How do I dote upon my royal charge,
Born to be great, and growing to be large;
Sprung, in his beauty, from the parent-tree,
An _heir_, and eke _a-parent_ too, is he.
Dear bellowing babby—apple of my eye,
A young trump-card, turn'd in the royal rubber;
As Duke of Cornwall, how he used to cry,
And now he's Prince of _Whales_—oh! wont he _blubber_!
Pray, Mrs. Lilly, when is His Royal Highness to be dressed _en grande
tenue_? Don't know, my lady; at present he is dressed _in the nursery_.
[Illustration:
The Parlour and The Cellar.
]