And faid, None, but the first-rate Wit,
To fing my Spencer can be Fit:
The Nobler Blood, let fuch Men fhew,
Which, thro' his Purple Veins, does flow
Thofe Honours, which he does inherit;
Or thofe which GEORGE beftows on Merit,
How (good as Guardian Angels are)
He reconcil'd the ROYAL PAIR!
How Faction-fick, nay, dead's become,
While he Adminifters at Home!
And, how all Europe's more at Peace,
Than, ever yet, in former Days!
Our Credit High! Inrich'd our Trade!
Qur Debts, even without Money, paid!
Yes, certainly it must be so,
For thefe High Themes, my Rhime's too Low.
I cannot, must not, on them dwell,
To fing the Statesman, Learn'd and Wifey
Nor make my Verfe fwell, to the End,
With GEORGE's Favourite and Friends is?
And fo I'm in a bad Condition!
Well! fince I can't Rhime, I'll Petition.
My LORD, then, that I may conclude, (For being Tedious, is being Rude) Make me (to fill my earnest Wish up)
An English Dean, or Irish Bishop.
EAR Smed, altho' I'm prefs'd with Cares,
Thy Lovely Lines command my Ears;
Her Levities I can't refufe,
So gay, fo wanton is thy
By Nature form'd for two great Ends,
At once to Smile, and pleafe your Friends,
Rude or Unbred you cannot be,
Thou'rt welcome, Jonathan, to me,
Whether you come by Day or Night,
Whether you chufe to fpeak or write
But when you write, I own 'tis sweeter,
And chiefly when you write in Metre.
Check not your Mufe's tow'ring Flight,
Nor do not Think before you Write.
Thy Lines with so much Mufick fall,
That they require no Thought at all.
What, tho' my Hours important are,
With Glorious Peace, or Lawful War?
I'll make Peace, War, or War a Peace,
Juft as dear Jn fhall please.
By all means, let her write in hafte, In fpight of Judgment and of Tafte. For, what have either, Sir, to do Either with what You write, or You? Tho' Sciences by Modern Thought
re to a high Perfection brought,
And are my Fav'rites, yet of courfe
Thy Lines have fifty times their force, c
When once upon your Stile I look,”
I cannot bear another Book,
Whether recorded be the Lore
Of all the Writers heretofore.
A Letter coming from Kinfale, Not do? O Lord, it cannot fail!
What, tho' the Climate's cloudy there?
You are the Sun that clears their Air;
Difperfes all their Fog and Vapour
By Magick of your Pen on Paper;
The fhining Gleams of what you think,
Make shining Verse and fhining Ink.
So that the Clouds of course must fly
When you look upwards to the Sky.
What you of Stocks and Bubbles tell,
I'm glad your Wife and Children's well,
May your sweet Mufe for ever Chime,
Don't fink your Love for me and Rhyme..
Ah! rather fink your Love for me,
Than quit the Thoughts of Poetry;
For fhould you fink your Rhime to Profe,
Oh! what a Bard the World would lofe.
Yes, 'tis to me that at Kinfale
Your Claret's bad, and worse your Ale!
And should be vext were not your Rum
As good as is in Chriftendom..:
GOD bless the KING, you say. Amen.
I fay, GOD blefs the KING again.
Now, Faith I own I'm in a Huff, You call your Poem trifling Stuff's
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