But see that chariot! who rides there? _Britannia_, Sir, a lady fair: To her celestial charms are given; Ador'd on earth, beloved in heaven; Her frown makes nations dread a fall; Her smile gives joy and life to all. Too generous, merciful, and kind; Her Servants won't their duty mind; Neither their Mistress' call regards; Their study's how to cheat at cards; The reins of power, oh, indiscreet! They trample, careless, under feet; Th' unguided coursers neigh and spurn, And ah, the car must overturn! Just gods, forbid!--there's comfort yet! For, lo, how near that saving PITT! Sure Heaven design'd her that resource, To stop her venal servants course; Her peace and safety to restore, And keep from dangers evermore. Ha! see, yon distant cavalcade! Exulting crowds, and flags display'd! Let's to the bridge our foot-steps bend-- So cheek by jole, along, my friend. CANTO IV. CHAIRING _the_ MEMBERS. "Huzza! the Country! not the Court!"--. Your Honour can't have better sport; In old arm-chair aloft you soar-- No Candidate can wish for more. Th' election's got, the day's your own, And be to all their member known! Ye Moths of an exalted size! Ye sage Historians, learn'd and wise! Who pore on leaves of old tradition; Vers'd in each prætor exhibition; Tell me if, 'midst the spoils of age, And relicks of the moulder'd page, You e'er found why this aukward state Must 'tend the man who'd fain be great! When _Alexander_, Glory's son, Enter'd in triumph _Babylon_, Hear ancient annals make confession, How aggrandiz'd was his procession! But this is _Skymington_, I trow!---- Yet Time proclaims _We must_[C] do so. It sure was meant to make folks stare, "Like cloths hung out at country fair: Where painted monsters rage and grin, To draw the gaping bumpkins in."[D] _Minerva's_ sacred bird's an owl; Our candidate's, behold, a fowl! From which we readily suppose (As now his generous Honour's chose) His voice he'll in the Senate use; And cackle, cackle, like--a goose. But, hark ye! you who bear this load Of patriot worth along the road, Methinks you make his Honour lean; Be careful, Sirs!--Zounds! what d' ye mean? Off flies his hat, back leans his chair, And dread of falling makes him stare. His Lady, fond to see him ride, With Nurse and _Black-moor_ at her side, In church-yard stands to view the sight, And at his danger's in a fright. "Alack, alack, she faints away!" "The hartshorn, _Ora_--quick, I say!" See, at yon house th' opposing party Enjoy the joke, with laughter hearty! "Well done, my boys--now let him fall; Here's gin and porter for you all!"