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.
MARBLE HILL.
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 Blount no more be seen
Bedraggled in my walks so green:
Plump Johnny Gay will now elope:
And here no more will dangle Pope.
RICHMOND LODGE.
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[1], like a stroller,
Sits mounted on the garden-roller.
A goodly sight to see her ride
With ancient Mirmont[2] at her side.
In velvet cap his head lies warm;
His hat for show beneath his arm.
