The Audience.
|
THE Criticks that pretend to sense
|
Do cavel at the Audience,
|
As if his Grace were not as good
|
To bow to, as a piece of Wood.
|
Did not our Fathers heretofore
|
Their sensless Deities adore?
|
Did not old Delphos all along
|
Vent Oracles without a Tongue?
|
And wisest Monarchs did importune
|
From the dumb God to know their fortune.
|
Did not the speaking Head of late
|
Of matters learnedly Debate?
|
And rendred without Tongue or Ears
|
Wise answers to his whisp'ring Peers?
|
And shall we to a living Prince
|
Deny the State of Audience?
|
What tho the Bantling cannot speak?
|
Yet like the Blockhead he may squeak;
|
Give Audience by Interpreter;
|
The wisest Prince can do no more.
|
Then enter with a Princes Banner
|
Sir Charles after the usual manner.
|
Great Sir, His Holiness from Rome
|
Greets your high Birth. The Prince cry'd Mum.
|
The Consecrated Robe and Clout,
|
If you'll vouchsafe to hear me out,
|
And many other Toys I'm come
|
To lay them to your sacred Bum.
|
So young, yet such a Godlike Ray!
|
Phoebus your Dad was Priest D---a,
|
Great Prince, I have no more to say.
|
Conducted next there comes, Great Sir,
|
An Envoy from the Emperor,
|
To gratulate your lucky fate,
|
That gives to Englands Throne new date;
|
We joy that Any Thing should Reign,
|
To baffle Orange and the Dane.
|
The Youth, to see them thus beguil'd,
|
In token of his favour, smil'd.
|
But at the Spaniard laugh'd outright.
|
As shamm'd again in Eighty Eight.
|
Next, having pass'd the inward Centry,
|
The doubtful Monsieur makes his entry.
|
The King my Master, Sir, has sent
|
Your Royal Birth to complement;
|
If you will make it but appear,
|
That you are Englands lawful Heir.
|
Here Lady Powis took him short,
|
Have you a King? Thank Maz'rine for't.
|
Whoe'r the Father was, the Mother
|
Was Frances Queen, [Powis] Who questions t'other?
|
At this Reproof he pawn'd a Purse,
|
And parting made his Peace with Nurse.
|
The Dane, the Suede, with other Nations
|
Come in with loud Congratulations.
|
Upon the Suede so fam'd for Battle
|
He cast a frown and shook his Rattle.
|
And for the Dane, who took the part
|
Of good Prince George, he let a fart.
|
This put him in a sullen fit,
|
Nurse scarce could dance him out of it.
|
When an Embassador from Poland
|
Knock'd at the Door, and Velt from Holland,
|
He crying Suck'd, and Sucking cry'd,
|
When Lady Governess reply'd,
|
Peace, Prince, Peace, Prince, Peace, pretty Prince,
|
And let the States have Audience.
|
From Holland I am hither sent
|
To Challenge, not to Complement.
|
Prepare with speed your Twenty Sail,
|
Your twice Four thousand on the Nail;
|
Which by your Senate was enacted,
|
With Orange when your Sire contracted.
|
The name of Holland did affright
|
And make th' young Hero scream outright.
|
But, Orange nam'd, the Royal Elf,
|
The sweet, sweet Babe beshit himself.
|
Tyrconnel, who came o'r no less
|
Than to be made his Governess,
|
To take her leave, by luck came in,
|
She suck'd his Nose, and lick'd him clean.
|
Last came the Lady Hales from Play,
|
Mov'd by instinct he cry'd, Mamma,
|
And posted to the Queen away.
|
|
|
|
|
|