Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/379

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Some South Sea broker from the city Will purchase me, the more's the pity; Lay all my fine plantations waste, To fit them to his vulgar taste; Chang'd for the worse in every part, My master Pope will break his heart.

In my own Thames may I be drownded, If e'er I stoop beneath a crown'd head: Except her majesty prevails To place me with the prince of Wales; And then I shall be free from fears, For he'll be prince these fifty years. I then will turn a courtier too, And serve the times, as others do. Plain loyalty, not built on hope, I leave to your contriver, Pope: None loves his king and country better, Yet none was ever less their debtor.

Then let him come and take a nap In summer on my verdant lap: Prefer our villas, where the Thames is, To Kensington, or hot St. James's; Nor shall I dull in silence sit; For 'tis to me he owes his wit; My groves, my echoes, and my birds, Have taught him his poetick words. We gardens, and you wildernesses, Assist all poets in distresses. Him