Reader, thou likest not my tale—look'st blue—
Thou art a courtier—roarest ‘Lies, lies, lies!’
Do, for a moment, stop thy cries—
I tell thee, roaring infidel, 'tis true.
Why should it not be true?—The greatest men
May ask a foolish question now and then—
This is the language of all ages:
Folly lays many a trap—we can't escape it:
‘Nemo,’ says some one, ‘omnibus horis sapit:’
Then why not kings, like me and other sages?
Far from despising kings, I like the breed,
Provided king-like they behave:
Kings are an instrument we need,
Just as we razors want—to shave;
To keep the state's face smooth—give it an air—
Like my Lord North's, so jolly, round, and fair.
My sense of kings though freely I impart—
I hate not royalty, Heav'n knows my heart.
Princes and princesses I like, so loyal—
Great George's children are my great delight;
The sweet Augusta, and sweet Princess Royal,
Obtain my love by day, and pray'rs by night.
Yes! I like kings, and oft look back with pride
Upon the Edwards, Harrys of our isle—
Great souls! in virtue as in valour try'd,
Whose actions bid the cheek of Britons smile.
Muse! let us also forward look,
And take a peep into Fate's book.
Behold! the sceptre young Augustus sways;
I hear the mingled praise of millions rise;
I see uprais'd to Heav'n their ardent eyes;
That for their monarch ask a length of days.
Bright in the brightest annals of renown,
Behold fair fame his youthful temples crown
With laurels of unfading bloom;
Behold dominion swell beneath his care,
And genius, rising from a dark despair,
His long-extinguish'd fires relume.
Such are the kings that suit my taste, I own—
Not those where all the littlenesses join—
Whose souls should start to find their lot a throne,
And blush to show their noses on a coin.
Reader, for fear of wicked applications,
I now allude to kings of foreign nations.
Poets (so unimpeach'd tradition says)
The sole historians were of ancient days,
Who help'd their heroes fame's high hill to clamber
Penning their glorious acts in language strong,
And thus preserving, by immortal song,
Their names amidst their tuneful amber.
What am I doing? Lord! the very same—
Preserving many a deed deserving fame,
Which that old lean, devouring shark, call'd Time,
Would, without ceremony, eat;
In my opinion, far too rich a treat—
I therefore merit statues for my rhime.
‘All this is laudable,’ a quaker cries,
‘But let grave wisdom, friend, thy verses rule;
Put out thine irony's two squinting eyes—
Despise thy grinning monkey, ridicule.’
What! slight my sportive monkey, ridicule,
Who acts like birch on boys at school,
Neglecting lessons—truant, perhaps, whole weeks!
My ridicule, with humour fraught, and wit,
Is that satiric friend, a gouty fit,
Which bites men into health and rosy cheeks:
A moral mercury that cleanseth souls
Of ills that with them play the devil—
Like mercury that much the pow'r controls
Of presents gain'd from ladies over civil.
Reader, I'll brag a little, if you please;
The ancients did so, therefore why not I?
Lo! for my good advice I ask no fees,
Whilst other doctors let their patients die;
That is, such patients as can't pay for cure—
A very selfish, wicked thing, I'm sure.
Now though I'm soul-physician to the king,
I never begg'd of him the smallest thing
For all the threshing of my virtuous brains;
Nay, were I my poor pocket's state t'impart,
So well I know my royal patient's heart,
He would not give me two-pence for my pains.
But, hark! folks say the king is very mad—
The news, if true, indeed, were very sad,
And far too serious an affair to mock it—
Yet how can this agree with what I've heard,
That so much by him are my rhimes rever'd—
He goes a-hunting with them in his pocket:
And when thrown out—which often is the case
(In bacon hunting, or of bucks the race),
My verse so much his majesty bewitches,
That out he pulls my honour'd Odes,
And reads them on the turnpike roads—
Now under trees and hedges—now in ditches.
Hark! with astonishment, a sound I hear,
That strikes tremendous on my ear;
It says, great Arden, commonly call'd Pepper,
Of mighty George's thunderbolts the keeper,
Just like of Jupiter the famous eagle,
Is order'd out to hunt me like a beagle.
But, eagle Pepper, give my love
Unto thy lofty master, Mr. Jove,
And ask how it can square with his religion,
To bid thee, without mercy, fall on,
With thy short sturdy beak, and iron talon,
A pretty, little, harmless, cooing pigeon?
By heav'ns, I disbelieve the fact—
A monarch cannot so unwisely act!
Suppose that kings, so rich, are always mumping,
Praying and pressing ministers for money;
Bidding them on our hive (poor bees!) be thumping,
Trying to shake out all our honey;
A thing that oft hath happen'd in our isle!—
Pray, shan't we be allow'd to smile?
To cut a joke, or epigram contrive,
By way of solace for our plunder'd hive?
A king of France (I've lost the monarch's name),
Who avaricious got himself bad fame,
By most unmannerly and thievish plunges
Into his subjects' purses,
A deep manœuvre that obtain'd their curses,
Because it treated gentlefolks like sponges.
To show how much they relish'd not such squeezing,
Such goods and chattel-seizing,
They publish'd libels to display their hate,
To comfort, in some sort, their souls,
For such a number of large holes
Eat by this royal rat in each estate.
The Premier op'd his gullet like a shark,
To hear such satires on the Grand Monarque,
And roar'd—‘Messieurs, you soon shall feel
My criticism upon your ballads,
Not to your taste so sweet as frogs and sallads,
A stricture critical yclep'd Bastile.’
But first he told the tidings to the king,
Then swore par Dieu that he would quickly bring
Unto the grinding stone their noses down—
No, not a soul of 'em should ever thrive—
He'd flay them, like St. Bartlemew, alive—
Villains! for daring to insult the crown.
The monarch heard Monsieur le Premier out,
And, smiling on his loyalty so stout,
Replied, ‘Monsieur le Premier, you are wrong—
Don't of the pleasure let them be debarr'd—
You know how we have serv'd 'em—faith! 'tis hard
They should not for their money have a song.’
Ovid, sweet story-teller of old times,
Unluckily transported for his rhimes,
Address'd his book before he bade it walk;
Therefore my worship, and my-ode,
In imitation of such classic mode,
May, like two Indian nations, have a talk.
‘Dear Ode! whose verse the true sublime affords,
Go, visit kings, queens, parasites, and lords;
And if thy modest beauties they adore,
Inform them, they shall speedily have more.’
But possibly a mighty king may say,
‘Ode! Ode!—What? what? I hate your rhime haranguing
I'd rather hear a jackass bray:
I never knew a poet worth the hanging.
I hate, abhor them—but I'll clip their wings;
I'll teach the saucy knaves to laugh at kings:
Yes, yes, the rhiming rogues their songs shall rue,
A ragged, bold-fac'd, ballad-singing crew.
Yes, yes, the poets shall my pow'r confess;
I'll maul that spawning devil call'd the press.’
If furious thus exclaim a king of glory,
Tell him, O gentle Muse, this pithy story:
