VERSES on The ART of POLITICKS

Such artless art did ever mortal see, Or politicks so void of policy? To wit and humour there is fair pretence, But none to just design or solid sense.

Let sourer criticks point each faulty place, I'll e'en let Tickell and Avignon pass. Let boys their loyalty huzzaing show, And kind Louisa teach our girls to go.

But on immortal Joseph let us fix, That pattern rare of whiggish politicks; Slave to vain glory, out of danger stout, Who prints on Brunswick—after Preston's rout; Coward to blame, and envious to commend, A sneaking patriot, and a half-fac'd friend.

Sell not French claret at the Ormond's head, But hang up Horace Walpole in his stead; Nor at the Devil tavern make your sport:— The Devil always has a friend at court. What bard but this could Pelham's train compare To Roman Scipio's thunder-bolts of war? Did e'er their wars enrich their native isle, With foreign treasures and with Spanish spoil? But hark! and stare with all your ears and eyes! Walpole is friend to Universities! Who crost the clause (so generous has he been) Which Sandys with his advice had usher'd in. Tho' whigs of forty-one may raise a cry, New livings he permits them still to buy. His part of odium let Sir Robert bear, Or Sandys his moiety of glory share, For'twould have puzzled Knighthood's craft, no doubt, Had it been ne'er brought in, to throw it out. Hail politician bard! we ask not whether A whig or tory; thou art both and neither. Poultney and Walpole each adorn thy lays, Which one for love, and one for money praise. Alike are mention'd, equally are sung Will. Shippen staunch, and slight Sir Wm. Young. Bromley and Wyndham share the motley strain, With Cart'ret, Maidstone, and the Pelhams twain. Not Jove and Dragon could worse match'd appear; Nor fins of cod with front of Heydegger.