HORACE, ODE VIII. BOOK IV.

IMITATED.

a

MUSE! were we rich in land, or stocks,
We'd fend Sir Fletcher a gold box;
Who lately, to the world's furprize,
Advis'd his Sovereign to be wife.
The zeal of cits fhou'd ne'er furpafs us,
We'd make him speaker of Parnaffus.
Or could I boaft the mimic eye
Ofb Townshend, or of Bunbury,
Whose art can catch, in comic guife,
"The manners living as they rife,"
And find it the fame eafy thing
To hit a Jollux or a king;
I'd hangings weave, in fancy's loom,
For Lady Norton's dreffing room.

But arts like thefe I don't purfue,
Nor does Sir Fletcher heed virtù.

Enough for me in these hard times,
When ev'ry thing is tax'd but rhymes,

Line 12. A Jollux.) A phrafe used by the bon ton for a fat parfon. See a fet of excellent Caricatures published by Bretherton, in New Bond-Street.

To tag a few of these together:
Tho' I am quite uncertain, whether
My verfe will much rejoice the knight,

g

As great a ftore as I fet by't.

For verfe, (I'd have Sir Fletcher know it)
When written by a genuine poet,

Has more of meaning and intent,
Thanh modern acts of Parliament.

'Tis i fit and right, when heroes die,
The nation fhould a tomb supply;
Yet, not the votes of both the houses,
Without th' affistance of the muses,
Can give that permanence of fame
That heroes from their country claim.
And tell me pray, to our good King,
What fame our present broils can bring,
Ev'n

25

૩૦

fhould the Howes (which some folks

Ver. 37. Unless his Treasurer.) The late promotion of a poet to the treasurership of the houfhold, muft neceffarily give to all true votaries of the muses (as it does to me) great delectation. 'Tis whifpered, by fome people in the fecret, that the very pacific caft of the Laureat's birth-day ode, occafioned

1

What fcale of metaphor fhall Fancy raise,
To climb the heights of thy ftupendous praife?

Thrice has the fun commenc'd his annual ride,
Since full of years and praise, thy mother died.
'Twas then I faw thee, with exulting eyes, 140
A fecond Phoenix, from her ashes rise;
Mark'd all the graces of thy loyal creft,
Sweet with the perfume of its parent neft.

Rare chick! How worthy of all court caresses,
How foft, how echo-like, it chirp'd addresses. 145
Proceed, I cry'd, thy full-fledg'd plumes unfold,
Each true-blue feather fhall be tipt with gold;
Ordain'd thy race of future fame to run,
To do, whate'er thy mother left undone.
In all her smooth, obfequious paths proceed, 150
For, know, poor oppofition wants a head.
With horn and hound her truant schoolboys roam,
And for a fox-chace quit St. Stephen's dome,
Forgetful of their grandfire Nimrod's plan,
"A mighty hunter, but his prey was man." 155
The reft, at crouded Almack's, nightly bett,
To ftretch their own beyond the nation's debt.

Vote

Ver. 155. A mighty hunter.) A line of Mr. Pope's, If our younger fenators would take the hint, and now and then hunt a minister inftead of a fox, they might perhaps find some fun in it,

Vote then fecure; the needful millions raise,
That fill the privy-purfe with means and ways.
And do it quickly too, to fhew your breeding, 160
The weazel Scots are hungry, and want feeding.
Nor need ye wait for that more plenteous season,
When mad America is brought to reafon.
Obfequious Ireland, at her fifters claim,
(Sifter or ftep-dame, call her either name) 165
Shall power profufely her Pactolian tide,
Nor leave her native patriots unfupply'd.

Earl N-t fang, while yet but fimple Clare, That wretched Ireland had no gold to fpare.

How

Ver. 161. The weazel Scots.) It is not I, but Shakefpeare, that gives my countrymen this epithet. See Hen.V. act. 1. fcene 2.

For once the eagle England being in prey,

To her unguarded neft the weazel Scot

Comes fneaking, and fo fucks her princely eggs, &c.

Ver. 168. Earl Nt fung.) The intellect not only of pofterity, but of the prefent reader, muft here again be enlightened by a note: for this fong was fung above two years ago, and is confequently forgotten. Yet if the reader will pleafe to recollect how easily I brought to life Sir William Chambers's profe differtation which had been dead half that time, he will, I hope, give me credit for being able to recover this dead poem from oblivion alfo. It was fent to her Majefty on her birth-day, with a prefent of Irish grogram; and the newspaper of the day faid (but I know not how truly) that the Queen was graciously pleafed to thank the noble au

C 6