MARBLE HILL

Quoth Marble Hill, right well I ween, Your mistress now is grown a queen; You'll find it soon by woful proof, She'll come no more beneath your roof.

The kingly prophet well evinces, That we should put no trust in princes: My royal master promised me To raise me to a high degree:

But now he's grown a king, God wot, I fear I shall be soon forgot. You see, when folks have got their ends, How quickly they neglect their friends;

Yet I may say,‘ twixt me and you, Pray God, they now may find as true! My house was built but for a show, My lady's empty pockets know;

And now she will not have a shilling, To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling; For all the courtly madams round Now pay four shillings in the pound;

‘ Tis come to what I always thought: My dame is hardly worth a groat. Had you and I been courtiers born, We should not thus have lain forlorn;

For those we dext'rous courtiers call, Can rise upon their masters’ fall: But we, unlucky and unwise, Must fall because our masters rise.

My master, scarce a fortnight since, Was grown as wealthy as a prince; But now it will be no such thing, For he'll be poor as any king;

And by his crown will nothing get, But like a king to run in debt. No more the Dean, that grave divine, Shall keep the key of my ( no ) wine;

My ice-house rob, as heretofore, And steal my artichokes no more; Poor Patty Blountno more be seen Bedraggled in my walks so green:

Plump Johnny Gay will now elope; And here no more will dangle Pope. Here wont the Dean, when he's to seek, To spunge a breakfast once a-week;

To cry the bread was stale, and mutter Complaints against the royal butter. But now I fear it will be said, No butter sticks upon his bread.

We soon shall find him full of spleen, For want of tattling to the queen; Stunning her royal ears with talking; His reverence and her highness walking:

While Lady Charlotte,like a stroller, Sits mounted on the garden-roller. A goodly sight to see her ride, With ancient Mirmontat her side.

In velvet cap his head lies warm, His hat, for show, beneath his arm. Some South-Sea broker from the city Will purchase me, the more's the pity;

Lay all my fine plantations waste, To fit them to his vulgar taste: Chang'd for the worse in ev'ry part, My master Pope will break his heart.

In my own Thames may I be drownded, If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head: Except her majesty prevails To place me with the Prince of Wales;

And then I shall be free from fears, For he'll be prince these fifty years. I then will turn a courtier too, And serve the times as others do.

Plain loyalty, not built on hope, I leave to your contriver, Pope; None loves his king and country better, Yet none was ever less their debtor.

Then let him come and take a nap In summer on my verdant lap; Prefer our villas, where the Thames is, To Kensington, or hot St. James's;

Nor shall I dull in silence sit; For‘ tis to me he owes his wit; My groves, my echoes, and my birds, Have taught him his poetic words.

We gardens, and you wildernesses, Assist all poets in distresses. Him twice a-week I here expect, To rattle Moodyfor neglect;

An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge In tippling at the Dog and Partridge; And I can hardly get him down Three times a-week to brush my gown.

I pity you, dear Marble Hill; But hope to see you flourish still. All happiness — and so adieu. Kind Richmond Lodge, the same to you.