Nay, good Sir Poet, read thy rhymes again,
And curb the tumults that are born in thee,
That now thy hand, relentful, may refrain
To deal the blow that Abel had of Cain.
II.
Are we not Britons born, when all is said,
And thou the offspring of the knightly souls
Who fought for Charles when fears were harvested,
And Cromwell rose to power on Charles's head?
III.