WHILE at the helm of state you ride,
Our nation's envy, and its pride;
While foreign courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those councils which they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you?
Which that he is, you cannot doubt,
When you have read the sequel out.
You know, great sir, that ancient fellows, Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen.
If then, as it might follow straight,
Wretched to be, is to be great.
Forbid it, Gods, that you should try
What 'tis to be so great as I.
The family that dines the latest,
Is in our street esteem'd the greatest:
But latest hours must surely fall
Before him who ne'er dines at all.
Your taste in architect, you know, Hath been admir'd by friend and foe: But can your earthly domes compare -in the air?
We're often taught it doth behove us
To think those greater who're above us.
Another instance of my glory,
Who live above you twice two story,
And from my garret can look down
On the whole street of Arlington.*
Greatness by poets still is painted
With many followers acquainted;
This too doth in my favour speak,
Your levée is but twice a week;
From mine I can exclude but one day,
My door is quiet on a Sunday.
Nor in the manner of attendance
Doth your great bard claim less ascendance.
Familiar you to admiration,
May be approach'd by all the nation :
While I, like the Mogul in Indo,
Am never seen but at my window.
If with my greatness you're offended,
The fault is easily amended,
For I'll come down with wondrous ease,
Into whatever place you please.
I'm not ambitious; little matters Will serve us great, but humble creatures. Suppose a secretary o' this isle,
Just to be doing with a while;
*Where Lord Orford then lived.
Admiral, gen'ral, judge, or bishop;
Or I can foreign treaties dish up,
If the good genius of the nation
Should call me to negotiation;
Tuscan and French are in my head;
Latin I write, and Greek I.
If you should ask, what pleases best?
To get the most, and do the least;
What fittest for ?.
In imitation, sir, of you,
I keep a mighty levée too;
Where my attendants, to their sorrow,
Are bid to come again to-morrow.
To-morrow they return, no doubt,
And then like you, sir, I'm gone out.
So says my maid-but they, less civil,
Give maid and master to the devil;
And then with menaces depart,
Which could you hear would pierce your heart.
Good sir, or make my levée fly me,
Or lend your porter to deny me.
WRITTEN EXTEMPORE ON A HALFPENNY,
Which a young lady gave a beggar, and the author redeemed for half-a-crown:
DEAR little, pretty, fav'rite ore,
That once increas'd Gloriana's store;
That lay within her bosom bless'd,
Gods might have envied thee thy nest.
I've read, imperial Jove of old
For love transform'd himself to gold:
And why, for a more lovely lass,
May he not now have lurk'd in brass?
Oh! rather than from her he'd part,
He'd shut that charitable heart,
That heart whose goodness nothing less
Than his vast pow'r, could dispossess.
From Gloriana's gentle touch
Thy mighty value now is such,
That thou to me art worth alone
More than his medals are to Sloan.
Not for the silver and the gold
Which Corinth lost should'st thou be sold:
Not for the envied mighty mass
Not for what India sends to Spain,
Nor all the riches of the Main.
While I possess thy little store,
Let no man call, or think, me poor;
Thee, while alive, my breast shall have,
My hand shall grasp thee in the
grave:
Nor shalt thou be to Peter giv'n,
*Tho' he should keep me out of heav'n.
WHILE cruel to your wishing slave,
You still refuse the boon I crave,
Confess, what joy that precious pearl
Conveys to thee, my lovely girl?
Dost thou not act the miser's part,
Who with an aching lab'ring heart,
Counts the dull joyless shining store,
Which he refuses to the poor?
Confess then, my too lovely maid,
Nor blush to see thy thoughts betray'd;
What, parted with, gives heav'n to me ;
Kept, is but pain and grief to thee.
Be charitable then, and dare
Bestow the treasure you can spare ;
And trust the joys which you afford
Will to yourself be sure restor❜d.
* In allusion to the custom of Peter-Pence, used by the Roman Catholics.
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