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November 10, 1766. No. 97. |
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From the St. JAMES’S CHRONICLE, of the 7th of August, 1766.
An
Extraordinary Ode to an Extraordinary Man, on an Extraordinary
Occasion.
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The Country Girl that’s well
inclin’d
To Love when the young ’Squire grows kind, |
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Doubts between Joy and Ruin; |
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Now will, and now will not
comply,
To Raptures now her Pulse beats high, |
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And now she fears undoing. |
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But when the Lover with his
Pray’rs,
His Oaths, his Sighs, his Vows and Tears,
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Holds out the proffer’d
Treasure, |
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She quite forgets her Fear and
Shame,
And quits her Virtue and good Name, |
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For Profit mix’d with
Pleasure. |
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Profit and Pleasure soon are
gone,
Despis’d, neglected, left alone,
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To innate Grief a Prey; |
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Hid in some solitary Shade,
She damns the Hour she was betray’d,
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And pines herself away. |
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So P——t for many Years the
Boast
Of England was, and him to toast, |
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Next Church and King, seem’d
fit, |
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Each blooming Maid and hoary
Dame,
Nay, ev’ry Mouth wou’d trump the Fame, |
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Of much-lov’d Patriot
P——t. |
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Admiring Senates round him
hung, |
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| And Liberty seem’d from his
Tongue, |
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T’expand with his loud Voice, |
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Britannia’s Sons exulting
hail’d
Him, and whate’er he chose ne’er fail’d, |
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Still to approve that Choice. |
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But late this virtuous Chief,
who long,
By Speech, by Pamphlet, and in Song, |
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Held Patriotism’s Steerage, |
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By Gold o’ercome, the
pension’d Train
He join’d, and, couching to the Thane, |
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Now gets himself a Peerage. |
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Yet, dear Britannia, yet
forbear
On him to cast one single Care,
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He is not worth one
Thought:
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He that well knew the buying
Tribe,|
Proves that he knew the valu’d Bribe,
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And wherefore he was
bought.
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And thou, new P—r, obey thy
Summons,
And leave the noisy H—— of C——s,
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Among the L——s to nod,
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Where if thou’rt tamer than
of old,
Thy Hand perhaps a Stick may hold,
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But never more a Rod.
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Unheard of, may you slumber
there,
As innocent as any P—,
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As prompt for any Job;
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For now you’re popular no
more,
You’ve lost the Power you had before,
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And your best friend the
Mob.
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Or if disgusted you retreat
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| T’enjoy the Sweets of P—nf—t’s
Seat,
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And
view the large Estate
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He fondly left ye, thinking
you
The honestest amid the few,
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Honest among the Great.
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60 |
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There with your P——n safe
retire,
Gaze o’er the Moors, or by the Fire,
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Revolve Affairs of State;
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Think over all you’ve done or
said,
And curse the Hour you were made,
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65 |
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With Ignominy great.
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With Vapours there, and Spleen
o’ercast,
Reflect on all your Actions past,
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With Sorrow and
Contrition;
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And there enjoy the Thoughts
that rise
From disappointed Avarice,
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70 |
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From frustrated Ambition.
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For know, my L—d, your Reign
is o’er,
The Whigs will trust your Word no more,
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Nor Tories longer fear ye;
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No Followers as heretofore,
Or Train of Coaches crowd your Door,
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Nay, scarce a Soul come
near ye.
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No more if to a Lord-Mayor’s
Show
(By Form invited) should you
go,
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The Populace will hollo’,
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Unless as L——s are wont to
do,
You hire a ragged venal Crew,
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Your Chariot Wheels to
follow.
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And soon you’ll loudly, but
in vain,
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| Of your deserting Friends
complain,
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That visit you no more:
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But, in this Country, ’tis a
Truth,
As known as that Love follows
Youth,
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“That Friendship follows
Pow’r.”
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Here then, O P—t! thy Empire
ends,
And Britain’s Genius, with
her Friends,
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Will better Days restore,
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For Enoch’s Fate and thine
are one,
Like him translated, thou art
gone,
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95 |
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Ne’er to be heard of
more.
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