't shave!" "Friend," quoth the razor-man, "I'm not a knave; As for the razors you have bought, Upon my soul, I never thought That they would shave.
Page 61 - When Foote his leg, by some misfortune, broke Says I to Johnson, all by way of joke, 'Sam, Sir, in Paragraph will soon be clever, And take off Peter better now than ever.
Page 47 - His muzzle, formed of opposition stuff, Firm as a Foxite, would not lose its ruff; So kept it, laughing at the steel and suds. Hodge, in a passion, stretched his angry jaws, Vowing the direst vengeance, with clenched claws, On the vile cheat that sold the goods. " Razors ! A mean, confounded dog ! Not fit to scrape a hog...
Page 46 - Most musical, cried razors up and down, And offered twelve for eighteen pence ; Which certainly seemed wondrous cheap, And, for the money, quite a heap, As every man would buy, with cash and sense. A country bumpkin the great offer heard, — Poor Hodge, who...
Page 33 - Come, then, all filth, all venom as thou art, Rage in thy eye, and rancour in thy heart, Come with thy boasted arms, spite, malice, lies, Smut, scandal, execrations, blasphemies ; I brave them all. Lo, here I fix my stand, And dare the utmost of thy tongue and hand ; Prepared each threat to baffle or to spurn. Each blow with ten-fold vigour to return.
Page 62 - PIOZZI*. Dear Doctor Johnson left off Drinks fermented ; With quarts of chocolate and cream contented : Yet often down his throat's prodigious gutter, Poor man ! he poured a flood of melted butter.
Page 111 - Twas at the royal feast for Persia won By Philip's warlike son : Aloft in awful state The godlike hero sate * On his imperial throne ; His valiant peers were placed around ; Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound: (So should desert in arms be crowned.) The lovely Thais, by his side, Sate like...
Page 39 - ... faint picture of those flashes of his spirit, that were wont to set the table in a roar ;" like his own expiring taper, bright and fitful to the last ; tagging a rhyme or conning his own epitaph ; and waiting for the last summons. grateful and contented...

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