And Thou, in whom the magick name Of WILLIAM PITT still gathers fame, 110 Who could at once exalted stand, Spurning subordinate command; Ev'n when a stripling sit with ease, The mighty helm of state to seise; Whom now (a thousand storms endur'd) 115 Years of experience have matur'd; For whom, in glory's race untir'd, Th' events of nations have conspir'd; For whom, eer many suns revolv'd, Holland has crouch'd, and France dissolv'd; 120 And Spain, in a Don Quixote fit, Has bullied only to submit; Why stoop to nonsense? why cajole Blockheads who vent their _rigmarole_? And yet, where _influence_ must rule, 125 'Tis sometimes wise to play the fool; Thus, like a witch, you raise a storm, Whether the _Parliament's Reform_, A set of _Irish Propositions_, _Impeachment_--on your _own conditions_, 130 Or RICHMOND'S wild _fortifications_, Enough to ruin twenty nations, Or any thing you know can't fail, To be a tub to Party's whale. Then whilst they nibble, growl, and worry, 135 All keen and busy, hurry-scurry; Britannia's ship you onward guide, Wrapt in security and pride. Accept fair praise; but while I live Your _Regency_ I can't forgive; 140 My Tory soul with anger swell'd, When I a parcel'd Crown beheld; Prerogative put under hatches, A Monarchy of shreds and patches; And lo! a _Phantom_! to create, 145 A huge HERMAPHRODITE OF STATE! A monster, more alarming still Than FOX'S raw-head India Bill! THURLOW, forbear thy awful frown; I beg you may not _look_ me down 150 My honest fervour do not scout, I too like thee can be devout, And in a solemn invocation{10}, Of loyalty make protestation. Courtiers, who chanc'd to guess aright, 155 And bask now in the Royal sight, Gold sticks and silver, and white wands, Ensigns of favour in your hands, Glitt'ring with stars, and envied seen Adorn'd with ribbands blue, red, green! 160 I charge you of deceit keep clear, And poison not the Sovereign's ear: O ne'er let Majesty suppose The _Prince's_ friends must be HIS foes. There is not one amongst you all 165 Whose sword is readier at his call; An ancient Baron of the land, I by my King shall ever stand; But when it pleases Heav'n to shroud The Royal image in a cloud, 170 That image in the Heir I see, The Prince is then as King to me. Let's have, altho' the skies should lour, No interval of Regal pow'r{11}.