Peter, methinks you are the happiest wight
That ever dealt in ink, or sharpen'd quill.
'Tis yours on every rank of fools to write—
Some prompt with pity, some with laughter kill;
On scullions or on dukes you run your rigs,
And value George no more than Whitbread's pigs.
From morn to night, thro' London's busy streets,
New subjects for your pen in crowds are seen,
At church, in taverns, balls, or birth-day treats,
Sir Joseph Banks, or England's breeding queen;
How happy you, whom fortune has decreed
Each character to hit—where all will read.
We, too, have had your monarch by the nose,
And pull'd the richest jewel from his crown—
Half Europe's kings are fools, the story goes,
Mere simpletons, and ideots of renown,
Proud, in their frantic fits, man's blood to spill—
'Tis time they all were travelling down the hill.
But, Peter, quit your dukes and little lords,
Young princes full of blood and scant of brains—
Our rebel coast some similes affords,
And many a subject for your pen contains
Preserv'd as fuel for your comic rhymes,
(Like Egypt's gods) to give to future times.