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 rev’rence and her highness walking.
Whilst saucy Charlotte,[3] like a stroller,
Sits mounted on the garden roller.