University of Virginia Library

The Whim,

Dedicated to two Kings, that of Madrid and that of St. Germains.

Midst pretty Tricks, and quaint Device
Of tiny Child when void of Vice;
(When Soul, that Particle Divine,
Does but like Farthing-Candle shine:
While Maid does hold the silly Taper,
Enwrap'd in Lanthorn made of Paper,
Which too but just Discernment brings,
Nor shews the Difference of things.
So glimmers the young dawning Soul
Of Nature's pretty little Fool:
Therefore, as Cassocks say, 'tis thought
Whate'er it does can be no Fault)
I say, midst Pleasantries of Child,
Little Machines, and Actions wild;
Of Cards I've seen the Bauble take
A Superannuated Pack;
The Diamond's sully'd, and the Spade
By often use now dirty made;
And only fit to entertain
Pretty Conceit of Infant Brain.
VVhich yet is scarce come into Scull,
Not half so much as Sawcer full.
VVhen Card by Card the Oaf does take,
Father, look here what I can make!
And then to work he strait does fall,
To frame some small Escurial,
Some Minor Pauls, or tiny Coloss,
(But O the dismal Fate that follows!)
First then he for Foundation lays
A Row of Kings, a Royal Race.
By them the Sex that's fair and tender,
Their Spouses of the Feminine Gender.
(The Queen of Hearts the brightest shone)
And now the Edifice goes on:
The Mob with Clubs and Spades are laid,
Those dy'd the others into Red:
But highest of all a Pack of Knaves,
The Babe too naturally heaves,
Just as in Fortune's Scale we see,
Rogues mounted to Supremacy.
There many Pams win all, each takes
The Coin, and sweeps away the Stakes.
Well now the Structure rises, and
In gay sublimity does stand,
Emblem of Artificial Hand.
But Fates! When just at the Roof,
Behind comes a malicious Puff,
And down the Gugaw Pile does fall,
As future Paul's e'er Dooms-day shall.
E'en so (with small Things great compare)
Lewis the Proud is nought but Air:
With those that form'd his Grand Design,
So close, so exquisitely fine,
Richliess the Leader, Mazarine,
Louvois and Croissy, and Fourbin.
None with the nicest Subtlety,
Could ought that was mislaid decry,
Yet all their mighty Projects die.
'Twas, tho a fine, yet airy Web,
The Torrent now begins to ebb,
And now the Louvre, and Versailes,
Th'Escurial too, that Spanish Paul's,
Shake at great Eugene's Name and Sword,
Who's sending 'em another Lord:
Who's like to puff that Babel down;
The little Boy that wears the Crown,
With his Grand Pa-Pa are pushing on.
But see the Spanish Phaeton,
That dwells i'th Regions of the Sun,
Has got his Leave of Gallic Sire,
To go and set the World on fire.
Well, drive on Coachman, and take care,
To set down, not bring back your Fare:
The Don Monsieur, the Spanish Beau,
When he comes near the fatal Po,
May curse old Dady's Allez vous.