52 Sunk is her pow'r, her is o'er, sway She'll be no more ador'd, no more Shine forth the public care: Oh! what a falling off is here, From her whose frowns made wisdom fear, Wide was th' extent of her commands, Here Leicester offer'd brutal love, Sat out her Grace's fire. Here constant Bateman too we saw, Kneeling with reverential awe, T'adore his high-flown choice! Where you, my Fox, have sigh'd whole days, Deaf to ambition's voice. What clothes you made! how fine you drest! What Dresden china for her feast! But I'll no longer teaze you; Yet 'tis a truth you can't deny, Tho' lady Caroline is nigh, And does not look quite easy. But careful Heaven design'd her Grace On stronger parts depending; Nature indeed denies them sense, Which to accomplish, Hussey came, His honourable trenches; Nor of rebukes or frowns afraid, Look down, St. Patrick, with success, May they all do as he does ; And still preserve their breed the same, To comfort English widows! ODE II. ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE CONQUERED DUTCHESS. IN ANSWER TO THAT CELEBRATED PERFORMANCE. BY EARL NUGENT. WHAT clamour's here about a dame, A widow shou'd pursue. She's better sure than Scudamore, Who, while a Dutchess, play'd the whore, As all the world has heard; Wiser than Lady Harriet too, Whose foolish match made such ado, And ruin'd her and Beard. Yet she's as gay as Lady Vane, Who, should she list her am'rous train, Might fairly man a fleet; Sprightly as Orford's Countess, she, For she had patience first to wed There was, Sir Knight, there was a time, How Sandys, in sense, and person queer, Jump'd from a patriot to peer, No mortal yet knows why; How Pulteney truck'd the fairest fame For a Right Honourable name To call his vixen by: How Compton rose when Walpole fell, 'Twas you, and only you could tell, And all the scene disclos'd; How Vane and Rushout, Bathurst, Gower, Were curs'd and stigmatiz'd by power, And rais'd to be expos'd. To heights like these your Muse should fly, To others leave the middle sky, Whose wings are weak and flaggy; Leave these to some young Foppington, Who takes your leavings, Woffington, And tunes his odes to Peggy. For you, who know the sex so well, Still fooling, or befool'd Scheme upon scheme must still succeed, The Dutchess and the Hussey. |