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Even I, a dunce of more renown than they,
Was ſent before but to prepare thy way;
And coarſly clad in Norwich Drugget came
To teach the Nations in thy greater Name.
My warbling Lute, the Lute I whilom ſtrung,
When to King John of Portugal I ſung,
Was but the Prelude to that glorious Day,
When thou on Silver Thames did'ſt cut thy way,
With well-tim'd Oars before the Royal Barge,
Swell'd with the Pride of thy Celeſtial charge;
And big with Hymn, Commander of an Hoſt,
The like was ne'er in Epſom Blankets toſt.
Methinks I ſee the new Arion Sail,
The Lute ſtill trembling underneath thy nail.
At thy well-ſharpned Thumb from Shore to Shore
The Treble ſqueaks for fear, the Baſes roar:
Echoes from Piſſing-Ally, Sh—— call,
And Sh—— they reſound from A—— Hall.
About thy Boat the little Fiſhes throng,
As at the Morning Toaſt, that Floats along.
Sometimes as Prince of thy Harmonious Band,
Thou wield'ſt thy Papers in thy threſhing hand.
St. Andre's Feet ne'er kept more equal Time,
Not even the Feet of thy own Pſyche's Rhime:
Though they in number as in ſenſe excell;
So juſt, so like tautology they fell,
| That, pale with Envy, Singleton forſwore | 
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| The Lute and Sword which he in Triumph bore, | 
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| And vow'd he ne'er wou'd act Villerius more. | 
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Here ſtopt the good old Syre; and wept for joy
In ſilent raptures of the hopeful boy.
All Arguments, but moſt his Plays, perſwade,
That for anointed Dullneſs he was made.
Cloſe to the Walls which fair Auguſta bind,
(The fair Auguſta much to Fears inclin'd)
An ancient Fabrick, rais'd to inform the ſight,
There ſtood of yore, and Barbican it hight:
