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Last but not least, Alexander Pope, not strictly being a Laureate, was not invited to celebrate the jubilee, so instead offered his own poem, about his favorite character, and inscribed it ‘To Becky, who my muse provok’d’

On Her knees for Hathaway: Eloise to Abelard

In Plymouth’s solitude and awful cells,
Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells,
And ever-musing melancholy reigns;
What means this tumult in a vicar’s veins?
Why rove my thoughts throughout my last retreat?
Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat?
Yet, yet I love!--From Dr Dim it came,
And Janet now must kiss the scarf and name.

Dear fatal Dim! Thy chocs, unwrapped,
Ne’er passed these lips in holy silence trapp’d.
Hide them, my heart, behind the stale mince pie,
And mistletoe, wherein his picture lies:
O write it not, my hand--the name appears in my sermon--
Wash it out, my tears!
In vain lost Janet weeps and prays,
Her Bishop still dictates, and she obeys.

Relentless dreams! whose darksome round contains
ecstatic sighs, and voluntary pains:
O rugged Doc! By night and e’en and morn;
in grots and caverns shagg'd by horrid ‘horn!
Take Me! I’ll not a pale-ey'd virgin stay,
In chancel, nave and vestry let us lay,
and let our fun run free on bishop’s throne
I’ll melt as butter on a new-baked scone...
All is not Heav'n's while Dr Dim has part,
Still rebel nature holds out half my heart;
Nor pray'rs nor coffee morn its pulse restrain,
Nor tea, for ages brew’d to flow in vain.

Impassioned dim, when brine profaned his bed,
by restless passions to revenge was led;
Brine’s roving eye was bloodied, and his nose
(How right thou was’t to blame it on thy hose!)
And tho’ I begged sweet dim seek couselling.
Yet in my heart did I rejoice and sing
Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires,
Love finds an altar for forbidden fires.
I do confess that in my secret lair
I crave his thwack upon my derriere

But in my dreams does oft a horror rise
A naked lover with my sweetheart lies!
And that soft bed doth wanton thong adorn,
The popeish trollope doth her feats perform
At this dark sight wild thoughts run through my brain
Thy crime was common, and now take the pain!.
With that elastic garment by her throat
I squeeze the precious life from the old stoat...

I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd,
Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest...
Our stolen kiss, by village eyes espied,
By Susan then denounced, by bish decried
Hath banished me to Plymouth, where in woe
My sermons all unlovely do I throw
Into a burning pyre of forlorn hope
Whilst, torn twixt shag and Janet, doth Dim mope
From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise,
and when the scones I bake or, ah!, mince pies,
Then do my burning thoughts and soul’s wet eye
turn to that shrine where Dim’s cold relics lie
Enlace me with thy scarf! and on the seat
Of my Herald shall our love’s juices meet

Alas, vain hope, for Dim is all repressed
And like my soul, my car hath failed its test...
And now must forelorn Janet fill the urn
And to the endless vicar’s round return...
God shall fill her day, desire her night...
And in her heart shall Dim be ever bright