ODE VI.
The Poet addresseth Majesty—Pleadeth the Cause
of poor, starving Poetry—He acknowledgeth
in a former Ode the Kindnesses of Fame, yet
throweth out a Hint to his Majesty that his
Finances may be improved—He relateth a
marvellous Story of a Jesuit—Recommendeth
something similar to his Sovereign.
An't please your Majesty, I'm overjoy'd
To find your family so fond of painting;
I wish her sister Poetry employ'd—
Poor, dear neglected girl! with hunger fainting.
Your royal grandsire (trust me, I'm no fibber)
Was vastly fond of Colley Cibber.
For subjects, how his Majesty would hunt?
And if a battle grac'd the Rhine or Weser,
He'd cry—‘Mine poet sal mak Ode upon't!’
Then forth there came a flaming Ode to Cæsar.
Dread sire, pray recollect a bit
Some glorious action of your life;
And then your humble poet's wit,
Sharp as a razor, or a new-ground knife,
Shall mount you on her glorious balloon odes,
Like Rome's great Cæsar, to th' immortal Gods
.
A Naples' Jesuit, history declares,
On slips of paper scribbled prayers,
Which show'd of wisdom great profundity;
Then sold them to the country folks,
To give their turkeys, hens, and ducks,
To bring increase of fowl-fecundity:
It answer'd.—On their turkeys, ducks, and hens,
The country people all were full of brags—
Whose little bums, in barns, and mows, and fens,
Squat down, and laid like conjuration bags.
I wish this sage experiment were try'd
On me, cries Muse, my gentle bride;
And slips of paper giv'n me, with this pray'r—
‘Pay to the bearer fifty pounds at sight.’
My sweet prolific pow'rs 'twould so delight!
I'd breed like a tame rabbit or a hare!
Muse, give thine idle supplication o'er—
And know that avarice is always poor
