We, bending, bless’d the Gods and ask’d no more!
What hand but thine should conquer and compose,
Join those whom interest joins, and chase our foes,
Repel the daring youth’s presumptuous aim,
And by his rival’s greatness give him fame?
Now, in some foreign court he may sit down,
And quit without a blush the British crown;
Secure his honour, though he lose his store,
And take a lucky moment to be poor.
This sneer at the Pretender is as contemptible as the flattery of George is gross; and the picture of an entire nation on its knees, blessing Olympus, and bidding the gods to restrain all further gifts, is as magnificent a mixture of bombast and blasphemy as ever was made up by venal poet. But here is more of it:—