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For thee her mind in doubtful terms fhe told,
And learn'd to speak like oracles of old.
For thee, for thee alone, what could fhe more?
She loft the honour fhe had gain'd before;
Loft all the trophies, which her arms had won
(Such Cæfar never knew, nor Philip's fon);
Refign'd the glories of a ten years' reign,
And fuch as none but Marlborough's arm could gain,
For thee in annals fhe 's content to shine,
Like other monarchs of the Stuart line.



WHERE, where, degenerate countrymen-how high

Will your fond folly and your madness Aly?

Are scenes of death, and fervile chains fo dear,
To fue for blood and bondage every year,
Like rebel Jews, with too much freedom curft,

To court a change — though certain of the worst?

There is no climate which you have not fought, Where tools of war, and vagrant kings, are bought; O! noble paffion, to your country kind,

To crown her with

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the refufe of mankind.

As if the new Rome, which your schemes unfold,

Were to be built on rapine, like the old,

While her afylum openly provides

: For every

ruffian every nation hides.

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Will you

ftill tempt the great avenger's blow, And force the bolt which he is loath to throw ? Have there too few already bit the plains,

To make you feek new Prestons and Dumblains?
If vengeance lofes its effects so fast,

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Say, is it rafhnefs or defpair provokes

Your harden'd hearts to these repeated strokes? Reply: - Behold, their looks, their fouls declare, All pale with guilt, and dumb with deep despair. Hear then, you fons of blood, your destin'd fate, Hear, ere you fin too soon - repent too late.

Madly you try to weaken George's reign,
And ftem the ftream of Providence in vain.
By right, by worth, by wonders, made our own,
The hand that gave it fhall preferve his throne.
As vain your hopes to distant times remove,
To try the fecond, or the third from Jove;
For 'tis the nature of that facred line,
To conquer monsters, and to grow divine.





PALLAS, deftructive to the Trojan line,

Raz'd their proud walls, though built by hands divine:

But Love's bright goddefs, with propitious grace,

Preferv'd a hero, and reftor'd the race.

Thus the fam'd en

ere the Iber flows,

Fell by Elize


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Muse inspire ;

NARLISLE's a name can every To Carlisle fill the glafs, and tune the lyre. With his lov'd bays the God of Day shall crown A wit and luftre equal to his own.


AT once the Sun and Carlisle took their way, To warm the frozen north, and kindle day; The flowers to both their glad creation ow'd, Their virtues he, their beauties fhe bestow'd.


THE braveft hero, and the brightest dame,
From Belgia's happy clime Britannia drew;
One pregnant cloud we find does often frame
The awful thunder, and the gentle dew.


To Effex fill the fprightly wine;
The health 's engaging and divine.
Let pureft odours fcent the air,
And wreaths of rofes bind our hair:
In her chafte lips these blufhing lie,
And thofe her gentle fighs fupply.


THE God of Wine grows jealous of his art,
He only fires the head, but Hyde the heart.
The Queen of Love looks on, and fmiles to feet
A nymph more mighty than a deity.


HYDE, though in agonies, her graces keeps,

A thousand charms the nymph's complaints adorn

In tears of dew fo mild Aurora weeps,

But her bright offspring is the chearful morn.


WHEN Jove to Ida did the gods invite,
And in immortal toasting pafs'd the night,
With more than nectar he the banquet blefs'd,
For Wharton was the Venus of the feaft.






TO-DAY a mighty hero comes, to warm

Your curdling blood, and bid you, Britons, arm.

To valour much he owes, to virtue more;

He fights to fave, and conquers to restore.
He strains no texts, nor makes dragoons perfuade;
He likes religion, but he hates the trade.
Born for mankind, they by his labour live;
Their property is his prerogative.

His fword deftroys lefs than his mercy faves,
And none, except his paffions, are his flaves.
Such, Britons, is the prince that you possess,
In council greatest, and in camps no lefs:
Brave, but not cruel; wife, without deceit.;
Born for an age curs'd with a Bajazet.
But you, difdaining to be too fecure,
Afk his protection, and yet grudge his power.
With you a monarch's right is in difpute;
Who give fupplies, are only abfolute.

Britons, for fhame! your factious feuds decline,
Too long you 've labour'd for the Bourbon line:
Affert loft rights, an Austrian prince alone

Is born to nod upon a Spanish throne.
A caufe no lefs could on great Eugene call;
Steep Alpine rocks require an Hannibal:

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