From Chatsworth's blest abode,
My mind still fires, my Lord, at you,
And thus bursts out in ode.

Forgive my phrenzy, good Lord John,
For passion's my Apollo:
Sweet Hebe says, when sense is gone,
That nonsense needs must follow.

Like Indian knife, or Highland sword,
Your words have hewn and hack'd me;
Whilst Quin, a rebel to his lord,
Like his own Falstaff back'd me.

In vain I bounce, and fume, and fret,
Swear Shakespeare is divine;
Fitzherbert [24] can a while forget
His pains to laugh at mine.

Lord Frederick, George, and eke his Grace,
My honest zeal deride;
Nay, Hubert's melancholy face
Smirks on your Lordship's side.

With passion, zeal, and punch misled,
Why goad me on to strife?
Why send me to a restless bed
And disappointed wife?

This my reward! and this from you!