III. But don't expect much flattery From such an honest bard as me, Dear, noble, vig'rous youth; For when I say that you — more Than ever mortal did before, You know I say the truth. IV. Four times a night, some happy fair, You throughout the gliding year, This course of joy pursuing; Of feats like these what annals speak, 'Tis eight and twenty times a week, And, Faith! that's glorious doing. Had Messalina V. with you, Whom no then man could e'er subdue, Tho' many a Roman tried; She'd own'd your vigor and your charms, And, melting, dying in your arms, Cry'd out" I'm satisfied!" VI. Then still love on with loosen'd reins, And sparkles in your face; With w be lewd, with Whigs be hearty, With joy I'll dedicate my pen, For both shall be my theme; Since both divided England share, * The Postillion of Lady W. Montagu, a lad of sixteen, said, "I am not such a child, but I can guess something whenever my Lord Lincoln comes to my Lady; she orders the porter to let in nobody else, and then they call for pen and ink, and say they are going to write History."-W. New Ballad. (On LORD DONERAILE's* altering his Chapel at the Grove, in Hertfordshire, into a Kitchen.) BY Ovid, 'mongst many more wonders, we're told What chanc'd to Philemon and Baucis of old, How a cot to a temple was conjur'd by Jove; So a chapel was chang'd to a kitchen at Grove. Derry down, &c. The Prince was angry with Lord Doneraile for not speaking oftener in the House of Commons. Arthur St. Ledger, Lord Doneraile, was Lord of the Bedchamber to the Prince; he died of a consumption at Lisbon 1750. He was a young man of great parts, but of no steadiness in courage, conduct, or principles: he made a very celebrated speech against the Pelhams, on the affair of the sixteen new regiments that were to be raised. It certainly was a notorious job.-W. + Now the Earl of Clarendon's, 2 miles from Watford. The lord of the mansion most rightly conceiting, That his guests lov'd good prayers, much less than good eating; And possess'd by the d-v-l (as some folks will tell ye) What was meant for the soul he assign'd to the belly. Derry down, &c. The word was scarce given, but down dropt the clock, And strait was seen fix'd in the form of a jack; 'Tis shameful to say, pulpit, benches and pews, Form'd cupboards and shelves for plates, saucepans and stews. Derry down, &c. Pray'r-books turn'd into platters, nor think it a fable, And dressers sprung out of the c-mm-n table; Which instead of the usual repast, b-d and w-e; Is stor❜d with rich soup, and good English sirloin. Derry down, &c. No fires, but what pure devotion could raise, Till now had been known in this temple to blaze! But, good Lord, how the neighbours around did admire, When the chimney rose up in the room of a spire! Derry down, &c. For a Jew many people the master mistook, Whose Levites were scullions, whose high priest a cook; And thought that he meant our religion to alter, When they saw the burnt-offerings smoak at the altar. Derry down, &c. The bells solemn sound which was heard far and near, And oft rous'd the chaplin unwilling to pray'r; No more to good sermons now summon the sinner, But, blasphemous, rings all the country to dinner. Derry down, &c. |