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P. IX.

P. IX.


Oh! let him not debase your thoughts,
Or name him but to show his faults.

Of gods I only quote the best,
But you may hook in all the rest.

Now, Birthday bard ! with joy proceed
To praise your empress and her breed.
First, of the first, to vouch your lies,
Bring all the females of the skies ;
The Graces, and their mistress Venus,
Must venture down to entertain us :
With bended knees, when they adore her,
What dowdies they appear before her!
Nor shall we think you talk at random,
For Venus might be her great grandam;
Six thousand years has lived the goddess,
Your heroine hardly fifty odd is.
Besides your songsters oft have shown
That she hath Graces of her own;
Three Graces, by Lucina brought her,
Just three, and every Grace a daughter.
Here many a king his heart and crown
Shall at their snowy feet lay down;
In royal robes they come by dozens
To court their English-German cousins,
Besides a pair of princely babies,
That five years hence will both be Hebes.

Now see her seated in her throne
With genuine lustre all her own:
Poor Cynthia never shone so bright,
Her splendour is but borrow'd light,
And only with her brother link'd
Can shine, without him is extinct;
But Carolina shines the clearer
With neither spouse nor brother near her,

And darts her beams o'er both our isles,
Though. George is gone a thousand miles.
Thus Berecynthia takes her place,
Attended by her heavenly race,
And sees a son in every god,
Unawed by Jove's all-shaking nod.

Now sing his little highness Freddy,
Who struts like any king already:
With so much beauty, show me any maid
That could resist this charming Ganymede,
Where majesty with sweetness vies,
And, like his father, early wise.
Then cut him out a world of work,
To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk;
Foretell his empire crown'd with bays,
And golden times, and halcyon days;
And swear his line shall rule the nation
For ever—'till the conflagration.

But now it comes into my mind
We left a little duke behind,
A Cupid in his face and size,
And only wants to want his eyes.
Make some provision for the younker,
Find him a kingdom out to conquer ;
Prepare a fleet to waft him o'er,
Make Gulliver his Commodore,
Into whose pocket valiant Willy put,
Will soon subdue the realm of Liliiput.

A skilful critic justly blames
Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names:
The sense can ne'er be too jejune,
But smooth your words to fit the tune.
Hanover may do well enough,
But George and Brunswick are too rough:

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Hesse-Darmstadt makes a rugged sound,
And Guelp the strongest ear will wound.
In vain are all attempts from Germany
To find out proper names for harmony:
And yet I must except the Rhine,
Because it clinks to Caroline.
Hail! Queen of Britain! Queen of Rhymes !
Be sung ten hundred thousand times !
Too happy were the poets' crew,
If their own happiness they knew.
Three syllables did never meet
So soft, so sliding, and so sweet;
Nine other tuneful words like that
Would prove even Homer's numbers flat.
Behold three beauteous vowels stand,
With bridegroom liquids, hand in hand,
In concord here for ever fix'd,
No jarring consonant betwixt.

May Caroline continue long,
For ever fair and young !-in song.
What though the royal carcass must,
Squeezed in a coffin, turn to dust;
Those elements her name compose,
Like atoms, are exempt from blows.

Though Caroline may fill your gaps,
Yet still you must consult your maps ;
Find rivers with harmonious names,
Sabrina, Medway, and the Thames.
Britannia long will wear like steel,
But Albion's cliffs are out at heel,
And patience can endure no more
To hear the Belgic
Give up the phrase of haughty Gaul,
But proud Iberia soundly maul;


Restore the ships by Philip taken,
And make him crouch to save his bacon.
Nassau, who got the name of glorious,
Because he never was victorious,
A hanger-on has always been;
For old acquaintance bring him in.

To Walpole you might lend a line,
But much I fear he's in decline;
And if you chance to come too late,
When he goes out, you share his fate,
And bear the new successor's frown;
Or whom you once sang up sing down.

Reject with scorn that stupid notion,
To praise your hero for devotion;
Nor entertain a thought so odd,
That princes should believe in God;
But follow the securest rule,
And turn it all to ridicule :
'Tis grown the choicest wit at court,
And gives the maids of honour sport;
For since they talk'd with Doctor Clarke,
They now can venture in the dark:
That sound divine the truth hath spoke all,
And pawn'd his word, hell is not local.
This will not give them half the trouble
Of bargains sold, or meanings double.

Supposing now your song is done, To Mynbeer Handel next you run, Who artfully will pare and prune Your words to some Italian tune; Then print it in the largest letter, With capita

the better; Present it boldly on your knee, And take a guinea for your fee.

the mor





Dans l'adversite de nos meilleurs amis, nous trouvons toujours

quelque chose qui ne nous deplait pas. • In the adversity of our best friends we always find something

that doth not displease us.'

NOV. 1731.

As Rochefoucault his Maxims drew
From Nature, I believe them true;
They argue no corrupted mind
In him; the fault is in mankind.

This maxim more than all the rest
Is thought too base for human breast,
• In all distresses of our friends
We first consult our private ends,
While Nature, kindly bent to ease us,
Points out some circumstance to please us.'

If this perhaps your patience move,
Let reason and experience prove.

We all behold with envious eyes
Our equals raised above our size.
Who would not at a crowded show
Stand bigh himself, keep others low?
I love my friend as well as you,
But why should he obstruct my view ?
Then let me have the higher post,
Suppose it but an inch at most.
If in a battle you should find
One whom you love of all mankind

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