Classic Poem

Humbly inscribed to the Right Honourable W — — — E — — of B — — —

Great E — of B — , your reign is o'er;
The Tories trust your word no more,
The whigs no longer fear ye;
Your gates are seldom now unbarr'd,
No Crowds of coaches fill your yard,
And scarce a soul comes near ye.

Few now aspire at your good graces,
Scarce any sue to you for places,
Or come with their petition,
To tell how well they have deserv'd,
How long, how steadily they starv'd,
For you in opposition.

Expect to see that tribe no more,
Since all mankind perceive that pow'r
Is lodg'd in other hands:
Sooner to C — t — t now they'll go,
Or ev'n (though that's excessive low)
To W — — — lm — n and S — — — s.

With your obedient wise retire,
And sitting silent by the fire,
A sullen tete a tete ,
Think over all you've done or said,
And curse the hour that you were made
Unprofitably great.

With Vapours there, and spleen o'ercast,
Reflect on all your actions past,
With sorrow and contrition;
And there enjoy the thoughts that rise
From disappointed avarice,
From frustrated ambition.

There soon you'll loudly, but in vain,
Of your deserting friends complain,
That visit you no more;
But in this country 'tis a truth,
As known as that love follows youth,
That friendship follows pow'r.

Such is the calm of your retreat!
You through the dregs of life must sweat
Beneath this heavy load;
And I'll attend you, as I've done,
Only to help reflection on,
With now and then an ode.