Classic Poem

 Old stories of a Tyler sing
That did attempt to be a king.
Our age is with a tiler graced,
By more preposterous planets raised.
His cap with Jocky's matched together,
Turned to a beaver and a feather;
His clay transformed to yellow gilt,
And trowel to a silver hilt.

 His lady from the tiles and bricks
Kidnapped to court in coach and six;
Her arms a sucking prince embrace,
Whate'er you think, of royal race;
A prince come in the nick of time
(Blessed d'Adda!), 'tis a venial crime
That shall repair our breach of state;
While all the world congratulate,
Shall, like his sire, suppress the just,
Raise knaves and fools to place of trust:
Titus and Vane, who sought his fate;
Tilers and Macs to chits of state.
But here, unhappy babe, alas,
I cannot but lament thy case.
That thou, fed up with Rome's strong meats,
Should long for milk of heretic teats.
Among the daughters was there none
Worthy to nurse a monarch's son?
But if thy uncle, who before
Was always right, changed the last hour;
If thy undoubted sire, so sage,
Declar'd i'th'evening of his age;
Why should'st not thou, Papist so soon,
Be a staunch Protestant ere noon?
This said, the tiler laughed in's sleeve
And took his audience of leave.
The prince, who answered ne'er a word,
That he should travel did accord;
To Paris sent to learn grimace,
To swear and damn with a bonne grâce .