What, what, what, Peter, are you poor?— Poor! bless the K—! who doubts of that? The Wolves were prowling near the Door, And — you grew desperate? what, what, what?
Your Brother Tom's a civil Bard, Can say by wrote the Virtues royal— Tom's Belly's full, 'twere devilish hard, If Oxford Ale should prove disloyal.
If Jove should deign a gracious Nod, Would Peter Pindar's muse be quiet?— I'm Plannet-struck, 'tis mighty odd; Has Jovey issued out his Fiat?
Jove coming down in Shower of Gold No Poet has the Heart to hinder; And Peter's Muse has got a Cold, And sings no more like Peter Pindar. April 15, 1788.
