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Thy politics, England, how juſt and profound:
How incongruous in power, when her hands are full bound;
⟨It⟩ ſtill ſhould the maxim ſome quibble admit,
Who the devil can doubt it, that knows we have P--?
What miniſter now, who his ſovereign wou'd guard,
⟨To⟩ inveſtigate treaſon dares give his award?
Our bleſs'd conſtitution, what rock now can ſplit,
Whilſt its helm is impell'd and conducted by P--.
'Ere employed his dear country alone was in view,
With the continent then what had ſtands to do?
But, in office, he reck'd not theſe meaſures a-bit;
German counſels we e quickly adopted by P--?
When Britain, reluctant to quarrel with Spain,
Heard his abſolute orders all iſſued in vain,
His poſt he in dudgeon, thought proper to quit,
For what counſels were right of goverm'd by P--?
That our fate he retarded with candour, we own,
When idiots and epicures compaſs'd the the throne:
But our hawe was reſerv'd for himſell to compleat,
Thy deſtiny Britain deduce from thy P--.
Ye patriots of London, your gratitude roar,
To thoſe who your P--, and your freedom reſtore;
Let his name be reſounded to heav'n by each cit.
Ye gods keep your Jove, and leave England her P--,
No more let your genius in pregnancy groan,
For organs of praiſe, more immenſe than your own;
No more let your foes his duplcity twit,
The B uſſel's gazzette is the voucher of P--.
That for hunting, blundering, boxer John Bull.
Whoſe brains are transferr'd to his gut from his ſkull,
Gave his wife a loud ſmack, and cry'd, Zounds, never yet
Didſt thou whelp me a cub, ſo much mine as my P--.
