Epigram To Julia

Mark! how the Rose, when Phoebus burns, Averts her blushing face; Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turns To meet his warm embrace: Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be, Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me. The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King. This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing; But there's a deep-laid policy in it; For, did the Chancellor not—that conscience keep, It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit; Seated on wool, it may securely sleep. *    *    *    *    * Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree. 'Pat!'—cries an Englishman—''tis clear to me, More grateful for the union you should be; Think what an honour is to Ireland done: Zounds! John Bull wed a whore of Babylon!' "Murther!"—cries Pat—"he wedded her by force, And, by my shoul, she longs for a divorce."