MARBLE HILL

Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween,

Your mistress now is grown a queen;

You'll find it soon by woful proof,

She'll come no more beneath your roof.

The kingly prophet well evinces,

That we should put no trust in princes:

My royal master promised me

To raise me to a high degree:

But now he's grown a king, God wot,

I fear I shall be soon forgot.

You see, when folks have got their ends,

How quickly they neglect their friends;

Yet I may say,‘ twixt me and you,

Pray God, they now may find as true!

My house was built but for a show,

My lady's empty pockets know;

And now she will not have a shilling,

To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling;

For all the courtly madams round

Now pay four shillings in the pound;

‘ Tis come to what I always thought:

My dame is hardly worth a groat.

Had you and I been courtiers born,

We should not thus have lain forlorn;

For those we dext'rous courtiers call,

Can rise upon their masters’ fall:

But we, unlucky and unwise,

Must fall because our masters rise.

My master, scarce a fortnight since,

Was grown as wealthy as a prince;

But now it will be no such thing,

For he'll be poor as any king;

And by his crown will nothing get,

But like a king to run in debt.

No more the Dean, that grave divine,

Shall keep the key of my ( no ) wine;

My ice-house rob, as heretofore,

And steal my artichokes no more;

Poor Patty Blountno more be seen

Bedraggled in my walks so green:

Plump Johnny Gay will now elope;

And here no more will dangle Pope.

Here wont the Dean, when he's to seek,

To spunge a breakfast once a-week;

To cry the bread was stale, and mutter

Complaints against the royal butter.

But now I fear it will be said,

No butter sticks upon his bread.

We soon shall find him full of spleen,

For want of tattling to the queen;

Stunning her royal ears with talking;

His reverence and her highness walking:

While Lady Charlotte,like a stroller,

Sits mounted on the garden-roller.

A goodly sight to see her ride,

With ancient Mirmontat her side.

In velvet cap his head lies warm,

His hat, for show, beneath his arm.

Some South-Sea broker from the city

Will purchase me, the more's the pity;

Lay all my fine plantations waste,

To fit them to his vulgar taste:

Chang'd for the worse in ev'ry part,

My master Pope will break his heart.

In my own Thames may I be drownded,

If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head:

Except her majesty prevails

To place me with the Prince of Wales;

And then I shall be free from fears,

For he'll be prince these fifty years.

I then will turn a courtier too,

And serve the times as others do.

Plain loyalty, not built on hope,

I leave to your contriver, Pope;

None loves his king and country better,

Yet none was ever less their debtor.

Then let him come and take a nap

In summer on my verdant lap;

Prefer our villas, where the Thames is,

To Kensington, or hot St. James's;

Nor shall I dull in silence sit;

For‘ tis to me he owes his wit;

My groves, my echoes, and my birds,

Have taught him his poetic words.

We gardens, and you wildernesses,

Assist all poets in distresses.

Him twice a-week I here expect,

To rattle Moodyfor neglect;

An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge

In tippling at the Dog and Partridge;

And I can hardly get him down

Three times a-week to brush my gown.

I pity you, dear Marble Hill;

But hope to see you flourish still.

All happiness — and so adieu.

Kind Richmond Lodge, the same to you.