IV. Thus, through all climes, to earth's remotest goal, From burning Indus to the freezing Pole, In chaises and on floats, In dillies, and in boats; Now on a camel's native stool; Now on an ass, now on a mule. Nabobs and Rajahs have I seen; Old Bramins mild, young Arabs keen: Tall Polygars, Dwarf Zemindars, Mahommed's tomb, Killarney's lake, the fane of Ammon, With all thy Kings and Queens, ingenious Mrs. Salmon[1]: Yet vain the majesties of wax! Vain the cut velvet on their backs---- GEORGE, mighty GEORGE, is flesh and blood---- No head he wants of wax or wood! His heart is good! (As a King's should) And every thing he says is understood!
[1] Exhibits the Wax-work, in Fleet-Street.
Lord Warden of Blackheath, and Ranger of Greenwich Hill, during the Christmas and Easter Holidays.
O day of high career! First of a month--nay more--first of a year! A _monarch-day_, that hath indeed no peer! Let huge _Buzaglos_ glow In ev'ry corner of the isle, To melt away the snow: And like to _May_, Be this month gay; And with her at hop--step--jump--play, Dance, grin, and smile: Ye too, ye _Maids of Honour_, young and old, Shall each be seen, With a neat _warming_ patentiz'd _machine_! Because, 'tis said, that _chastity_ is _cold_!
But ah! no roses meet the sight; No _yellow_ buds of _saffron_ hue, Nor _azure_ blossoms of _pale blue_, Nor tulips, pinks, &c. delight. Yet on fine _tiffany_ will I My genius try, The spoils of _Flora_ to supply, Or say my name's not GREGO--RY! An _artificial_ Garland will I bring, That _Clement Cottrell_ shall declare, With courtly air, Fit for a Prince--fit for a KING!
Ye _millinery_ fair, To me, ye Muses are; Ye are to me _Parnassus_ MOUNT! In you, I find an _Aganippe_ FOUNT! I venerate your _muffs_, I bow and kiss your _ruffs_. Inspire me, O ye _Sisters_ of the _frill_, And teach your votarist how to _quill_! For oh!--'tis true indeed, That he can scarcely read! Teach him to _flounce_, and disregard all quippery, As crapes and blonds, and such like frippery; Teach him to _trim_ and _whip_ from side to side, And _puff_ as long as puffing can be try'd. In _crimping_ metaphor he'll dash on, For _point_, you know, is out of fashion. O crown with bay his tête, _Delpini_, arbiter of fate! Nor at the trite conceit let witlings sport. A PAGE should be a _Dangler_ at the court.