Then seek no phrase his titles to conceal,
And hide with words what actions must reveal,
No parallel from Hebrew stories take
Of god-like kings my similes to make;
No borrowed names conceal my living theme,
But names and things directly I proclaim.
’Tis honest merit does his glory raise,
Whom that exalts let no man fear to praise:
Of such a subject no man need be shy,
Virtue’s above the reach of flattery.
He needs no character but his own fame,
Nor any flattering titles but his name:
William’s the name that’s spoke by every 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 every tender vow be made for him.
May he be first in every morning thought,
And Heaven ne’er hear a prayer when he’s left out.
May every omen, every boding dream,
Be fortunate by mentioning his name;
May this one charm infernal power affright,
And guard you from the terrors of the night;
May every cheerful glass, as it goes down
To William’s health, be cordials to your own.
Let every song be chorused with his name,
And music pay a tribute to his fame;
Let every 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 graceful homage pay,
His praises sing, and for his safety pray.
Satire, return to our unthankful isle,
Secured by Heaven’s regard and William’s toil;
To both ungrateful and to both untrue,
Rebels to God, and to good-nature too.
If e’er this nation be distressed again,
To whomsoe’er they cry, they’ll cry in vain;
To Heaven they cannot have the face to look,
Or, if they should, it would but Heaven provoke.
To hope for help from man would be too much,
Mankind would always tell them of the Dutch;
How they came here our freedoms to obtain,
Were paid and cursed, and hurried home again;
How by their aid we first dissolved our fears,
And then our helpers damned for foreigners.
’Tis not our English temper to do better,
For Englishmen think every man their debtor.
’Tis worth observing that we ne’er complained
Of foreigners, nor of the wealth they gained,
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 frightened 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 ne’er was bantered when he strove
For us his master’s kindest thoughts to move;
We ne’er lampooned his conduct when employed
King James’s secret counsels to divide:
Then we caressed him as the only man
Which could the doubtful oracle explain;
The only Hushai able to repel
The dark designs of our Achitopel;
Compared his master’s courage to his sense,
The ablest statesman and the bravest prince.
On his wise conduct we depended much,
And liked him ne’er the worse for being Dutch.
Nor was he valued more than he deserved,
Freely he ventured, faithfully he served.
In all King William’s dangers he has shared;
In England’s quarrels always he appeared:
The Revolution first, and then the Boyne,
In both his counsels and his conduct shine;
His martial valour Flanders will confess,
And France regrets his managing the peace.
Faithful to England’s interest and her king;
The greatest reason of our murmuring.
Ten years in English service he appeared,
And gained his master’s and the world’s regard:
But ’tis not England’s custom to reward.
The wars are over, England needs him not;
Now he’s a Dutchman, and the Lord knows what.
Schomberg, the ablest soldier of his age,
With great Nassau did in our cause engage:
Both joined for England’s rescue and defence,
The greatest captain and the greatest prince.
With what applause, his stories did we tell!
Stories which Europe’s volumes largely swell.
We counted him an army in our aid:
Where he commanded, no man was afraid.
His actions with a constant conquest shine,
From Villa-Viciosa to the Rhine.
France, Flanders, Germany, his fame confess,
And all the world was fond of him, but us.
Our turn first served, we grudged him the command:
Witness the grateful temper of the land.
We blame the King that he relies too much
On strangers, Germans, Hugonots, and Dutch,
And seldom does his great affairs of state
To English counsellors communicate.
The fact might very well be answered thus:
He has so often been betrayed by us,
He must have been a madman to rely
On English Godolphin’s fidelity.
For, laying other arguments aside,
This thought might mortify our English pride,
That foreigners have faithfully obeyed him,
And none but Englishmen have e’er betrayed him.
They have our ships and merchants bought and sold,
And bartered English blood for foreign gold.
First to the French they sold our Turkey fleet,
And injured Talmarsh next at Camaret.
The King himself is sheltered from their snares,
Not by his merit, but the crown he wears.
Experience tells us ’tis the English way
Their benefactors always to betray.
And lest examples should be too remote,
A modern magistrate of famous note
Shall give you his own character by rote.
I’ll make it out, deny it he that can,
His worship is a true-born Englishman,
In all the latitude of that empty word,
By modern acceptations 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 should represent the City:
While robbery for burnt-offering he brings,
And gives to God what he has stole from kings:
Great monuments of charity he raises,
And good St. Magnus whistles out his praises.
To City gaols he grants a jubilee,
And hires huzzas from his own Mobilee.[[21]]
Lately he wore the golden chain and gown,
With which equipped, he thus harangued the town.