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A Satyr written when the K--- went to Flanders, and left nine Lords Justices.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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211

A Satyr written when the K--- went to Flanders, and left nine Lords Justices.

[_]

The attribution of this poem is questionable.

A thin ill-natur'd Ghost that haunts the King,
Till him and us he does to Ruin bring,
Impeach'd and pardon'd, impudently rides
The Council, and the Parliament bestrides;
Where some bought Members, like his Serving-Men,
To all his Lies devoutly say Amen.
This brazen'd Liar, this known cursed K---
Is now the Man that Church and State must save.
Room for the Pink of starch'd Civility,
The Emptiness of Old Nobility:
This Fop without distinction does apply
His Bows and Smiles to all promiscuously;
With an affected Careless waves his Wand,
And tottering on, does neither go nor stand.
So humbly proud, and so genteely dull,
Too weak for Counsel, and too old for Trull;
That to conclude with this bilk'd stately thing,
He's a meer costly piece of Garnishing.
A drowsy Wittal drawn down to the last,
Dead before's time for having liv'd too fast,
Lives now upon the Wit that's long since gone,
Nothing but Bulk remains, the Soul is flown;
The little Good that's sometimes of him said,
Is because Men will speak well of the Dead;
For when all's done, this honest worthy Man
Has no Remorse for taking all he can.
A Grave Eye, and an Overthinking Face
Seem to distinguish him from all his Race;
But Nature's proud, and scorning all Restraint,
By sudden Starts shews there's a mortal Taint;
Which to a good Observer makes it plain
The Frenzy will e'er long return again:

212

But after all, to do him right, 'tis said
The best of all the Nine should be stark mad.
A good Attorny spoil'd, when his ill Fate
And ours did make him Secretar' of State;
For if his part had been to give a Charge
At Country Sessions where he might enlarge,
He'as a rare Method to display a thing
With mighty Sense, not worth the mentioning:
But the fine gilded Bead is much too weak
To bear the weight he's under, so must break.
Next, Painter, draw a Jackanapes of State,
A Monkey turn'd into a Magistrate,
A sawcy Wight born up with Heat and Noise,
Fit only for a Ring-leader of Boys;
To untile Neighbours Houses, and to play
Such uncouth Gambols on a Holy-day.
Strange! that so young a Government should dote,
So as to let a Whirlwind rule the Boat.
Ungrateful Toad-stool, despicable thing!
Thus to desert thy Master and thy King;
He was thy Maker too, and from the Dust
Rais'd thee, tho 'twas to all Mankind's Disgust.
William with all his Courage must be afraid
To trust the Villain who has James betray'd;
For sure no thing can e'er redeem thy Crime,
But the same brutal Trick a second time.
As rich in Words as he is poor in Sense,
An empty piece of misplac'd Eloquence:
With a soft Voice and a Moss Trooper's Smile,
The Widgeon fain the Commons would beguile;
But he is known, and 'tis hard to express
How they deride his Northern Gentleness,
While he lets loose the dull insipid Stream
Of his set Speeches made up of whipt Cream.
'Tis here alone you'l find, where'er you seek,
A profound Statesman with a cherry Cheek:
He has a quick Eye and a sprightly Glance,
His Face a Map of jolly Ignorance;

213

The Lilies and the Roses so dispos'd,
Should not by Care or Thought be discompos'd:
Pity that fat, round, pretty, blushing thing
Should e'er be thus condemn'd to Counselling.