The kingly prophet well evinces,
That we should put no trust in princes: 
My royal master promised me
To raise me to a high degree: 
But now he’s grown a king, God wot,
I fear I shall be soon forgot. 
You see, when folks have got their ends,
How quickly they neglect their friends;
Yet I may say, ’twixt me and you,
Pray God, they now may find as true!

MARBLE HILL

My house was built but for a show,
My lady’s empty pockets know;
And now she will not have a shilling,
To raise the stairs, or build the ceiling;
For all the courtly madams round
Now pay four shillings in the pound;
’Tis come to what I always thought: 
My dame is hardly worth a groat.[2]
Had you and I been courtiers born,
We should not thus have lain forlorn;
For those we dext’rous courtiers call,
Can rise upon their masters’ fall: 
But we, unlucky and unwise,
Must fall because our masters rise.

RICHMOND LODGE

My master, scarce a fortnight since,
Was grown as wealthy as a prince;
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[3] 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.[4]
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,[5] like a stroller,
Sits mounted on the garden-roller. 
A goodly sight to see her ride,
With ancient Mirmont[6] at her side. 
In velvet cap his head lies warm,
His hat, for show, beneath his arm.

MARBLE HILL

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 ev’ry part,
My master Pope will break his heart.

RICHMOND LODGE

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.