Whilst all with sighs their way pursue
From Chatsworth's blest abode,
My mind still fires, my Lord, at you,
And thus bursts out in ode.
Forgive my phrenzy, good Lord John,
For passion's my Apollo:
Sweet Hebe says, when sense is gone,
That nonsense needs must follow.
Like Indian knife, or Highland sword,
Your words have hewn and hack'd me;
Whilst Quin, a rebel to his lord,
Like his own Falstaff back'd me.
In vain I bounce, and fume, and fret,
Swear Shakespeare is divine;
Fitzherbert [24] can a while forget
His pains to laugh at mine.
Lord Frederick, George, and eke his Grace,
My honest zeal deride;
Nay, Hubert's melancholy face
Smirks on your Lordship's side.
With passion, zeal, and punch misled,
Why goad me on to strife?
Why send me to a restless bed
And disappointed wife?
This my reward! and this from you!
Is't thus you Bowman [25] treat,
Who eats more toads than you know who
Each night did strawberries eat?
Did I not mount the dun-drawn chaise,
And sweat for many a mile?
And gave his Grace's skill much praise,
Grinning a ghastly smile!
Did I not elsewhere risk my bones,
My Lord-Duke's freaks took pride in?
Did I not trot down hills of Stones,
And call it pleasant riding?
Did I not all your feats proclaim,
Nor once from duty shrink?
In flattery I sunk my fame,
A Bowman e'en in drink.