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,
Ah! may the Monarch by the mob be eyed?
And, if allowed the blessing of a view,
Whether with half an eye, one eye, or two?

And will it not be deem'd a daring thing
To ogle through a spying-glass the King?
And will not Reeves's scouts to Justice run,
And swear the Spying-glass a monstrous Gun?

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:
Then let the bullet or the sabre's stroke

Dismiss the saucy Peeper to the dead.

And since his Majesty is fond of hunting,
Ah, let his company no more be bunting!

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,
And Coblers launch their lap-stones at their King;-
Since such too often, by ambition borne,

Join Majesty, and whoop, and hound, and horn.

And when our King to Weymouth shall repair,
Forget not thou an order to the may'r,
When in the tub the Royal life embarks,
To read the riot-act to shrimps and sharks.—

And now may God your hearts, ye Britons, turn!
Your sins in sack-cloth and in ashes mourn :

Without a sigh, to Ministers submit.

Ye are but Children yet, so mend your ways;
Sing to the Lord (th' Exchequer's Lord) with praise;
And go to school, good boys, to Goody Pitt.

But hark, a voice! "Ah, Pitt! thine arts are vain : Britons dare speak; and, when oppress'd, complain; To man the little privilege is given:

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:The Ghost of Alfred bids a Rogue beware.

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;

Jokes on Court-mummery; smiles at Queens and Kings.
Ere long, he leaps on Peter's dove-like strains;
And should the Muse be ravish'd, what remains ?