Now through a thundering peal of kind huzzas, Proceeding some from hired* and unhired jaws, The raree-show thought proper to retire; Whilst Whitbread and his daughter fair Surveyed all Chiswell-street with lofty air, For, lo! they felt themselves some six feet higher *[Footnote: When his majesty goes to a play-house, or brew-house, or parliament, the Lord Chamberlain provides some pounds' worth of mob to huzza their beloved monarch. At the play-house about forty wide- mouthed fellows are hired on the night of their majesties' appearance, at two shillings and sixpence per head, with the liberty of seeing the play GRATIS. These STENTORS are placed in different parts of the theater, who, immediately on the royal entry into the stage-box, set up [illeg.] of loyalty; to whom their majesties, with sweetest smiles, acknowledge the obligation by a genteel bow, and an elegant curtesy. This congratulatory noise of the Stentors is looked on by many, particularly country ladies and gentlemen, as an infallible thermometer, that ascertains the warmth of the national regard—P. P.]
Such, Thomas, is the way to write!
Thus shouldst thou birth-day songs indite;
Then stick to earth, and leave the lofty sky:
No more of ti tum tum, and ti tum ti.
Thus should an honest laureate write of kings—
Not praise them for IMAGINARY THINGS;
I own I can not make my stubborn rhyme
Call every king a character sublime;
For conscience will not suffer me to wander
So very widely from the paths of candor.
I know full well SOME kings are to be seen,
To whom my verse so bold would give the spleen,
Should that bold verse declare they wanted BRAINS
I won't say that they NEVER brains possessed—
They MAY have been with such a present blessed,
And therefore fancy that some STILL remains;
For every well-experienced surgeon knows,
That men who with their legs have parted,
Swear that they've felt a pain in all their TOES,
And often at the twinges started;
They stared upon their oaken stumps in vain!
Fancying the toes were all come back again.
If men, then, who their absent toes have mourned,
Can fancy those same toes at times returned;
So kings, in matters of intelligences,
May fancy they have stumbled on their senses.
Yes, Tom—mine is the way of writing ode—
Why liftest thou thy pious eyes to God!
Strange disappointment in thy looks I read;
And now I hear thee in proud triumph cry,
"Is this an action, Peter, this a deed
To raise a monarch to the sky?
Tubs, porter, pumps, vats, all the Whitbread throng,
Rare things to figure in the Muse's song!"
Thomas, I here protest, I want no quarrels
On kings and brewers, porter, pumps, and barrels—
Far from the dove-like Peter be such strife,
But this I tell thee, Thomas, for a fact—
Thy Caesar never did an act
More wise, more glorious in his life.
Now God preserve all wonder-hunting kings,
Whether at Windsor, Buckingham, or Kew-house:
And may they never do more foolish things
Than visiting Sam Whitbread and his brewhouse.
THE AUTHOR AND THE STATESMAN [ADDRESSED BY FIELDING TO SIR ROBERT WALPOLE.]
While at the helm of state you ride,
Our nation's envy, and its pride;
While foreign courts with wonder gaze,
And curse those councils which they praise;
Would you not wonder, sir, to view
Your bard a greater man than you?
Which that he is you can not doubt,
When you have read the sequel out.
You know, great sir, that ancient fellows,
Philosophers, and such folks, tell us,
No great analogy between
Greatness and happiness is seen.
If then, as it might follow straight,
WRETCHED to be, is to be GREAT;
Forbid it, gods, that you should try
What'tis to be so great as I!