"
Quoth he, "Thou lovest, Punch, to prate,
And couldst for ever hold debate;
But think'st thou I have nought to do
But to stand prating thus with you?
Therefore to stop your noisy parly,
I do at once assure you fairly,
That not a puppet of you all
Shall stir a step without this wall,
Nor merry Andrew beat thy drum,
Until you pay the foresaid sum."
Then marching off with swiftest race
To write dispatches for his grace,
The revel-master left the room,
And us condemn'd to fatal doom.
Now, fair ones, if e'er I found grace,
Or if my jokes did ever please,
Use all your interest with your sec,[2]
(They say he's at the ladies' beck,)
And though he thinks as much of gold
As ever Midas[3] did of old:
Your charms I'm sure can never fail,
Your eyes must influence, must prevail;
At your command he'll set us free,
Let us to you owe liberty.
Get us a license now to play,
And we'll in duty ever pray.
[Footnote 1: Lord Chancellor Middleton, against whom a vote of censure
passed in the House of Lords for delay of justice occasioned by his
absence in England. It was instigated by Grafton, then Lord-Lieutenant,
who had a violent quarrel at this time with Middleton.--_Scott._]
[Footnote 2: Abridged from Secretary, _rythmi gratia.
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