Though on Blackheath and Wimbledon's wide plain, George keeps his hat off in a shower of rain; Sees swords and bayonets without a dread, Nor at a volley winks, nor ducks his head: Although at grand reviews he seems so blest, And leaves at six o'clock his downy nest, Dead to the charms of blanket, wife, and bolster; Unlike his officers, who, fond of cramming, And at reviews afraid of thirst and famine, With bread and cheese and brandy fill their holsters. Sure, Tom, we should do justice to Queen Bess: His present majesty, whom Heaven long bless With wisdom, wit, and art of choicest quality, Will never get, I fear, so fine a niche As that old queen, though often called old b--ch, In fame's colossal house of immortality. As for John Dryden's Charles--that king Indeed was never any mighty thing; He merited few honors from the pen: And yet he was a devilish hearty fellow, Enjoyed his beef, and bottle, and got mellow, And mind--kept company with GENTLEMEN: For, like some kings, in hobby grooms, Knights of the manger, curry-combs, and brooms, Lost to all glory, Charles did not delight-- Nor joked by day with pages, servant-maids, Large, red-polled, blowzy, hard two-handed jades: Indeed I know not what Charles did by night. Thomas, I AM of CANDOR a GREAT lover; In short, I'm candor's self all over; Sweet as a candied cake from top to toe; Make it a rule that Virtue shall be praised, And humble Merit from the ground be raised: What thinkest thou of Peter now? Thou cryest "Oh! how false! behold thy king, Of whom thou scarcely say'st a handsome thing; That king has virtues that should make thee stare." Is it so?--Then the sin's in me-- 'Tis my vile optics that can't see; Then pray for them when next thou sayest a prayer. But, p'rhaps aloft on his imperial throne, So distant, O ye gods! from every one, The royal virtues are like many a star, From this our pigmy system rather far: Whose light, though flying ever since creation, Has not yet pitched upon our nation. [Footnote: Such was the sublime opinion of the Dutch astronomer, Huygens] Then may the royal ray be soon explored-- And Thomas, if thou'lt swear thou art not humming, I'll take my spying-glass and bring thee word The instant I behold it coming. But, Thomas Warton, without joking, Art thou, or art thou not, thy sovereign smoking? How canst thou seriously declare, That George the Third With Cressy's Edward can compare, Or Harry?--'Tis too bad, upon my word: George is a clever king, I needs must own, And cuts a jolly figure on the throne. Now thou exclaim'st, "God rot it! Peter, pray What to the devil shall I sing or say?"