The Peacock and Parrot, on their Tour to Discover the Author of "The Peacock At Home"

Excerpt

YE votaries of Fashion, who have it to boast,That your names to posterity will not be lost;That the lastdue honor paidTo the still-blooming Dowager’s gay Masquerade;That the Minister’s Dinner has blaz’d in,That the Countess’s Gala has jingled in rhymes;Oh! tell me, who would not endeavour to please,And exert ev’ry nerve, for rewards such as these?[p6]It was early in Spring—but no matter what year,That thePeacock, delighting in noise, and good cheer,Determin’d, for dear notoriety’s sake,A dash in the whirlpool of Fashion to make.A Concert and Ball, their attractions united,To which theBeau-Mondewere politely invited.Away they all flew, it was heavenly weather,And soon at thePeacock’sarriv’d, in full feather.The scene was enchanting! for taste so refin’dHad never appear’d with such splendor combin’d.The Dance was all gaiety, frolic, and glee;The Music transporting! the Supperexquis!The Beaux were allprime, and the flow’r of the nation,The Belles were all style, beauty, grace, fascination:Good humour presided, where pleasure was law,And the guests, more or less, all came off witheclat.But, alas! Time has wings; and tho’ still vastly clever,We cannot make Balls last for ever and ever,[p7]When day was seen breaking, the company parted;And none, I am told, ever went lighter hearted.“I knew,” criedSir Argus, “myGala would shine:Oh! charming distinction, Oh! pleasure divine.Yes!Itoo shall see myself figure awayIn the records of fashion, the buz of the day;And the world shall admire, in ages to come,The brilliant display of thePeacockat Home.”Two months had now pass’d, andSir Argus, one morning,Was ruffling his plumes, and his person adorning,When lo! from the regions of air, quick descending,Pigeonappear’d, and his neck gently bending,Presented a Billet; then silently bow’d,And, spreading his wings, was soon lost in a cloud.Sir Argus, astonish’d, in haste now unclosesThe paper, perfum’d with fresh Otto of Roses.[p8]“In fortune’s dear name,” he exclaims, “what is this‘’ Oh! superlative bliss!My feelings, prophetic, the honor foretold;Yes!shall be printed in gold:How just the description! what grace, and what spirit!Aye—this is indeed a production of merit.”Be it known, that the greatBiped Lords of Creation,Ofeveryclass, and ineverystation,All secretly cherish, what all yet disclaim,Thatfeeling, which wecuriosityname.Now ourPeacockimperial, tho’ too proud to own,That the fav’rite of Juno had ever been proneTo a weakness, he always hadwish’dto believeWas exclusively felt by theDaughters of Eve,Yet died with impatience to know who had writtenThe elegant verses, with which he was smitten.His thoughts were all now on discovery bent,And, in haste, for theParrothe instantly sent:[p9]Who shortly arriv’d, overjoy’d beyond measure,And, strutting, demandedSir Argus’spleasure?

 

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