True—true—that lowers at once our mounting pride;'
But lo:—the papers print what you deride.
''Tis ours to look on you—you hold the prize,'
'Tis twenty guineas, as they advertise!
'A double blessing your rewards impart'—
I wish I had them, then, with all my heart.
'Our twofold feeling owns its twofold cause,'
Why son and I both beg for your applause.
'When in your fostering beams you bid us live,'
My next subscription list shall say how much you give!