Firing then, out of sheer alarm, Button the first went none knows where, Button the second a circuit made, Glanced in under the shoulder-blade ;— Down from the saddle and never stirred!— Slipped not less from the mare, and bound Then, lest his Worship should rise and flee, Jumped on his chestnut, BET the fleet Came like the wind to the old Inn-door ;— Vowed she'd 'peach if he misbehaved . . Staines and Windsor were all on fire :- But whether His M-J-STY saw her or not, HOGARTH jotted her down on the spot; And something of DOLLY one still may trace In the fresh contours of his “Milkmaid's” face. GEORGE the Guard fled over the sea: Turned King's evidence, sad to state;- As for the BEAU, he was duly tried, Served for a day—as the last of "sights," Went on his way to TYBURN Tree, Every privilege rank confers : Bouquet of pinks at St. Sepulchre's; Flagon of ale at Holborn Bar; Friends (in mourning) to follow his Car("t" is omitted where HEROES are!) Every one knows the speech he made; Waved to the crowd with his gold-laced hat : Turned to the Topsman undismayed. . . And this is the Ballad that seemed to hide Humbly Inscrib'd (with curls and tails) By the Author to FREDERICK, Prince of Wales : "Published by FRANCIS and OLIVER PINE; Ludgate-Hill, at the Blackmoor Sign. Seventeen-Hundred-and-Thirty-Nine." UNE MARQUISE A RHYMED MONOLOGUE IN THE LOUVRE "Belle Marquise, vos beaux yeux me font mourir d'amour -MOLIÈRE. Mute at every word you utter, Servants to your least frill-flutter, "Belle Marquise!' As you sit there growing prouder, And your ringed hands glance and go, And your fan's frou-frou sounds louder, And your "beaux yeux" flash and glow ;— Ah, you used them on the Painter, As you know, For the Sieur Larose spoke fainter, Bowing low, Thanked Madame and Heaven for Mercy That each sitter was not Circe, Or at least he told you so ; Growing proud, I say, and prouder Fickle Queen of Fop and Beau, Sure to please, Do we love you most, or like you, "Belle Marquise?" II You are fair; O yes, we know it Well, Marquise : For he swore it, your last poet, On his knees; And he called all heaven to witness Of his ballad and its fitness, "Belle Marquise !' You were everything in ère (With exception of sévère),— You were cruelle and rebelle, With the rest of rhymes as well; You were "Reine," and "Mère d'Amour" Lent of blood and courtly race; And he added, too, in duty, Ninon's wit and Boufflers' beauty; |