To save the credit of the dame,
Poets and painters all agree
That Mistress Fortune cannot see,
And on her bandage cast the blame;
When honours on th’ unworthy wait,
When riches to the wealthy flow,
When high desert, oppress'd by woe,
Is left to struggle on with Fate.
But, Porter! when on thee she smil'd,
The fillet from her eyes she mov'd,
To view the merit all approv'd —
A mind inform'd, a heart unsoil'd.
She saw thy virtues bright appear;
A son that mothers seldom know,
A brother with affection's glow,
The soldier brave , the friend sincere.
With honours then thy name she grac'd,
And call'd on Love to bless thy arms
With princely rank, with Virtue's charms,
And all the pow'rs of wit and taste.