Moore, is His Majesty’s acknowledgments for your gallantry and sufferings when afloat.’ Mr. Moore thought the Queen and King an exceedingly civil couple to say so much about the performance of a matter of duty, and he was about to retire from the presence, when the Queen said, smilingly, ‘Mr. Moore, will not you see what His Majesty says?’ The master’s mate obeyed, and was rewarded for his obedience by finding that he had been promoted to a lieutenancy on board the _Mercury_. This was a good deed gracefully enacted. Not less so was another of which the Queen was the author, whereby she procured for the widow and large family of Captain Farmer, who fell in the _Quebec_, an annuity which made really princely provision for the widow and children of the slain commander. The poets of 1779 were not addicted to satire, except in jest. Thus one, in a rhymed dialogue, makes one of his interlocutors say to the other-- I own your satire’s just and keen; Proceed, and satirise the Queen. To which the reply is-- With all my heart.--The Queen, they say, Attends her nurs’ry every day; And, like a common mother, shares In all her infants’ little cares. What vulgar, unamusing scene, For George’s wife and Britain’s queen. ’Tis whispered also at the palace (I hope ’tis but the voice of malice) That (tell it not in foreign lands) She works with her own royal hands; And that our sovereign’s sometimes seen In vest embroidered by his queen. This might a courtly fashion be In days of old Andromache; But modern ladies, trust my words, Seldom sew tunics for their lords. What secret next must I unfold? She hates, I’m confidently told-- She hates the manners of the times And all our fashionable crimes, And fondly wishes to restore The golden age, and days of yore, When silly, simple women thought A breach of chastity a fault, Esteem’d those modest things, divorces, The very worst of human curses; And deem’d assemblies, cards, and dice The springs of every sort of vice. Romantic notions! all the fair At such absurdities must stare; And, spite of all her pains, will still Love routs, adultery, and quadrille. Well, is that all you find to blame, Sir Critic, in the royal dame? All I could find to blame? no, truly! The longest day in June and July Would fail me ere I could express The half of Charlotte’s blemishes. Those foolish and old-fashioned ways Of keeping holy Sabbath days, That affectation to appear At church, the Word of God to hear: That poor-like plainness in her dress, So void of noble tawdriness: That affability and ease That can her menial servants please, But which incredibly demean The state and grandeur of a queen: These, and a thousand things beside, I could discover and deride. But here’s enough; another day I may, perhaps, renew my lay. Are you content?