| Mem. | 'Tis hops that give a bitterness to beer— |
| Hops grown in Kent, says Whitbread, and elsewhere. | |
| Queen. | Is there no cheaper stuff? where does it dwell? |
| Would not horse-aloes do as well? | |
| Mem. | To try it soon on our small beer— |
| 'Twill save us sev'ral pounds a year. | |
| Mem. | To remember to forget to ask |
| Old Whitbread to my house one day. |
******
To Whitbread now deigned Majesty to say,
"Whitbread, are all your horses fond of hay?"
"Yes, please your Majesty"—in humble notes,
The Brewer answer'd—"also, Sir, of oats;
Another thing my horses too maintains,
And that, an't please your Majesty, are grains."
"Grains, grains," said Majesty, "To fill their crops?
Grains? Grains?—that come from hops—yes, hops, hops, hops?"
Here was the King, like hounds sometimes at fault—
"Sire" cry'd the humble Brewer, "give me leave
Your sacred Majesty to undeceive:
Grains, Sire, are never made from hops, but malt."
"True," said the cautious Monarch, with a smile;
"From malt, malt, malt—I meant it all the while."
"Yes," with the sweetest bow, rejoined the Brewer.
"An't please your Majesty, you did I'm sure."
"Yes," answered Majesty, with quick reply,
"I did, I did, I did, I, I, I, I."
Peter Pindar scoffed at the parsimony of George III. He scoffed at his personal appearance, his simple tastes, his attempt to enforce respect for the Sunday, his admiration for the music of Handel, above all his patronage of Benjamin West.
E'en with his painter let the King be blest;
Egad! eat, drink, and sleep, with Mister West.
Let the Court, the fashionables, the vulgar populace admire West and purchase his wretched pictures, Peter will have none of him or of them. Then he tells an amusing tale of a Toper and the Flies. A group of topers sat about the table drinking punch. Flies joined the party, sipped the grog, fell by hundreds into the bowl.
