Till on a day cut out by fate,
When folks came thick to make their court,
Out slipt a mystery of state,
To give the town and country sport.
Now enters Bush[1] with new state airs,
His lordship's premier minister;
And who, in all profound affairs,
Is held as needful as his clyster[2].
With head reclining on his shoulder,
He deals and hears mysterious chat,
While every ignorant beholder,
Asks of his neighbour, who is that?
With this he put up to my lord,
The courtiers kept their distance due,
He twitch'd his sleeve, and stole a word;
Then to a corner both withdrew.
Imagine now, my lord and Bush
Whispering in junto most profound,
Like good king Phyz and good king Ush[3],
While all the rest stood gaping round.
At length a spark not too well bred,
Of forward face and ear acute,
Advanc'd on tiptoe, lean'd his head,
To overhear the grand dispute;
To learn what Northern kings design,
Or from Whitehall some new express,
Papists disarm'd, or fall of coin;
For sure (thought he) it can't be less.
My lord, said Bush, a friend and I,
Disguis'd in two old threadbare coats,
- ↑ Bush, by some underhand insinuation, obtained the post of secretary; which had been promised to Swift.
- ↑ Always taken before my lord went to council.
- ↑ See "The Rehearsal."
