To the Author of the preceding Poem

Well—now, I think, we shall be wiser, Crys Grub, who reads the Advertiser, Here's Truth in Rhyme—a glorious Treat! It surely must abuse the Great; Perhaps the King;—without dispute 'Twill fall most devilish hard on Bute.

Thrice he reviews his parting shilling, At last resolves, tho much unwilling, To break all rules imbib'd in youth, And give it up for Rhyme and Truth: He reads—he frowns—Why, what's the matter? Damn it—here's neither sense, nor satyr— Here take it boy, there's nothing in't: Such Fellows!—to pretend to print!

Blame not, good Cit, the poet's rhymes, The fault's not his, but in the times: The times, in which a monarch reigns, Form'd to make happy Britain’s plains; To stop in their destructive course, Domestick frenzy, foreign force, To bid war, faction, party cease, And bless the weary'd world with peace. The times in which is seen, strange sight! A court both virtuous, and polite, Where merit best can recommend And science finds a constant friend.

How then should Satyr dare to sport, With such a king, and such a court, While Truth looks on with rigid eye, And tells her, every line's a lye.