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I meant before now to have sent you this Letter,
But Yarmouth and I thought perhaps 'twould be better
To wait till the Irish affairs are decided--
(That is, till both Houses had prosed and divided,
With all due appearance of thought and digestion)--
For, tho' Hertford House had long settled the question,
I thought it but decent, between me and you,
That the two _other_ Houses should settle it too.
I need not remind you how cursedly bad
Our affairs were all looking, when Father went mad;[2]
A strait waistcoat on him and restrictions on me,
A more _limited_ Monarchy could not well be.
I was called upon then, in that moment of puzzle.
To choose my own Minister--just as they muzzle
A playful young bear, and then mock his disaster
By bidding him choose out his own dancing-master.
I thought the best way, as a dutiful son,
Was to do as Old Royalty's self would have done.[3]
So I sent word to say, I would keep the whole batch in,
The same chest of tools, without cleansing or patching:
For tools of this kind, like Martinus's sconce.[4]
Would loose all their beauty if purified once;
And think--only think--if our Father should find.
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