The queen has lately lost a part
Of her ENTIRELY-ENGLISH[1] heart,
For want of which, by way of botch,
She pieced it up again with SCOTCH. 
Blest revolution! which creates
Divided hearts, united states! 
See how the double nation lies,
Like a rich coat with skirts of frize: 
As if a man, in making posies,
Should bundle thistles up with roses. 
Who ever yet a union saw
Of kingdoms without faith or law?[2]
Henceforward let no statesman dare
A kingdom to a ship compare;
Lest he should call our commonweal
A vessel with a double keel: 
Which, just like ours, new rigg’d and mann’d,
And got about a league from land,
By change of wind to leeward side,
The pilot knew not how to guide. 
So tossing faction will o’erwhelm
Our crazy double-bottom’d realm.

[Footnote 1:  The motto on Queen Anne’s coronation medal.—­N.]

[Footnote 2:  I.e., Differing in religion and law.]

ON MRS. BIDDY FLOYD;

OR, THE RECEIPT TO FORM A BEAUTY. 1707

When Cupid did his grandsire Jove entreat
To form some Beauty by a new receipt, Jove sent, and found, far in a
country scene,
Truth, innocence, good nature, look serene: 
From which ingredients first the dext’rous boy
Pick’d the demure, the awkward, and the coy. 
The Graces from the court did next provide
Breeding, and wit, and air, and decent pride: 
These Venus cleans’d from ev’ry spurious grain
Of nice coquet, affected, pert, and vain. 
Jove mix’d up all, and the best clay employ’d;
Then call’d the happy composition FLOYD.

THE REVERSE

(TO SWIFT’S VERSES ON BIDDY FLOYD); OR, MRS. CLUDD

Venus one day, as story goes,
But for what reason no man knows,
In sullen mood and grave deport,
Trudged it away to Jove’s high court;
And there his Godship did entreat
To look out for his best receipt: 
And make a monster strange and odd,
Abhorr’d by man and every god. 
Jove, ever kind to all the fair,
Nor e’er refused a lady’s prayer,
Straight oped ’scrutoire, and forth he took
A neatly bound and well-gilt book;
Sure sign that nothing enter’d there,
But what was very choice and rare. 
Scarce had he turn’d a page or two,—­
It might be more, for aught I knew;
But, be the matter more or less,
’Mong friends ’twill break no squares, I guess. 
Then, smiling, to the dame quoth he,
Here’s one will fit you to a T.
But, as the writing doth prescribe,
’Tis fit the ingredients we provide. 
Away he went, and search’d the stews,
And every street about the Mews;
Diseases, impudence, and lies,
Are found and brought him in a trice. 
From Hackney then he did provide,
A clumsy air and awkward pride;
From lady’s toilet next he brought