THE KING'S ANSWER.


Ungrateful Boy! I will not call thee Son,
Thou hast thyself unhappily undone;
And thy Complaints serve but to show thee more,
How much thou hast enrag'd thy Father's Whore.
Resent it not, shake not thy addle Head,
And be no more by Clubs and Rascals led.
Have I made thee the Darling of my Joys,
The prettiest and the lustiest of my Boys?
Have I so oft sent thee with cost to France,
To take new Dresses up, and learn to dance?
Have I giv'n thee a Ribbon and a Star,
And sent thee like a Meteor to the War?
Have I done all that Royal Dad could do,
And do you threaten now to be untrue?
But say I did with thy fond Mother sport,
To the same kindness others had resort;
'Twas my good Nature, and I meant her Fame,
To shelter thee under my Royal Name.
Alas! I never got one Brat alone,
My Mistresses all are by each Fop well known,
And I still willing all their Brats to own.
I made thee once,'tis true, the Post of Grace,
And stuck upon thee every mighty Place,
Each glitt'ring Office, till thy heavy Brow
Grew dull with Honour, and my Pow'r low.
I spangled thee with Favours, hung thy Nose
With Rings of Gold and Pearl, till all grew Foes