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.
MARBLE HILL
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 poetic words.
We gardens, and you wildernesses,
Assist all poets in distresses.
Him twice a-week I here expect,
To rattle Moody[7] for neglect;
An idle rogue, who spends his quartridge
In tippling at the Dog and Partridge;
And I can hardly get him down
Three times a-week to brush my gown.
RICHMOND LODGE
I pity you, dear Marble Hill;
But hope to see you flourish still.
All happiness--and so adieu.
MARBLE HILL
Kind Richmond Lodge, the same to you.
[Footnote 1: The King left England on the 3rd June, 1727, and after
supping heartily and sleeping at the Count de Twellet's house near Delden
on the 9th, he continued his journey to Osnabruck, where he arrived at
the house of his brother, the Duke of York, on the night of the 11th,
wholly paralyzed, and died calmly the next morning, in the very same room
where he was born.
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