Such souls in Britons may we hope to see? Haste, haste the times to tremble thus at thee. Oh! as in Norman William's humbling day, At eve shall solemn Curfews sound the knell; And Men, like Babes, be forced to bed away, Soon as they hear the monitory Bell? When Majesty to Parliament shall ride, And will it not be deem'd a daring thing By thy sage counsel possibly, alone, Like Dame Godiva, George may travel on; When lo, of curiosity a head, A Peeping Tom, may from a window poke: Dismiss the saucy Peeper to the dead. And since his Majesty is fond of hunting, : A Sweep may bear a very dangerous brush: Butchers may pull a cleaver from the frock; Barbers may launch at Majesty a block, Or bason dart, or pike-like pole may push; Jack Ketch within his pocket hide his string, Join Majesty, and whoop, and hound, and horn. And when our King to Weymouth shall repair, And now may God your hearts, ye Britons, turn! Without a sigh, to Ministers submit. Ye are but Children yet, so mend your ways; But hark, a voice! "Ah, Pitt! thine arts are vain : And should a miscreant curb it (dead to shame), May Albion's Genius tear the villain's frame, And fling it piecemeal to the fowls of Heaven!" Whence is that solemn sound, alas! declare:- ONE THOUSAND SEVEN HUNDRED AND NINETY-SIX; A SATIRE, IN TWO DIALOGUES. Singula de nobis anni prædantur euntes: Eripuere jocos, venerem, convivia, ludum; Tendunt extorquere Poëmata. Quid faciam vis? HORACE. PITT claps his paws on something every day: A hiss at Royalty; a poor old Play; Meetings near Mother Redcap's, harmless things; And should the Muse be ravish'd, what remains ? |