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November 4,
1773. No. 460. |
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ODE for his M
AJESTY’s
Birth-day, June 4, 1773
Mr. Whitehead.
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BORN
for millions are the kings
Who sit on Britain’s guarded throne:
From delegated power their glory springs,
Their birth-day is our own!
In impious pomp let tyrants
shine 5
Assuming attributes divine,
And stretch their unresisted sway
O’er slaves, who tremble, and obey.
On lawless pinions let them soar,
Far happier he, whose temperate
power, 10
Acknowledg’d, and avow’d,
Ev’n on the throne restriction knows;
And to those laws implicit bows
By which it rules the croud.
When erst th’ imperial pride of
Rome 15
Exulting saw a world o’ercome,
And rais’d a mortal to the skies,
There were, ’tis true, with eagles eyes
Who view’d the dazzling scene:
Tho’ incense blaz’d on flattery’s
shrine, 20
Great Titus, and the greater Antonine
Felt, and confess’d they were but men.
But, ah! how few, let history speak
With weeping eye, and blushing cheek,
E’er reach’d their mighty
mind! 25
Man, selfish man, in most prevail’d,
And power roll’d down a curse entail’d,
On reason, and mankind.
Happy the land, to whom ’tis given
T’ enjoy that choicest boon of
heaven, 30
Where, bound in one illustrious chain,
The monarchs and the people reign!
Hence is Britannia’s weal maintain’d;
Hence are the rights his fathers gain’d
To every freeborn subject
known: 35
Hence to the throne, in songs of praise,
A grateful realm its tribute pays,
And hails the king, whose birth-day is its
own.
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November 11,
1773. No. 461. |
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A Favourite Amusement
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SOME
women take delight in dress,
And some in cards take pleasure;
Whilst others place their happiness
In heaping hoards of treasure:
In private some delight to
kiss, 5
Their hidden charms unfolding;
But all mistake the sovereign bliss,
There’s no such joy as Scolding.
The instant that I ope my eyes,
Adieu all day to
silence; 10
Before my neighbours they can rise,
They hear my tongue a mile hence:
When at the board I take my seat,
’Tis one continued riot;
I eat and scold, and scold and
eat, 15
My clack is never quiet.
Too raw, too lean, too hot, too cold,
I ever am complaining:
Too raw, too roast, too young, too old,
Each guest at table
paining: 20
Let it be fowl, or flesh, or fish,
Tho’ of my own providing,
I still find fault with every dish;
Still every servant chiding.
But when to bed I go at
night, 25
I surely fall a weeping;
For then I lose my great delight,
How can I scold when sleeping?
But this my pain doth mitigate,
And soon disperses
sorrow; 30
Altho’ to-night it be too late,
I’ll pay it off to-morrow.
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