Divine Monimia, thy fond fears lay down;
No rival can prevail,—but half a crown.
He glories to late times to be convey'd,
Not for the poor he has reliev'd, but made:
Not such ambition his great fathers fir'd,
When Harry conquer'd, and half France expir'd:
He'd be a slave, a pimp, a dog, for gain:
Nay, a dull sheriff, for his golden chain.
"Who'd be a slave?" the gallant colonel cries,
While love of glory sparkles from his eyes: