George Pooke

Anonymous, "Dialogue between Sir W—m B—ne and George Pooke, two modern Poets, in their respective Stiles" St. James's Chronicle (30 March 1765).

George Pooke, I much commend your Zeal,
For writing of Britannia's Weal,
And singing of her Glory;
When Charlotte's Royal Yacht set sail,
Rome Scarlet Whore at once turn'd pale,
And Terror seiz'd each Tory.

Sir Knight, I'm glad you praise my loyal Verse;
But know you not how I rehearse
In a bold Ode the wicked Ways
Of Surgeons to get Bodies now a Days?
How they do dig from under Ground,
A Corpse, whose Burial cost its Friends Five Pound.
It is a shameful, monstrous Thing,
That which I in my Ode did sing;
And as you are of the Faculty,
I hope you'll put a Stop to 't before I die.
For I would not, both for France and Spain,
When George Pooke's buried, that he should be taken up again.
Nor when once my Life is gone,
Would I be a dissecting Feast for the King's Surgeon.

Well said, Old Steady; thou shalt sleep
Within the Ground, full ten Feet deep:
For Sureons, never dread 'em;
As I'm a Justice of the Peace,
I'll make the Knaves their Rapine cease,
Or with an Ax behead 'em.

Then will I sing of Royal Charlotte's Yacht,
Where our fair Queen on Velvet Cusion sate:
Sometimes she look's the Mecklenberg again,
And then she ask'd how far it was to Britain.
Ancaster's noble Duchess her did comfort;
And as to the Jack Tars, they made her some Sport.
She had good Wine, and Sweet Meets of the best,
And she knew the Garter was not ty'd in Jest
Round Harcourt's Leg. — The Court's bound by Proxy
The Queen for to maintain, both wet and dry.
And when she thought of such a certain Thing,
She nothing fear'd from marrying a King.

Thy Namesake, George, in blest Abodes
Will surely tell his Brother Gods,
Of all thy Songs divine:
For me, my Odes should be resign'd;
I'd turn my — upon Mankind,
Could I but call them mine.