Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/378

 But now it will be no such thing, For he'll be poor as any king: And by his crown will nothing get, But like a king to run in debt.

MARBLE HILL.

No more the dean, that grave divine, Shall keep the key of my no — wine; My ice house rob, as heretofore, And steal my artichokes no more; Poor Patty Blount no more be seen Bedraggled in my walks so green: Plump Johnny Gay will now elope: And here no more will dangle Pope.

RICHMOND LODGE.

Here wont the dean, when he's to seek, To spunge a breakfast once a week; To cry the bread was stale, and mutter Complaints against the royal butter. But now I fear it will be said, No butter sticks upon his bread. We soon shall find him full of spleen, For want of tattling to the queen; Stunning her royal ears with talking; His reverence and her highness walking: While lady Charlotte, like a stroller, Sits mounted on the garden-roller. A goodly sight to see her ride With ancient Mirmont at her side. In velvet cap his head lies warm; His hat for show beneath his arm. MARBLE