| |
| TO 1 you who live in chill Degree, | |
| As Map informs, of Fifty three, | |
| And do not much for Cold atone | |
| By bringing thither Fifty one, | |
| Methinks all Climes shou’d be alike, | 5 |
| From Tropick even to Pole Artique; | |
| Since you have such a Constitution | |
| As nowhere suffers Diminution. | |
| You can be old in grave Debate, | |
| And young in Love-affairs of State: | 10 |
| And both to Wives and Husbands show | |
| The Vigour of a Plenipo. | |
| Like mighty Missioner you come | |
| Ad Partes Infidelium; | |
| A Work of wondrous Merit sure, | 15 |
| So far to go, so much t’ indure; | |
| And all to Preach to German Dame, | |
| Where Sound of Cupid never came. | |
| Less had you done, had you been sent | |
| As far as Drake or Pinto went, | 20 |
| For Cloves or Nutmegs to the line a, | |
| Or e’en for Oranges to China: | |
| That had indeed been Charity, | |
| Where Love-sick Ladies helpless lye, | |
| Chapt, and for want of Liquor dry. | 25 |
| But you have made your Zeal appear | |
| Within the Circle of the Bear. | |
| What Region of the Earth’s so dull, | |
| That is not of your Labours full? | |
| Triptolemus, so sung the Nine, | 30 |
| Strew’d Plenty from his Cart Divine. | |
| But spite of all these Fable-Makers, | |
| He never sow’d on Almain Acres: | |
| No, that was left by Fate’s Decree | |
| To be perform’d and sung by thee. | 35 |
| Thou break’st thro’ Forms with as much ease | |
| As the French King thro’ Articles. | |
| In grand Affairs thy Days are spent, | |
| In waging weighty Complement | |
| With such as monarchs represent. | 40 |
| They who such vast Fatigues attend, | |
| Want some soft Minutes to unbend, | |
| To show the World that now and then | |
| Great Ministers are mortal Men. | |
| Then Rhenish Rummers walk the Round, | 45 |
| In Bumpers ev’ry King is crown’d, | |
| Besides three Holy miter’d Hectors, | |
| And the whole College of Electors. | |
| No Health of Potentate is sunk | |
| That pays to make his Envoy drunk. | 50 |
| These Dutch Delights I mention’d last, | |
| Suit not I know your English taste: | |
| For Wine to leave a Whore or Play | |
| Was ne’er your Excellency’s way. | |
| Nor need this Title give Offence, | 55 |
| For here you were your Excellence; | |
| For Gaming, Writing, Speaking, Keeping, | |
| His Excellence for all but Sleeping. | |
| Now if you tope in form, and treat, | |
| ’Tis the sour Sauce to the sweet Meat, | 60 |
| The fine you pay for being great. | |
| Nay, here’s a harder Imposition, | |
| Which is indeed the Court’s Petition, | |
| That setting worldly Pomp aside, | |
| Which Poet has at Font deny’d, | 65 |
| You wou’d be pleased in humble way | |
| To write a Trifle call’d a Play. | |
| This truly is a Degradation, | |
| But wou’d oblige the Crown and Nation | |
| Next to your wise Negotiation. | 70 |
| If you pretend, as well you may, | |
| Your high Degree, your friends will say, | |
| The Duke St. Agnon made a play. | |
| If Gallick Wit convince you scarce, | |
| His Grace of Bucks has made a Farce; | 75 |
| And you, whose Comick Wit is Terse all, | |
| Can hardly fall below Rehearsal. | |
| Then finish what you have began, | |
| But scribble faster if you can: | |
| For yet no George, to our discerning, | 80 |
| Has writ without a ten Years Warning. | |
