BRITANNIA. THE fame of virtue 'tis for which I sound, My hero, with the sails of honour furl'd, He spreads the wings of virtue on the throne, By different steps the high ascent he gains, Then seek no phrase his titles to conceal, WILLIAM's the name that's spoke by ev'ry tongue, William's the darling subject of my song; Listen, ye virgins, to the charming sound, And in eternal dances hand it round; Your early offerings to this altar bring, Make him at once a lover and a king; May he submit to none but to your arms, Nor ever be subdued, but by your charms; May your soft thoughts for him be all sublime, And ev'ry tender vow be made for him ; May he be first in ev'ry morning thought, And heav'n ne'er hear a prayer where he's left out; May every omen, every boding dream, Be fortunate by mentioning his name; May this one charm infernal powers affright, And guard you from the terror of the night; May ev'ry cheerful glass as it goes down To William's health, be cordials to your own: Let ev'ry song be choruss'd with his name, And music pay her tribute to his fame; Let ev'ry poet tune his artful verse, And in immortal strains his deeds rehearse: And may Apollo never more inspire The disobedient bard with his seraphic fire: May all my sons their grateful homage pay, Satire, return to our unthankful isle, If e'er this nation be distress'd again, To whomsoe'er they cry, they'll cry in vain : To heav'n they cannot have the face to look, Or, if they should, it would but heav'n provoke ; To hope for help from man would be too much, Mankind would always tell 'em of the Dutch: How they came here our freedoms to maintain, Were paid, and cursed, and hurried home again : How by their aid we first dissolved our fears, And then our helpers damn'd for foreigners: 'Tis not our English temper to do better, For Englishmen think ev'ry one their debtor. 'Tis worth observing, that we ne'er complain'd Of foreigners, nor of the wealth we gain'd, Till all their services were at an end: Wise men affirm it is the English way, Never to grumble till they come to pay; And then they always think, their temper's such, The work too little, and the pay too much. As frighted patients, when they want a cure, Bid any price, and any pain endure: But when the doctor's remedies appear, The cure's too easy, and the price too dear: Great Portland near was banter'd when he strove, For us his master's kindest thoughts to move: We ne'er lampoon'd his conduct, when employ'd King James's secret councils to divide ; Then we caress'd him as the only man, The dark designs of our Achitophel: Schonbergh, the ablest soldier of his age, France, Flanders, Germany, his fame confess, Our turn first served, we grudged him the command, Witness the grateful temper of the land. We blame the k-, that he relies too much, He must have been a madman to rely, For, laying other arguments aside: This thought might mortify our English pride; And none but Englishmen have e'er betray'd him: And, lest examples should be too remote, A modern magistrate of famous note, Shall give you his own history by rote; I'll make it out, deny it he that can, His worship is a true-born Englishman ; By all the latitude that empty word, By modern acceptation's understood: The parish books his great descent record, And now he hopes ere long to be a lord; And truly, as things go, it would be pity, But such as he bore office in the city; While robb'ry for burnt-offering he brings, And gives to God what he has stole from kings; |