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This wond'rous metamorphose of an hour,
Sufficiently evinced the sybil's power,
To ruin nations, little rogues to raise,
A virtue supernatural displays,
What but a power infernal or divine

Could honour North, or make his grace resign.
Some superficial politicians tell
When Grafton from his gilded turret fell,
The sybil substituted North a blank,
A mustered faggot to complete the rank,
Without the distant thought that such a tool
Would change its being and aspire to rule:
But such the humble North's indulgent fate,
When striding in the saddle of the state
He caught by inspiration statesmanship,
And drove the slow machine and smack'd his whip;
Whilst Bedford wondering at his sudden skill
With reverence view'd the packhorse of his will.
His majesty (the buttons thrown aside)
Declar'd his fix'd intention to preside.
No longer sacrificed to every knave
He'd show himself discreet as well as brave;
In every cabinet and council cause
He'd be dictator and enforce the laws.
Whilst North should in his present office stand
As understrapper to direct his hand.

Now Expectation, now extend thy wing!
Happy the land whose minister's a king,
Happy the king who ruling each debate
Can peep through every roguery of state.
See Hope arrayed in robes of virgin white,
Trailing an arch'd variety of light,
Comes showering blessings on a ruin'd realm,
And shows the crown'd director of the helm.
Return, fair goddess, till some future day;
The king has seen the errour of his way;
And by his smarting shoulders seems to feel
The wheel of state is not a Catharine wheel.
Wise by experience, general nurse of fools,
He leaves the ministry to venal tools,
And finds his happy talents better suit
The making buttons for his favourite Bute,
In countenancing the unlawful views
Which North, the delegate of Bute, pursues,
In glossing with authority a train
Whose names are infamy, and objects gain.

Hail, filial duty! great if rightly us'd,
How little, when mistaken and abus'd;

Whilst the rogues out revile the rascals in, Repeat the proverb, "let those laugh that win:" Fleeting and transitory is the date

Of sublunary ministers of state,

Then whilst thy summer lasts, prepare the hay,
Nor trust to autumn and a future day.

I leave thee now, but with intent to trace
The villains and the honest men of place.
The first are still assisting in thy train
To aid the pillage and divide the gain.
The last of known integrity of mind
Forsook a venal party and resign'd.

Come Satire! aid me to display the first,
Of every honest Englishman accurst,
Come Truth, assist me to prepare the lays,
Where worth demands, and give the latter praise.
Ingenious Sandwich, whither dost thou fly
To shun the censure of the public eye?
Dost thou want matter for another speech,
Or other works of genius to impeach?
Or would thy insignificance and pride
Presume above thyself and seek to guide?
Pursue thy ignis-fatuus of power,
And call to thy assistance virtuous Gower,
Set Rigby's happy countenance in play,
To vindicate whatever you can say.
Then when you totter into place and fame,
With double infamy you brand your name.
Say, Sandwich, in the winter of your date,
Can you ascend the hobby-horse of state,
Do titles echo grateful in your ear,
Or is it mockery to call you peer?
In
silver'd age to play the fool,
And
with rascals infamous a tool;
Plainly denote your judgment is no more,
Your honour was extinguish'd long before.
Say, if reflection ever blest thy mind,
Hast thou one real friend among mankind?
Thou hadst one once, free, generous and sincere,
Too good a senator for such a peer,
Him thou hast offer'd as a sacrifice
To lewdness, immorality and vice,
Your
scoundrel set the gin,
And friendship was the bait to draw him in.
What honourable villain could they find
Of Sandwich's latudinary mind?

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Tho' intimacy seem'd to stop the way,
You they employ'd to tempt him and betray.

View'd from one point, how glorious art thou seen, Full well you executed their commands,

From others, how degenerate and mean.

A seraph or an idiot's head we see:
Oft on the latter stands the type of thee,
And bowing at his parent's knee is drest
In a long hood of many-colour'd vest.

The sceptred king who dignifies a throne,
Should be in private life himself alone.
No friend or mother should his conscience scan,
Or with the nation's head confound the man.
Like juggling Melchi Zadok's priestish plea,
Collected in himself a king should be.
But truths may be unwelcome, and the lay
Which shall to royal ears such truths convey,
The conflagrations of the hangman's ite
May roast and execute with foreign fire.
The Muse who values safety shall return,
And sing of subjects where she cannot burn.
Continue North thy vile burlesque of power,
And reap the harvest of the present hour,
Collect and fill thy coffers with the spoil
And let thy gatherings recompense thy toil.

Well you deserv'd the pension at their hands, For you in hours of trifling he compiled

A dissertation blasphemous and wild.

Be it recorded too, at your desire,

He called for demons to assist his lyre,
Relying on your friendship soon be found
How dangerous the support of rotten ground.
In your infernal attributes array'd,
You seiz'd the wish'd-for poem and betray'd.

Hail mighty Twitcher! can my feeble line
Give due reward to merit such as thine?
Not Churchill's keenest satire ever reach'd
The conscience of the rascal who impeach'd.
My feeble numbers and untutor'd lay
On such an harden'd wretch is thrown away
I leave thee to the impotent delight
Of visiting the harlots of the night,
Go hear thy nightingale's enchanting strain,
My satize shall not dart a sting in vain.

5 Patronizing, I believe.

There you may boast one sense is entertain'd,
Tho' age present your other senses pain'd,
Go, Sandwich, if thy fire of lust compel,
Regale at Harrington's religious cell,

[illegible.

Exert your poor endeavours as you please,
The jest and bubble of the harlot crew,
What entertain'd your youth, in age pursue.

When Grafton shook oppression's iron rod,
Like Egypt's lice, the instrument of God,
When Camden, driven from his office, saw
The last weak efforts of expiring law,
When Bute, the regulator of the state
Preferr'd the vicious, to transplant the great,
When rank corruption thro' all orders ran
And infamy united Sawney's clan,

When every office was with rogues disgrac'd,
And the Scotch dialect became the taste-
Could Beaufort with such creatures stay behind?
No, Beaufort was a Briton, and resign'd.
Thy resignation, Somerset, shall shine
When time hath buryed the recording line,
And proudly glaring in the rolls of fame,
With more than titles decorate thy name.
Amidst the gather'd rascals of the age,
Who murder noble parts, the court their stage,
One nobleman of honesty remains,
Who scorns to draw in ministerial chains,
Who honours virtue and his country's peace,
And sees with pity grievances increase.
Who bravely left all sordid views of place,
And lives the honour of the Beaufort race.
Deep in the secret, Barrington and Gower,
Rais'd upon villany, aspire to power,
Big with importance they presume to rise
Above a minister they must despise,
Whilst Barrington as secretary shows
How many pensions paid his blood and blows.
And Gower, the humbler creature of the two,
Has only future prospects in his view.

But North requires assistance from the great
To work another button in the state,
That Weymouth may complete the birthday suit,
Full trimm'd by Twitcher and cut out by Bute.
So many worthy schemers must produce
A statesman's coat of universal use;
Some system of economy to save
Another million for another knave.
Some plan to make a duty, large before,
Additionally great, to grind the poor.
For 'tis a maxim with the guiding wise,
Just as the commons sink the rich arise.

If ministers and privy council knaves
Would rest contented with their being slaves,
And not with anxious infamy pursue
Those measures which will fetter others too,
The swelling cry of liberty would rest,
Nor Englishmen complain, nor knaves protest.
But courtiers have a littleness of mind,
And once enslaved would fetter all mankind.
'Tis to this narrowness of soul we owe
What further ills our liberties shall know,
'Tis from this principle our feuds began,
Fomented by the Scots, ignoble clan,
Strange that such little creatures of a tool,
By lust and not by merit rais'd to rule,
Should sow contention in a noble land,
And scatter thunders from a venal hand.

Query, Supplant.

Gods! that these fiy-blows of a stallion's day,
Warm'd into being by the sybil's ray,
Should shake the constitution, rights and laws,
And prosecute the man of freedom's cause!
Whilst Wilkes to every Briton's right appeal'd
With loss of liberty that right he seal'd.
Imprison'd and oppress'd he persever'd,
Nor Sawney or his powerful sybil fear'd.
The hag replete with malice from above,
Shot poison on the screech owl of her love,
Unfortunately to his pen" it fell,

And flow'd in double rancour to her cell.
Madly she rav'd to ease her tortur'd mind,
The object of her hatred is confin'd:
But he, supported by his country's laws,
Bid her defiance, for 'twas freedom's cause.
Her treasurer and Talbot fought in vain,
Tho' each attain'd his favourite object, gain.
She sat as usual when a project fails,
Damn'd Chudleigh's phyz, and din'd upon her nails.
Unhappy land! whose govern'd monarch sees
Thro' glasses and perspective such as these,
When juggling to deceive his untry'd sight,
He views the ministry all trammell'd right,
Whilst to his eye the other glass apply'd,
His subjects' failings are all magnified.
Unheeded the petitions are receiv'd,
Nor one report of grievances believ'd;
'Tis but the voice of faction in disguise
That blinds with liberty the people's eyes;
'Tis riot and licentiousness pursues
Some disappointed placeman's private views.
And shall such venal creatures steer the helm,
Waving oppression's banners round the realm?
Shall Britons to the vile detested troop,
Forgetting ancient honour, meanly stoop?
Shall we our rights and liberties resign,
To lay those jewels at a woman's shrine ?
No: let us still be Britons: be it known,
The favours we solicit are our own.

Engage, ye Britons, in the glorious task,
And stronger still enforce the things you ask.
Assert your rights, remonstrate with the throne,
Insist on liberty, and that alone.

Alas! America, thy

cause

government.

Displays the ministry's contempt of laws.
Unrepresented thou art tax'd, excis'd,
By creatures much too vile to be despis'd,
The outcast of an outed gang are sent,
To bless thy commerce, with
Whilst pity rises to behold thy fate,
We see thee in this worst of troubles great,
Whilst anxious for thy wavering dubious cause,
We give thy proper spirit due applause.
If virtuous Grafton's sentimental taste,
Is in his measures or his mistress plac'd ;
In either 'tis originally rare,

One shows the midnight ćully, one the peer.
Review him, Britons, with a proper pride,
Was this a statesman qualified to guide?
Was this the minister whose mighty hand
Has scatter'd civil discord thro' the land?
Since smallest trifles, when ordain'd by fate,
Rise into power and counteract the great,
What shall we call thee, Grafton? Fortune's whip?
Or rather the burlesque of statesmanship,
When daring in thy insolence of place,
Bold in an empty majesty of face,

7 Doubtful. 8 Left out, but right, by rhyme.

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What Mansfield's conscience shudder'd to receive Thy mercenary temper cannot leave.

Reversions, pensions, bribes and

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What, mortal scoundrel can such things refuse?
If Dunning's nice integrity of mind
Will not in pales of interest be confin'd;
Let his uncommon honesty resign,

And boast the empty pension of the Nine;
A Thurloe grasping every offer'd straw,
Shines his successor, and degrades the law.
How like the ministry who link'd his chains,
His measures tend incessantly to gains.

If Weymouth dresses to the height of taste, At once with places lac'd,

Can such a summer insect of the state
Be otherwise than in externa's great?
Thou bustling marplot of each hidden plan,
How wilt thou answer to the sybil's man?
Did thy own shallow politics direct,

To treat the mayor with purpos'd disrespect,
Or did it come in orders from above,
From her who sacrificed her soul to love?
Rigby whose conscience is a perfect dice,
A just epitome of every vice,

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Replete with what accomplishments support
The empty admiration of a court,
Yet wants a barony to grace record,
And hopes to lose the rascal in the lord.
His wish is granted, and the king prepares
A title of renown to brand his heirs.
When vice creates the patent for a peer,
What lord so nominally great as Clare?
Whilst Chatham from his coroneted oak
Unheeded shook the senate with his croak;
The minister too powerful to be right,
Laugh'd at his prophecy and second sight,
Since mother Shipton's oracle of state
Forestall'd the future incidents of fate.
Grafton might shake his elbows, dance and dream,
"Twere labour lost to strive against the stream.
If Grafton in his juggling statesman's game
Bubbled for interest, betted but for fame,
The leader of the treasury could pay
For every loss in politics and play.

Sir Fletcher's noisy eloquence of tongue

Is on such pliant oily hinges hung,
Turn'd to all points of politics and doubt,
But tho' for ever worsted, never out.
Can such a wretched creature take the chair
And exercise his new made power with air?
This worthy speaker of a worthy crew
Can write long speeches and repeat them too,
A practis'd lawyer in the venal court,
From higher powers he borrows his report;
Above the scandalous aspersion tool,
He only squares his conscience by a rule.
Granby too great to join the heated cause,
Throws down his useless truncheon and withdraws,

9 Omitted.

Whilst unrenowned for military deeds,
A youthful branch of royalty succeeds.
Let Coventry, Yonge, Palmerston and Brett
With resignation pay the crown a debt;
If in return for offices of trust,

The ministry expect you'll prove unjust,
What soul that values freedom could with ease
Stoop under obligations such as these.
If you a Briton, every virtue dead,
That would upon your dying freedom tread,
List in the gang and piously procure,

To make your calling and election sure;
Go flatter Sawney for his jockeyship,
Assist in each long shuffle, hedge and slip,
Thus rising on the stilts of favour see
What Grafton was, and future dukes will be.
How Rigby, Weymouth, Barrington began
To juggle into fame and play the man.

Amidst this general rage of turning out,
What officer will stand, remains a doubt,
If virtue's an objection at the board,
With what propriety the council's stor❜d;
Where could the Caledonian minion find
Such striking copies of his venal mind?
Search thro' the winding labyrinths of place,
See all alike politically base.

If virtues, foreign to the office, shine,
How fast the prodigies of state resign!
Still as they drop, the rising race begin
To boast the infamy of being in.

And generous Bristol, constant to his friend,
Employs his lifted crutches to ascend.
Look round thee, North! see what a glorious scene-
O let no thought of vengeance intervene:
Throw thy own insignificance aside,
And swell in self-importance, power and pride.
See Holland easy with his pilfer'd store,
See Bute intriguing how to pilfer more,
See Grafton's coffers boast the wealth of place,
A provident reserve to hedge a race.
New to oppression and the servile chain,
Hark how the wrong'd Americans complain.
Whilst unregarded the petitions lie,
And Liberty unnoticed swells her cry;
Yet, yet reflect, thou despicable thing,
How wavering is the favour of a king;
Think, since that feeble fence and Bute is all,
How soon thy humbug farce of state may fall,
Then catch the present moment while 'tis thinë,
Implore a noble pension and resign.

JOURNAL 6th, Saturday, Sept. 30, 1769. [Copied from a poem in Chatterton's hand-writing in the British Museum.]

"Tis myst'ry all, in every sect
You find this palpable defect,
The axis of the dark machine
Is enigmatic and unseen.
Opinion is the only guide

By which our senses are supply'd,
Mere grief's conjecture, fancy's whim,
Can make our reason side with him.
But this discourse perhaps will be
As little lik'd by you as me;
I'll change the subject for a better,
And leave the doctor, and his letter.

A priest whose sanctimonious face
Became a sermon, or a grace,
Could take an orthodox repast,
And left the knighted loin the last;
To fasting very little bent,

He'd pray indeed till breath was spent.
Shrill was his treble as a cat,
His organs being chok'd with fat;
In college quite as graceful seen
As Camplin or the lazy dean,
(Who sold the ancient cross to Hoare
For one church dinner, nothing more,
The dean who sleeping on the book
Dreams he is swearing at his cook.)
This animated bill of oil

Was to another dean the foil.

They seem'd two beasts of different kind,
Contra in politics and mind,
The only sympathy they knew,
They both lov'd turtle a-la-stew.
The dean was empty, thin and long,
As Fowler's back or head or song.
He met the rector in the street,
Sinking a canal with his feet.
"Sir," quoth the dean, with solemn nod,
"You are a minister of God;
And, as I apprehend, should be
About such holy works as me.
But, cry your mercy, at a feast
You only show yourself a priest,
No sermon politic you preach,
No doctrine damnable you teach.
Did not we few maintain the fight,
Myst'ry might sink and all be light.
From house to house your appetite
In daily sojourn paints ye right.
Nor lies true orthodox you carry,
You hardly ever hang or marry.
Good Mr. Rector, let me tell ye
You've too much tallow in this belly.
Fast, and repent of ev'ry sin,
And grow, like me, upright and thin;
Be active, and assist your mother,
And then I'll own ye for a brother."

"Sir," quoth the rector in a huff,
"True, you're diminutive enough,
And let me tell ye, Mr. Dean,
You are as worthless too as lean;
This mountain strutting to my face
Is an undoubted sign of grace.
Grace, tho' you ne'er on turtle sup,
Will like a bladder blow you up,
A tun of claret swells your case
Less than a single ounce of grace."

"You're wrong," the bursting dean reply'd, "Your logic's on the rough cast side; The minor's right, the major falls, Weak as his modern honour's walls. A spreading trunk, with rotten skin, Shows very little's kept within; But when the casket's neat, not large, We guess th' importance of the charge." "Sir," quoth the rector, "I've a story Quite apropos to lay before ye. A sage philosopher to try What pupil saw with reason's eye, Prepar'd three boxes, gold, lead, stone, And bid three youngsters claim each one. The first, a Bristol merchant's heir, Lov'd pelf above the charming fair;

So 'tis not difficult to say
Which box the dolthead took away.
The next, as sensible as me,
Desir'd the pebbled one, d'ye see.
The other, having scratch'd his head,
Consider'd tho' the third was lead,
'Twas metal still surpassing stone,
So claim'd the leaden box his own.
Now to unclose they all prepare,
And hope alternate laughs at fear.
The golden case does ashes hold,
The leaden shines with sparkling gold,
But in the outcast stone they see
A jewel,-such pray fancy me."
"Sir," quoth the dean, "I truly say
You tell a tale a pretty way;
But the conclusion to allow-
'Fore gad, I scarcely can tell how.
A jewel! Fancy must be strong
To think you keep your water long.
I preach, thank gracious Heaven! as clear
As any pulpit stander here,

But may the devil claw my face
If e'er I pray'd for puffing grace,
To be a mountain, and to carry
Such a vile heap-I'd rather marry!
Each day to sweat three gallons full
And spau a furlong on my scull.
Lost to the melting joys of love—
Not to be borne-like justice move."

And here the dean was running on,
Thro' half a couplet having gone;
Quoth rector peevish, "I sha'nt stay
To throw my precious time away.
The gen'rous Burgum having sent
A ticket as a compliment,

I think myself in duty bound
Six pounds of turtle to confound."

"That man you mention," answers dean,
"Creates in priests of sense the spleen;
His soul's as open as his hand,
Virtue distrest may both command;
That ragged Virtue is a whore,
I always beat her from my door,
But Burgum gives, and giving shows
His honour leads him by the nose..
Ah! how unlike the church divine,
Whose feeble lights on mountains shine,
And being plac'd so near the sky,
Are lost to every human eye.
His luminaries shine around
Like stars in the cimmerian ground."
"Invidious slanderer!" quoth priest,
"O may I never scent a feast,

If thy curst conscience is as pure
As underlings in Whitefield's cure.
The church, as thy display has shown,
Is turn'd a bawd to lustful town;
But what against the church you've said
Shall soon fall heavy on your head.
Is Burgum's virtue then a fault?
Ven'son and Heaven forbid the thought!
He gives, and never eyes return;
O may paste altars to him burn!
But whilst I talk with worthless you,
Perhaps the dinner waits adieu."

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This said, the rector trudg'd along As heavy as Fowlerian song. The hollow dean with fairy feet, Stept lightly thro' the dirty street.

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At last, arriv'd at destin'd place,
The bulky doctor squeaks the grace.
"Lord bless the many-flavour'd meat,
And grant us strength enough to eat!
May all and every mother's son

Be drunk before the dinner's done.

When we give thanks for dining well, oh!

May each grunt out in ritornello."

Amen! resounds to distant tide,
And weapons clang on every side,
The oily river burns around,

And guashing teeth make doleful sound.
Now is the busy president

In his own fated element,

In every look and action great,
His presence doubly fills the plate.
Nobly invited to the feast,
They all contribute gold at least.
The duke and president collected,
Alike beloved, alike respected.onos

[This poem immediately follows the other. It has no title, and is written upon the same paper, a whole sheet, folded into four columns. The line "Alike beloved, alike respected," ends one column, with a little scrawl at the end; the next begins thus.]

SAY, Baker, if experience hoar
Has yet unbolted wisdom's door,
What is this phantom of the mind,
'This love, when sifted and refin'd?
When the poor lover fancy-frighted
Is with shadowy joys delighted,

A frown shall throw him in despair;
A smile shall brighten up his air.
Jealous without a seeming cause
From flatt'ring smiles he misery draws;
Again without his reason's aid,
His bosom's still, the Devil's laid.
If this is love, my callous heart
Has never felt the rankling dart.
Oft have I seen the wounded swain,
Upon the rack of pleasing pain,
Full of his flame, upon his tongue
The quivering declaration hung,

When, lost to courage, sense and reason,
He talk'd of weather and the season.
Such tremors never coward me,
I'm flattering, impudent and free,
Unmov'd by frowns and low'ring eyes,
'Tis smiles I only ask and prize,
And when the smile is freely given,
You're in the highway road to Heaven.
These coward lovers seldom find
That whining makes the ladies kind.
They laugh at silly silent swains
Who're fit for nothing but their chains.
'Tis an effrontery, and tongue
On very oily hinges hung,
Must win the blooming melting fair
And show the joys of Heaven here.
A rake, I take it, is a creature
Who winds thro' all the folds of nature.
Who sees the passions, and can tell
How the soft beating heart shall swell,
Who when he ravishes the joy,
Defies the torments of the boy.

Who with the soul the body gains,
And shares Love's pleasures, not his pains.
Who holds his charmer's reputation
Above a tavern veneration,
And when a love repast he makes,
Not even prying Fame partakes.
Who looks above a prostitute, he
Thinks love the only price of beauty,
And she that can be basely sold,
Is much beneath or love or gold.
Who thinks the almost dearest part
In all the body is the heart:
Without it rapture cannot rise,
Nor pleasures wanton in the eyes,
The sacred joy of love is dead,
Witness the sleeping marriage bed.
This is the picture of a rake,
Show it the ladies-wont it take?

A buck's a beast of th' other side,
And real but in hoofs and hide.
To nature and the passions dead,
A brothel is his house and bed;
To fan the flame of warm desire
And after wanton in the fire,
He thinks a labour, and his parts
Were not design'd to conquer hearts,
Serene with bottle, pox, and whore,
He's happy, and requires no more.
The girls of virtue when he views,
Dead to all converse but the stews,
Silent as death, he's nought to say,
But sheepish steals himself away.
This is a buck to life display'd,

A character to charm each maid.
Now prithee, friend, a choice to make,
Wouldst choose the buck before the rake?
The buck as brutal as the name
Envenoms every charmer's fame.
And tho' he never touch'd her hand
Protests he had her at command,
The rake in gratitude for pleasure
Keeps reputation dear as treasure.

[After these asterisks, follows without title.] But Hudibrastics may be found

To tire ye with repeated sound,
So changing for a Shandeyan style
I ask your favour and your smile.

ELEGY.

[This poem is taken from the Town and Country Magazine for February, 1770.]

WHY blooms the radiance of the morning sky? Why springs the beauties of the season round? Why buds the blossom with the glossy die?

Ah! why does nature beautify the ground? Whilst softly floating on the Zephyr's wing, The melting accents of the thrushes rise; And all the heav'nly music of the spring, Steal on the sense, and harmonize the skies. When the rack'd soul is not attun'd to joy,

When sorrow an internal monarch reigns; In vain the choristers their powers employ,

'Tis hateful music, and discordant strains.

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