Edward Walpole, however, did not take the matter as a joke, but rushed to the bell and ordered his servants to be called to take away his violoncello. He would be slighted, he remarked, by no man. The Prince, seeing that he had gone too far, tried to pacify him, but Walpole would listen neither to him nor to the peers and commoners who tried to bring him back. As might be expected, the Prince apologised, and Walpole was at last persuaded to bring his violoncello to the concerts. But the house, of course, reeked with the politics of the Opposition, and in a very short time Edward Walpole was again solicited by some follower of the Prince to join his party. Edward Walpole then wrote his well-known letter to the Prince in which he asks him, how he would wish him to behave when he himself was King? In the same manner would he behave while George the Second reigned. “He is an honest man,” the Prince commented as he read it, “I will keep this letter.” He did keep it, and it was given many years after to George the Third by his mother. The Princess of Wales, it cannot be doubted, was very much beloved by her husband. He had quite forgotten that early love affair with his cousin, Wilhelmina, and it is said was never tired of appearing in public with Augusta, that the people might frequently see and admire her; and admire her they certainly did. Even sharp-tongued old Sarah of Marlborough had a kind word for her. “The Princess speaks English much better than any of the family that have been here so long,” she wrote to her confidant, Lord Stair, “appears good-natured and civil to everybody: never saying anything to offend, as the late Queen did perpetually, notwithstanding her great understanding and goodness.”[59] Among other artistic accomplishments Frederick wrote poetry, and the following verses addressed to his wife under the name of “Sylvia” could only have been written by a very devoted husband and lover:-- SONG. THE CHARMS OF SYLVIA.[60] By the Prince of Wales on the Princess. ’Tis not the liquid brightness of those eyes That swim with pleasure and delight, Nor those heavenly arches which arise O’er each of them to shade their light. ’Tis not that hair which plays with every wind And loves to wanton round thy face, Now straying round thy forehead, now behind, Retiring with insidious grace. ’Tis not that lovely range of teeth so white, As new-shorn sheep, equal and fair; Nor e’en that gentle smile, the heart’s delight, With which no smile could e’er compare. ’Tis not that chin so round, that neck so fine, Those breasts which swell to meet my love, That easy-sloping waist, that form divine, Nor ought below, nor ought above.