What would this madman have, this odd projector! A wild address I have to-day attended, Mingling its folly with our great affairs, Dreaming of islands and new hemispheres
Plac'd on the ocean's verge, we know not where — What shall I do with this petitioner? Even send him, sire, to perish in his search: He has so pester'd me these many years
With idle projects of discovery — His name — I almost dread to hear it mention'd: He is a Genoese of vulgar birth And has been round all Europe with his plans
Presenting them to every potentate; He lives,‘ tis said, by vending maps and charts, And being us'd to sketch imagin'd islands On that blank space that represents the seas,
His head at last grows giddy with this folly, And fancied isles are turned to real lands With which he puzzles me perpetually: What pains me too, is, that our royal lady
Lends him her ear, and reads his mad addresses, Oppos'd to reason and philosophy. He acts the devil's part in Eden's garden; Knowing the man was proof to his temptations
He whisper'd something in the ear of Eve, And promis'd much, but meant not to perform. I've treated all his schemes with such contempt That any but a rank, mad-brain'd enthusiast,
Pushing his purpose to extremities, Would have forsook your empire, royal sir, Discourag'd, and forgotten long ago. Has he so long been busy at his projects?—
I scarcely heard of him till yesterday: A plan pursued with so much obstinacy Looks not like madness:— wretches of that stamp Survey a thousand objects in an hour,
In love with each, and yet attach'd to none Beyond the moment that it meets the eye — But him I honour, tho’ in beggar's garbs, Who has a soul of so much constancy
As to bear up against the hard rebuffs, Sneers of great men, and insolence of power, And through the opposition of them all Pursues his object:— Minister, this man
Must have our notice:— Let him be commissioned Viceroy of all the lands he shall discover, Admiral and general in the fleets of Spain; Let three stout ships be instantly selected,
The best and strongest ribb'd of all we own, With men to mann them, patient of fatigue: But stay, attend! how stands our treasury?— Empty — even to the bottom, royal sir!
We have not coin for bare necessities, Much less, so pardon me, to spend on madmen.
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