I own your satire’s just and keen;Proceed, and satirise the Queen.
I own your satire’s just and keen;Proceed, and satirise the Queen.
I own your satire’s just and keen;Proceed, and satirise the Queen.
I own your satire’s just and keen;
Proceed, and satirise the Queen.
To which the replyis—
With all my heart.—The Queen, they say,Attends her nurs’ry every day;And, like a common mother, sharesIn all her infants’ little cares.What vulgar, unamusing scene,For George’s wife and Britain’s queen.’Tis whispered also at the palace(I hope ’tis but the voice of malice)That (tell it not in foreign lands)She works with her own royal hands;And that our sovereign’s sometimes seenIn vest embroidered by his queen.This might a courtly fashion beIn days of old Andromache;But modern ladies, trust my words,Seldom sew tunics for their lords.What secret next must I unfold?She hates, I’m confidently told—She hates the manners of the timesAnd all our fashionable crimes,And fondly wishes to restoreThe golden age, and days of yore,When silly, simple women thoughtA breach of chastity a fault,Esteem’d those modest things, divorces,The very worst of human curses;And deem’d assemblies, cards, and diceThe springs of every sort of vice.Romantic notions! all the fairAt such absurdities must stare;And, spite of all her pains, will stillLove routs, adultery, and quadrille.Well, is that all you find to blame,Sir Critic, in the royal dame?All I could find to blame? no, truly!The longest day in June and JulyWould fail me ere I could expressThe half of Charlotte’s blemishes.Those foolish and old-fashioned waysOf keeping holy Sabbath days,That affectation to appearAt church, the Word of God to hear:That poor-like plainness in her dress,So void of noble tawdriness:That affability and easeThat can her menial servants please,But which incredibly demeanThe state and grandeur of a queen:These, and a thousand things beside,I could discover and deride.But here’s enough; another dayI may, perhaps, renew my lay.Are you content?Not quite, unlessYou put your satire to the press.For sure a satire in this modeIs equal to a birthday ode.
With all my heart.—The Queen, they say,Attends her nurs’ry every day;And, like a common mother, sharesIn all her infants’ little cares.What vulgar, unamusing scene,For George’s wife and Britain’s queen.’Tis whispered also at the palace(I hope ’tis but the voice of malice)That (tell it not in foreign lands)She works with her own royal hands;And that our sovereign’s sometimes seenIn vest embroidered by his queen.This might a courtly fashion beIn days of old Andromache;But modern ladies, trust my words,Seldom sew tunics for their lords.What secret next must I unfold?She hates, I’m confidently told—She hates the manners of the timesAnd all our fashionable crimes,And fondly wishes to restoreThe golden age, and days of yore,When silly, simple women thoughtA breach of chastity a fault,Esteem’d those modest things, divorces,The very worst of human curses;And deem’d assemblies, cards, and diceThe springs of every sort of vice.Romantic notions! all the fairAt such absurdities must stare;And, spite of all her pains, will stillLove routs, adultery, and quadrille.Well, is that all you find to blame,Sir Critic, in the royal dame?All I could find to blame? no, truly!The longest day in June and JulyWould fail me ere I could expressThe half of Charlotte’s blemishes.Those foolish and old-fashioned waysOf keeping holy Sabbath days,That affectation to appearAt church, the Word of God to hear:That poor-like plainness in her dress,So void of noble tawdriness:That affability and easeThat can her menial servants please,But which incredibly demeanThe state and grandeur of a queen:These, and a thousand things beside,I could discover and deride.But here’s enough; another dayI may, perhaps, renew my lay.Are you content?Not quite, unlessYou put your satire to the press.For sure a satire in this modeIs equal to a birthday ode.
With all my heart.—The Queen, they say,Attends her nurs’ry every day;And, like a common mother, sharesIn all her infants’ little cares.What vulgar, unamusing scene,For George’s wife and Britain’s queen.’Tis whispered also at the palace(I hope ’tis but the voice of malice)That (tell it not in foreign lands)She works with her own royal hands;And that our sovereign’s sometimes seenIn vest embroidered by his queen.This might a courtly fashion beIn days of old Andromache;But modern ladies, trust my words,Seldom sew tunics for their lords.What secret next must I unfold?She hates, I’m confidently told—She hates the manners of the timesAnd all our fashionable crimes,And fondly wishes to restoreThe golden age, and days of yore,When silly, simple women thoughtA breach of chastity a fault,Esteem’d those modest things, divorces,The very worst of human curses;And deem’d assemblies, cards, and diceThe springs of every sort of vice.Romantic notions! all the fairAt such absurdities must stare;And, spite of all her pains, will stillLove routs, adultery, and quadrille.
With all my heart.—The Queen, they say,
Attends her nurs’ry every day;
And, like a common mother, shares
In all her infants’ little cares.
What vulgar, unamusing scene,
For George’s wife and Britain’s queen.
’Tis whispered also at the palace
(I hope ’tis but the voice of malice)
That (tell it not in foreign lands)
She works with her own royal hands;
And that our sovereign’s sometimes seen
In vest embroidered by his queen.
This might a courtly fashion be
In days of old Andromache;
But modern ladies, trust my words,
Seldom sew tunics for their lords.
What secret next must I unfold?
She hates, I’m confidently told—
She hates the manners of the times
And all our fashionable crimes,
And fondly wishes to restore
The golden age, and days of yore,
When silly, simple women thought
A breach of chastity a fault,
Esteem’d those modest things, divorces,
The very worst of human curses;
And deem’d assemblies, cards, and dice
The springs of every sort of vice.
Romantic notions! all the fair
At such absurdities must stare;
And, spite of all her pains, will still
Love routs, adultery, and quadrille.
Well, is that all you find to blame,Sir Critic, in the royal dame?
Well, is that all you find to blame,
Sir Critic, in the royal dame?
All I could find to blame? no, truly!The longest day in June and JulyWould fail me ere I could expressThe half of Charlotte’s blemishes.Those foolish and old-fashioned waysOf keeping holy Sabbath days,That affectation to appearAt church, the Word of God to hear:That poor-like plainness in her dress,So void of noble tawdriness:That affability and easeThat can her menial servants please,But which incredibly demeanThe state and grandeur of a queen:These, and a thousand things beside,I could discover and deride.But here’s enough; another dayI may, perhaps, renew my lay.Are you content?
All I could find to blame? no, truly!
The longest day in June and July
Would fail me ere I could express
The half of Charlotte’s blemishes.
Those foolish and old-fashioned ways
Of keeping holy Sabbath days,
That affectation to appear
At church, the Word of God to hear:
That poor-like plainness in her dress,
So void of noble tawdriness:
That affability and ease
That can her menial servants please,
But which incredibly demean
The state and grandeur of a queen:
These, and a thousand things beside,
I could discover and deride.
But here’s enough; another day
I may, perhaps, renew my lay.
Are you content?
Not quite, unlessYou put your satire to the press.For sure a satire in this modeIs equal to a birthday ode.
Not quite, unless
You put your satire to the press.
For sure a satire in this mode
Is equal to a birthday ode.
No doubt of it! and much better written and applied than any of the birthday odes of the period. The fact was, that if there were strong prejudices, there were also simple virtues at court. The King would have no ode sung to him, as his predecessors had, on New Year’s day; and the Queen would not allow Twelfth Night to be celebrated by the usually ruinous play at ‘hazard.’ No wonder the poets praised her.
The King loved Kew, and hated Hampton Court because George II. had once struck him there. Of the royal domestic life at the former place a contemporary observer has given a sketch, when the royal parents were still young and their offspring stillchildren:—
‘Their Majesties rise at 6 o’clock in the morning, and enjoy the two succeeding hours in a manner which they call their own. At 8 o’clock the Prince of Wales, the Bishop of Osnaburg, the Princess Royal, and the Princes William and Edward are brought from their respective apartments to breakfast with their illustrious parents. At 9 o’clock the younger children attend to lisp or smile their good-morrows; and while the five eldest are closelyapplying to their tasks, the little ones and their nurses pass the whole morning in Richmond Gardens. The King and Queen frequently amuse themselves with sitting in the room while the children dine, and once a week, attended by the whole offspring in pairs, make the little delightful tour of Richmond Gardens. In the afternoon, while the Queen works, the King reads to her. In the evening all the children again pay their duty at Kew House before they retire to bed, and the same order is observed through each returning day. Exercise, air, and light diet are the grand fundamentals in the King’s idea of health. His Majesty feeds chiefly on vegetables, and drinks but little wine. The Queen is what many private gentlewomen would call whimsically abstemious; for, at a table covered with dishes, she prefers the plainest and simplest dish, and seldom eats of more than two things at a meal. Her wardrobe is changed every three months; and while the nobility are eager to supply themselves with foreign trifles, her care is that nothing but what is English shall be provided for her wear.’