E. M. What He? J. Why He Himself, Sir; the great He.
E. M. Enough. G. M. Your Slave, Sir. E. M. No Sir, I'm your Slave,
Or soon shall be.—How then must I behave?
Must I fall prostrate at your Feet? Or how—
I've heard the Dean, but never saw him Bow.
G. M. Hoh! hoh! you make me laugh. E. M. So Nero play'd,
Whilst Rome was by his Flames in Ashes laid.
G. M. Well, solemn Sir, I'm come, if you think fit,
To solve your Question. E. M. Bless me! pray, Sir, sit.
G. M. The Door! E. M. No Matter, Sir, my Door won't shut:
Stay here, John; we've no Secrets. G. M. Surly Put!
How restiff still! but I have what will win him
Before we part, or else the Devil's in him.
E. M. I wait your Pleasure, Sir. G. M. Why Fame, you say,
Reports that I'm the Author of To-Day:
I am—But not the Day that you describe,
Black with imagin'd Ills—Your Patriot Tribe,
Those growling, restless, factious Malecontents,
Who blast all Schemes, and rail at all Events;
Whom Ministers, nor Kings, nor Gods can please;
Whose Rage my Ruin only can appease;
That motley Crew, the Scum of ev'ry Sect,
Who'd fain destroy, because they can't direct;
Wits, Common-Council-Men, and Brutes in Fur,
Knights of the Shire, and of the Post.—E.M. This, Sir,
Is Gazetteer Abuse. G. M. These Miscreants dire
Apply the Torch themselves, then cry out Fire;
In Rhime, in Prose, in Prints, and in Debate,
They falsly represent the Nation's State.
Go forth, and see if Britain's fall'n so low;
Fly to her Coasts, and mark the glorious Show:
See Fleets how gallant! See Marines how stout! }
That wait but till the Wind shall turn about. }
E. M. What a whole Twelvemonth! G. M. Pray Sir, hear me out. }
See all their Sails unfurl'd, their Streamers play;
You'd think old Neptune's Self kept Holiday:
These shall protect our Commerce, scour the Main,
The Honour of the British Flag maintain;
Pour the avenging Thunder on the Foe, }
And—E. M. Mighty well; but when are they to go? }
G. M. When? Psha! why look'ee, Sir, that Time will show. }
Next view the martial Guardians of the Land:
Lo! her gay Warriors redden all the Strand:
Cockade behind Cockade, each Entrance keep,
Whilst in their Sheaths ten thousand Falchions sleep.
E. M. But, Sir, 'tis urg'd that these are needless quite,
Kept only for Review, and not for Fight:
That Fleets are Britain's Safety—G. M. Stupid Elves!
Why these, Sir, are to save you from yourselves:
Ye're prone, ye're prone to murmur and rebel,
And when mild Methods fail, we must compel:
Besides, consider Sir, th' Election's near—
E. M.—O, Sir, I'm answer'd—Now the Case is clear.