Sir Charles Hanbury Williams (1708–1759)

GREAT Earl of Bath, your reign is o’er,

The Tories trust your word no more,

The Whigs no longer fear you;

Your gates are seldom now unbarr’d,

No crowd of coaches fills your yard,

And scarce a soul comes near you.

Few now aspire to your good graces,

Scarce any sue to you for places,

Or come with their petition,

To tell how well they have deserved,

How long, how steadily they starved

For you, in opposition.

Expect to see that tribe no more,

Since all mankind perceive that power

Is lodged in other hands:

Sooner to Carteret now they’ll go,

Or even (tho’ that’s excessive low)

To Wilmington or Sandys’.

With your obedient wife retire,

And sitting silent by the fire,

A sullen tête-à-tête.

Think over all you’ve done or said

And curse the hour that you were made

Unprofitably great.

With vapours there, and spleen o’ercast,

Reflect on all your actions past

With sorrow and contrition:

And there enjoy the thoughts that rise

From disappointed avarice,

From frustrated ambition.

There soon you’ll loudly, but in vain,

Of your deserting friends complain,

That visit you no more:

For in this country, ’tis a truth,

As known, as that love follows youth,

That friendship follows power.

Such is the calm of your retreat?

You thro’ the dregs of life must sweat

Beneath this heavy load;

And I’ll attend you as I’ve done,

Only to help reflection on,

With now and then an ode.