Now on his shoulder drops the magic sword:

66

Arise, Sir Benjamin," the Sovereign says.

Happy, the Knight ariseth at the word,

And feels himself o'erwhelm'd with Glory's rays.

In bolder streams his blood begins to flow;
His heart sublime, a richer torrent pours;
He looks contemptuous on the mob below,
And, swelling, now a Pyramid he tow'rs.
With lords behold him talk, with ladies chat,
Of sceptres, snuff, rebellions, and all that.

Thus from his humble shop the silken Worm

That crawl'd at first the Earth, to man's surprise, Bursts forth with splendour, what an angel form!

And mounts, on glittering wings of gold, the Skies; Talks to this mealy Lord, and now that Fair, So happy mingling with the tribes of air.

Ah! dwelleth such rare virtue in a sword?
Ah! lodgeth such huge magic in a word?
Good heavens! what pity for th' unletter'd knight,
They cannot teach to speak and read and write!

And now they humbly all kiss hands so sweet;
How blest, the hand of Majesty to greet!

For which, miles high would thousands gladly jump:

And would but sacred Majesty permit,
Such really is Ambition's raging fit,

(Unlike Rabelais the rogue*) they'd kiss the rump.

Now clothed with honour, see the troop retreat!
Now Majesty's good health they drink and eat:

Now maudlin, Majesty's good health disgorge.
Now on poor kingless France they run their rigs:
Now, mad for Majesty, they burn their wigs;

Now, loyal, fry their watches † for King George.

• The story of Rabelais running from the Pope's presence is too well known to be repeated.

+ This farce was actually performed during the late Reign, in the full form of Loyalty, by the Mayor and Aldermen of a certain Corporation in a western county.

HAIR POWDER;

A PLAINTIVE EPISTLE TO MR. PITT.

YET, if resolved to worry wigs and hair,
And, Herod-like, not little children spare;
Say (for methinks the Land has much to dread),
How long in safety may we wear the head?

TO WHICH IS ADDED

FROGMORE FETE;

AN ODE FOR MUSIC,

FOR THE FIRST OF APRIL, VULGARLY CALLED ALL-FOOLS' DAY.

-Trahit sua quemque voluptas.'

"IN various things," says Virgil, “folks delight;"

And so it really is in our great Nation:

In meanness, avarice, some; revenge and spite,
Dutch fairs, mock charities, and ostentation.