Epigram To Julia

Mark! how the Rose, when Phoebus burns,         Averts her blushing face;     Mark! how the Sun-flower fondly turns         To meet his warm embrace:     Like the coy rose, when woo'd by others, be,     Like the fond sun-flower, Love, when woo'd by me.     The Chancellor keeps the conscience of the King.     This seems, at first, a strange, mysterious thing;     But there's a deep-laid policy in it;     For, did the Chancellor not that conscience keep,     It might, perchance, be doom'd on thorns to sit;     Seated on wool, it may securely sleep.         *     *     *     *     *     Papist and Protestant can ne'er agree.     'Pat!' cries an Englishman ''tis clear to me,     More grateful for the union you should be;     Think what an honour is to Ireland done:     Zounds! John Bull wed a whore of Babylon!'     "Murther!" cries Pat "he wedded her by force,     And, by my shoul, she longs for a divorce."