And to the ripe vineyard the laborers send,
To build up the seats that the beauties may see
The face of no brawling pretender but me.'
"The Princess by the man's importunity prest,
Though she laugh'd at his reasons allowed his request.
And now Britain's nymphs in a Protestant reign
Are locked up at prayers like the virgins in Spain."
A.D. 1700. The eleventh birthday of the Duke of Gloucester was celebrated at Windsor with the usual rejoicings. The boy reviewed his soldiers, received and made presents, fired his cannon at intervals during the day, and presided over a grand banquet in the evening. His system was very much run down by the strain of hard study, and this day of excitement proved too much for him. The following morning found him with a sick headache and sore throat, and towards night he became delirious. The family physician reduced the little duke's vitality still further by bleeding him according to the custom of the times. He grew worse, and there was great lamentation in the royal household because the princess's quarrel with Dr. Radcliffe prevented his being summoned, for everybody had confidence in his skill. At last a messenger was dispatched with a humble request to the doctor to visit the little sufferer. After a great deal of urging he consented, and pronounced the disease scarlet fever. He asked who bled the duke. The physician in attendance replied that he had done so. "Then you have destroyed him, and you may finish him," said Radcliffe, "for I will not prescribe."
Of course the learned man was much censured for wilfully refusing to save the child, but he knew only too well that all his efforts would have been of no avail. Five days after his birthday festival the little duke expired.
Lord Marlborough, who had gone to Althorpe, was summoned to the sick bed of his youthful master, but arrived too late.