With amens oft I strove to warn thy swains,
Omens, the types of thy impending chains:
I sent the magpie from the British soil,
With restless beak thy blooming fruit to spoii;
To din thine ears with unharmonius clack,
And haunt thy holy walls in white and black.
What else are those thou seest in bishop's gear,
Who crop the nurseries of learning here?
Aspiring, greedy, full of senseless prate,
Devour the church, and chatter to the state.
As you grew more degenerate and base,
I sent you millions of the croaking race;
Emblems of insects vile, who spread their spawn
Through all thy land, in armour, fur, and lawn;
A nauseous brood, that fills your senate-walls,
And in the chambers of your Viceroy crawls.

See where the new-devouring vermin runs,
Sent in my anger from the land of Huns!
With harpy-claws it undermines the ground,
And sudden spreads a numerous offspring round.
Th' amphibious tyrant, with his ravenous band,
Drains all thy lakes of fish, of fruits thy land.

Where is the Holy Well that bore my name ?— Fled to the fountain back from whence it came! Fair Freedom's emblem once, which smoothly And blessings equally on all bestows. [flows, Here from the neighbouring nursery of arts, The students, drinking, rais'd their wit and parts; Here, for an age and more, improv❜d their vein, Their Phoebus I, my spring their Hippocrene. Discourag'd youths ! now all their hopes must fail, Condemn'd to country cottages and ale; To foreign prelates make a slavish court, And by their sweat procure a mean support;

Or for the classics read the' Attorney's Guide, Collect excise, or wait upon the tide.

Oh! had I been apostle to the Swiss Or hardy Scot, or any land but this, Combin'd in arms they had their foes defied, And kept their liberty, or bravely died. Thou still with tyrants in succession curst, The last invaders trampling on the first: Nor fondly hope for some reverse of fate; Virtue herself would now return too late. Not half thy course of misery is run; Thy greatest evils yet are scarce begun. Soon shall thy sons, the time is just at hand, Be all made captives in their native land; When for the use of no Hibernian born Shall rise one blade of grass, one ear of corn; When shells and leather shall for money pass, Nor thy oppressing lords afford thee brass; But all turn leasers to that mongrel breed3 Who from thee sprung, yet on thy vitals feed; Who to yon ravenous isle thy treasures bear, And waste in luxury thy harvests there; For pride and ignorance a proverb grown, The jest of wits, and to the court unknown. I scorn thy spurious and degenerate line, And from this hour my patronage resign.

2 Wood's rainous project against the people of Ireland was supported by Sir Robert Walpole in 1724.

3 The absentees, who spend the income of their Irish estates, places, and pensions, in England.

A

PASTORAL DIALOGUE

BETWEEN RICHMOND-LODGE AND MARBLE-HILL

WRITTEN JUNE 1727,

JUST AFTER THE NEWS OF THE DEATH OF GEORGE 1.

Richmond-Lodge, a house within a mile of Richmond, with a small park belonging to the crown: it was usually granted by the crown for a lease of years. The Duke of Ormond was the last who had it: after his exile, it was given to the Prince of Wales by the King. The Prince and Princess usually passed their summer there. Marble-Hill, a house built by Mrs. Howard, then of the bedchamber, afterwards Countess of Suffolk, and Groom of the Stole to the Queen. It is on the Middlesex side, near Twickenham, where Mr Pope lived, and about two miles from Richmond-Lodge. Mr. Pope was the contriver of the gardens, Lord Herbert the Architect, and the Dean of St. Patrick's, chief butler and keeper of the ice-house. Upon King George's death, these two houses were supposed to meet, and hold the following dialogue.

In spite of Pope, in spite of Gay,
And all that he or they can say,
Sing on I must, and sing I will,

Of Richmond-Lodge and Marble Hill.
Last Friday night, as neighbours use,

This couple met to talk of news,

For by old proverbs it appears

That walls have tongues, and hedges ears.

MAR.-H. Quoth Marble-Hill, right well I ween

Your mistress now is grown a queen;

You'll find it soon by woeful proof;
She'll come no more beneath your roof.
RICH.-L. The kingly prophet well evinces
That we should put no trust in princes:
My royal master promis'd me
To raise me to a high degree;

But now he's grown a king, God wot,
I fear I shall be soon forgot.

You see when folks have got their ends,
How quickly they neglect their friends;
Yet I may say, 'twixt ine and you, ́
Pray God they now may find as true.

MAR.-H. My house was built but for a show, My lady's empty pockets know;

And now she will not have a shilling
To raise the stairs or build the ceiling,
For all the courtly Madams round
Now pay four shillings in the pound.
"Tis come to what I always thought;
My dame is hardly worth a groat.
Had you and I been courtiers born,
We should not thus have lain forlorn ;
For those we dextrons courtiers call,
Can rise upon their master's fall;
But we, unlucky and unwise,

Must fall because our masters rise.

RICH.-L. My master, scarce a fortnight since,

Was grown as wealthy as a prince,

But now it will be no such thing,
For he'll be poor as any king,

And by his crown will nothing get,

But, like a king, to run in debt.

MAR.-H. No more the Dean, that grave divine,

Shall keep the key of my no- -wine,

My ice-house rob, as heretofore,
And steal my artichokes no more;
Poor Patty Blount no more be seen
Bedaggled in my walks so green;
Plump Johnny Gay will now elope,
And here no more will dangle Pope.
RICH.-L. Here wont the Dean, when he's to
seek,

To spunge a breakfast once a-week;
To cry the bread was stale, and mutter
Complaints against the royal butter:
But now I fear it will be said
No butter sticks upon his bread.
We soon shall find him full of spleen
For want of tattling to the Queen,
Stunning her royal ears with talking,
His Reverence and her Highness walking;
Whilst Lady Charlotte, like a stroller,
Sits mounted on the garden-roller;
A goodly sight to see her ride,
With ancient Mirmont at her side;
In velvet-cap his head lies warm,

His hat for show below his arm.

MAR.-H. Some South Sea broker from the city Will purchase me; (the more's the pity) Lay all my fine plantations waste,

To fit them to his vulgar taste;

Chang'd for the worse in every part,

My master Pope will break his heart.

RICH.-L. In my own Thames may I be

drownded,

If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head,

Except her Majesty prevails

To place me with the Prince of Wales;