A. Kings then at last have but the lot of all, By their own conduct they must stand or fall.
B. True. While they live, the courtly laureat pays His quit-rent ode, his pepper-corn of praise,
And many a dunce whofe fingers itch to write,
Adds, as he can, his tributary mite;
A fubject's faults, a fubject may proclaim,
A monarch's errors are forbidden game.
Thus free from cenfure, over-aw'd by fear,
And prais'd for virtues that they scorn to wear
The fleeting forms of majesty engage
Refpect, while ftalking o'er life's narrow ftage,
Then leave their crimes for history to scan,
And ask with bufy fcorn, Was this the man?
I pity kings whom worship waits upon
Obfequious, from the cradle to the throne,
Before whose infant eyes the flatt'rer bows,
And binds a wreath about their baby brows.
Whom education ftiffens into state,
And death awakens from that dream too late.
Oh! if fervility with fupple knees,
Whose trade it is to fmile, to crouch, to please;
If fmooth diffimulation, fkill'd to grace
A devil's purpose with an angel's face;
If fmiling peereffes and fimp'ring peers,
Incompaffing his throne a few short years;
If the gilt carriage and the pamper'd steed,
That wants no driving and difdains the lead;
If guards, mechanically form'd in ranks,
Playing, at beat of drum, their martial pranks;
Should'ring and standing as if ftuck to ftone,
While condefcending majefty looks on;
If monarchy confift in fuch bafe things,
Sighing, I fay again, I pity kings!
To be fufpected, thwarted, and withstood,
Ev'n when he labours for his country's good,
To fee a band call'd patriot for no cause,
But that they catch at popular applause,
Careless of all th' anxiety he feels,
Hook difappointment on the public wheels,
With all their flippant fluency of tongue,
Moft confident, when palpably most wrong,
If this be kingly, then farewell for me
All kingship, and may I be poor and free.
To be the Table Talk of clubs up ftairs,
To which th' unwafh'd artificer repairs,
T' indulge his genius after long fatigue,
By diving into cabinet intrigue,
(For what kings deem a toil, as well they may,
To him is relaxation and mere play)
To win no praise when well wrought plans prevail,
But to be rudely cenfur'd when they fail,
To doubt the love his fav'rites may pretend,
And in reality to find no friend;
If he indulge a cultivated taste,
His gall'ries with the works of art well grac'd,
To hear it call'd extravagance and waste;
If thefe attendants, and if fuch as thefe,
Muft follow royalty, then welcome eafe;
However humble and confin'd the sphere,
Happy the ftate that has not thefe to fear.
A. Thus men whofe thoughts contemplative have dwelt,
On fituations that they never felt,
Start up fagacious, cover'd with the duft
Of dreaming study and pedantic rust,
And prate and preach about what others prove,
As if the world and they were hand and glove.
Leave kingly backs to cope with kingly cares,
They have their weight to carry, fubjects their's;
Poets, of all men, ever leaft regret
Increafing taxes and the nation's debt.
Could you contrive the payment, and rehearse
The mighty plan, oracular, in verfe,
No bard, howe'er majestic, old or new,
Should claim my fixt attention more than you.
B. Not Brindley nor Bridgewater would effay
To turn the courfe of Helicon that way;
Nor would the nine confent, the facred tide
Should purl amidst the traffic of Cheapfide,
Or tinkle in 'Change Alley, to amuse
The leathern ears of stock-jobbers and jews:
A. Vouchsafe at least to pitch the key of rhime
To themes more pertinent, if lefs fublime.
When minifters and minifterial arts,
Patriots who love good places at their hearts,
When Admirals extoll'd for standing still,
Or doing nothing with a deal of fkill;
Gen'rals who will not conquer when they may,
Firm friends to peace, to pleasure, and good pay,
When freedom wounded almost to despair,
Though discontent alone can find out where,
When themes like these employ the poet's tongue,
I hear as mute as if a fyren fung.
Or tell me if you can, what pow'r maintains
A Briton's fcorn of arbitrary chains?
That were a theme might animate the dead,
And move the lips of poets caft in lead.
B. The cause, tho' worth the fearch, may yet elude Conjecture and remark, however fhrewd.
They take, perhaps, a well-directed aim,
Who feek it in his climate and his frame.
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