Ye Gods! what crime had my poor father done, That you should make a poet of his son? Or is't for some great services of his, Y'are pleas'd to compliment his boy——with this?
[Shewing his crown of laurel.
The honour, I must needs confess is great, If, with his crown, you'd tell him where to eat: Tis well——But I have more complaints—look here!
[Shewing his ragged coat.
Hark ye; d'ye think this suit good winter wear? In a cold morning; whu——at a Lord's gate, How you have let the porter let me wait! You'll say, perhaps, you knew I'd get no harm, You'd given me fire enough to keep me warm. Ah—— A world of blessings to that fire we owe; Without it I'd ne'er made this princely show. I have a brother too, now in my sight,
[Looking behind the scenes.
A busy man amongst us here to-night: [Pg 6]Your fire has made him play a thousand pranks, For which, no doubt you've had his daily thanks: He's thank'd you, fi fi, for all his decent plays, Where he so nick'd it, when he writ for praise. Next for his meddling with some folks in black, And bringing——Souse——a priest upon his back;...