Thus at thy helm of Gold, thy short-liv’d Pride,
No abler, trustier pilot-hand could guide:
That fair Foundation Royal, that (if my
Too poor Propheticks may dare speak so high)
Beyond her yet too narrow lease shall stand
With its unshaken head, till time’s last sand;
Whose circulating warmth shall never cease,
At once the nerves of War and veins of Peace:
Commerce, Arts, Arms, all her own fair increase,
A Treasury, from whose diffusive mine
Our glebe shall fatten, and our Throne shall shine.
From Elkanah Settle, ‘Augusta Lachrymans: a Funeral Tear to the Memory of the Worthy and Honour’d Michael Godfrey, Esq.’ (1695)
I once had the temerity to ask a central banker the secret of his craft. ‘It all depends,’ he said, ‘on making the right-sounding noises at the right time.’ He then abruptly changed the subject, and started discussing with patently spurious animation the prospects of Sussex in the County Cricket Championship.