Sic as stand single, (a state sae lik'd by you,) Jenny. I've done.-I yield, dear lassie, I man yield, Your better sense has fairly won the field, With the assistance of a little fae Lies dern'd within my breast this mony a day. Peggy. Alake, poor pris'ner!-Jenny, that's no fair, That ye'll no let the wie thing take the air: Jenny. Anither time's as good; for see the sun a' my mind; [Exeunt. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS. BORN 1709.-DIED 1759. SIR CHARLES HANBURY WILLIAMS was the son of John Hanbury, Esq. a South Sea Director. He sat in several parliaments, was, in 1744, installed a knight of the bath, and was afterwards minister at the courts of Berlin and Petersburgh. Quarter. ODE. TO A GREAT NUMBER OF GREAT MEN, NEWLY MADE. SEE, a new progeny descends From Heaven, of Britain's truest friends: To one of these direct thy flight, O Clio! these are golden times; But first to Carteret fain you'd sing ; Yet careless how you use him; Then (but there's a vast space betwixt) Stiff in his popular pride: His step, his gait, describe the man ; Each hour a different face he wears, Now laughing, now in sorrow; And roars for power to-morrow. At noon the Tories had him tight, See yon old, dull, important Lord, Why did you cross God's good intent? Back to that station go: Nor longer act this farce of power, See valiant Cobham, valorous Stair, But oh! their strength and spirits flown, They, like their conq'ring swords, are grown Rusty with laying by. Dear Bat, I'm glad you've got a place, And since things thus have chang'd their face, You'll give opposing o'er: 'Tis comfortable to be in, And think what a damn'd while you've been, Like Peter, at the door. See who comes next-I kiss thy hands, That gives you knowledge, judgment, parts, When great impending dangers shook So we, (but at a pinch thou knowest) When in your hands the seals you found, Did they not make your brains go Did they not turn your head? 1 fancy (but you hate a joke) See Harry Vane in pomp appear, And see with that important face With pride and meanness act thy part, Oh, my poor Country! is this all He was a knave indeed-what then? More changes, better times this isle Demands: Oh! Chesterfield, Argyle, To bleeding Britain bring 'em: Unite all hearts, appease each storm; 'Tis yours such actions to perform, My pride shall be to sing 'em. |