My lord, you have blotted the beauty, while new,
Of the rainbow that rises round Althorp and you.
Your music should mix with the drawing of corks,
Your glory should gleam in the flashing of forks.
Economy charms me—but first I must dine;
You may tamper with all constitutions—but mine.
Let Lord What’s-his-title exult in his curls,
Let Lady The-other still dote on her pearls;
What is all this to me, who my loss must deplore
’Till the Dinnerless Administration be o’er!