Presume to show his mortal snout,
And as a Deity intrude,
Because he had the world subdued;
O, let him not debase your thoughts,
Or name him but to tell his faults.—­
  Of Gods I only quote the best,
But you may hook in all the rest. 
  Now, birth-day bard, with joy proceed
To praise your empress and her breed;
First of the first, to vouch your lies,
Bring all the females of the skies;
The Graces, and their mistress, Venus,
Must venture down to entertain us: 
With bended knees when they adore her,
What dowdies they appear before her! 
Nor shall we think you talk at random,
For Venus might be her great-grandam: 
Six thousand years has lived the Goddess,
Your heroine hardly fifty odd is;
Besides, your songsters oft have shown
That she has Graces of her own: 
Three Graces by Lucina brought her,
Just three, and every Grace a daughter;
Here many a king his heart and crown
Shall at their snowy feet lay down: 
In royal robes, they come by dozens
To court their English German cousins: 
Beside a pair of princely babies,
That, five years hence, will both be Hebes. 
  Now see her seated in her throne
With genuine lustre, all her own: 
Poor Cynthia never shone so bright,
Her splendour is but borrow’d light;
And only with her brother linkt
Can shine, without him is extinct. 
But Carolina shines the clearer
With neither spouse nor brother near her: 
And darts her beams o’er both our isles,
Though George is gone a thousand miles. 
Thus Berecynthia takes her place,
Attended by her heavenly race;
And sees a son in every God,
Unawed by Jove’s all-shaking nod. 
  Now sing his little highness Freddy
Who struts like any king already: 
With so much beauty, show me any maid
That could resist this charming Ganymede! 
Where majesty with sweetness vies,
And, like his father, early wise. 
Then cut him out a world of work,
To conquer Spain, and quell the Turk: 
Foretel his empire crown’d with bays,
And golden times, and halcyon days;
And swear his line shall rule the nation
For ever—­till the conflagration. 
  But, now it comes into my mind,
We left a little duke behind;
A Cupid in his face and size,
And only wants, to want his eyes. 
Make some provision for the younker,
Find him a kingdom out to conquer;
Prepare a fleet to waft him o’er,
Make Gulliver his commodore;
Into whose pocket valiant Willy put,
Will soon subdue the realm of Lilliput. 
  A skilful critic justly blames
Hard, tough, crank, guttural, harsh, stiff names
The sense can ne’er be too jejune,
But smooth your words to fit the tune. 
Hanover may do well enough,
But George and Brunswick are too rough;
Hesse-Darmstadt makes a rugged sound,
And Guelp the strongest ear will wound. 
In vain are all attempts from Germany
To find out proper words for harmony: