As for John Dryden's Charles—that king
Indeed was never any mighty thing;
He merited few honors from the pen:
And yet he was a devilish hearty fellow,
Enjoyed his beef, and bottle, and got mellow,
And mind—kept company with GENTLEMEN:

For, like some kings, in hobby grooms,
Knights of the manger, curry-combs, and brooms,
Lost to all glory, Charles did not delight—
Nor joked by day with pages, servant-maids,
Large, red-polled, blowzy, hard two-handed jades:
Indeed I know not what Charles did by night.

Thomas, I AM of CANDOR a GREAT lover;
In short, I'm candor's self all over;
Sweet as a candied cake from top to toe;
Make it a rule that Virtue shall be praised,
And humble Merit from the ground be raised:
What thinkest thou of Peter now?

Thou cryest "Oh! how false! behold thy king,
Of whom thou scarcely say'st a handsome thing;
That king has virtues that should make thee stare."
Is it so?—Then the sin's in me—
'Tis my vile optics that can't see;
Then pray for them when next thou sayest a prayer.

But, p'rhaps aloft on his imperial throne,
So distant, O ye gods! from every one,
The royal virtues are like many a star,
From this our pigmy system rather far:
Whose light, though flying ever since creation,
Has not yet pitched upon our nation.
[Footnote: Such was the sublime opinion of the Dutch astronomer,
Huygens]

Then may the royal ray be soon explored—
And Thomas, if thou'lt swear thou art not humming,
I'll take my spying-glass and bring thee word
The instant I behold it coming.
But, Thomas Warton, without joking,
Art thou, or art thou not, thy sovereign smoking?

How canst thou seriously declare,
That George the Third
With Cressy's Edward can compare,
Or Harry?—'Tis too bad, upon my word:
George is a clever king, I needs must own,
And cuts a jolly figure on the throne.

Now thou exclaim'st, "God rot it! Peter, pray
What to the devil shall I sing or say?"

I'll tell thee what to say, O tuneful Tom:
Sing how a monarch, when his son was dying,
His gracious eyes and ears was edifying,
By abbey company and kettle drum:
Leaving that son to death and the physician,
Between two fires-a forlorn-hope condition;
Two poachers, who make man their game,
And, special marksmen! seldom miss their aim.

Say, though the monarch did not see his son,
He kept aloof through fatherly affection;
Determined nothing should be done,
To bring on useless tears, and dismal recollection.
For what can tears avail, and piteous sighs?
Death heeds not howls nor dripping eyes;
And what are sighs and tears but wind and water,
That show the leakiness of feeble nature?