The Rolliad Part 53

_Hecate_. Oh! well done! I commend your pains, And ev'ry one shall share i'th' gains,

_Cauldron sinks. Witches fly away upon broomsticks; thunder, &c._

TRANSLATIONS

OF LORD BELGRAVE'S MEMORABLE QUOTATIONS, AS INTRODUCED IN A SPEECH DELIVERED BY HIS LORDs.h.i.+P IN A LATE DEBATE.

[_It is with singular satisfaction we communicate the following most excellent versions of_ Lord BELGRAVE's _never-to-be-forgotten quotation; trusting, as we sincerely do, that so mark'd an attention to his Lords.h.i.+p's scholars.h.i.+p may considerably console him under his melancholy failure as an orator._]

Lord BELGRAVE's Quotation.

??? dapae??e??? p??sef? p?da? ???? ?????e??.

Translation by Lord _Grosvenor_.

His dam was Thetis, aeacus his Sire, And for his paces he was nam'd Highflyer.

Another by Sir _Joseph Mawbey_.

Achilles, who was quite a man of whim, And also had a swift foot, answer'd him----

Another by Sir _Cecil Wray_.

There was a man, Achilles he was call'd, } He had two feet, they were so swift, he ball'd, } Or otherwise, he mought, I say, have fall'd. }

Another by Lord _Mornington_, and Lord _Graham_.

With lightest heels oppos'd to heaviest head, To Lord Atrides, Lord Achilles said----

Another by the _Chancellor_.

To him Achilles, with a furious nod, Replied, a very pretty speech, by G--d!

Another by Mr. _Grenville_.

The Grecian speaker rose with look so big, It spoke his bottom and nigh burst his wig----

Another by _Brook Watson_.

Up stood Achilles on his nimble pegs, And said, "May I _pree-seume_ to shew my legs?"

Another by Mr. _Wilberforce_.

Achilles came forward to snivel and rant; His spirit was spleen and his piety cant.

Another by Mr. _Pitt_.

Frantic with rage, uprose the fierce Achilles: "How comfortably calm!" said Nestor Willis----

Translation by Sir _John Scott_.

With metaphysic art his speech he plann'd, And said what n.o.body could understand.

Another by Mr. _b.a.s.t.a.r.d_.

The Trojan I oppose, he said, 'tis true, But I abuse and hate Atrides too.

Another by Lord _Fawconberg_.

Enrag'd Achilles never would agree, A "petty vote," a "menial slave," was he.

Another by Mons. Alderman _Le Mesurier_.

By gar, Achille he say, I make a you Parler anoder launguage, _ventre bleu!_

Another by Lord _Westcote_.

Pliant and prompt in crane-neck curves to wheel, Achilles rose, and _turn'd_ upon his heel.

Another by Mr. _Wilbraham Beetle_.

In oily terms he urg'd the chiefs to peace, For none was more a friend than he to Grease.

Another by Lord _Bayham_.

His conscious hat well lin'd with borrow'd prose, The lubber chief in sulky mien arose; Elate with pride his long pent silence broke, And could he but have _read_, he might have spoke.

Another by Mr. _Dundas_.

Up the bra' chield arose, and weel I wis } To beath sides booing, begg'd 'em to dismiss } Their wordy warfare in "a general _peece_."[1] }

Another by Mr. _York_.

This windy war, he swore, he could not hear; So eas'd his troubles by "a stream of _air!_[2]"

Another by Lord _Fawconberg_.

Achilles swore he felt by no means hurt, At putting on great Agamemnon's s.h.i.+rt; He priz'd the honour, never grudg'd the trouble, And only wish'd the profit had been double.

Another by Lord _Winchelsea_.

With formal mien, and visage most forlorn, The courtly hero _spoke_ his _silent_ scorn.

Another by Lord _Sydney_.