But if you know your Cause is not the best
Know that you have Defrauded and Oppress'd,
That you have ta'en and giv'n many a Bribe,
And of a wicked Contract been the Scribe.
That you have pilfer'd Forage from the Beast,
And with the Publick Wealth your own encreas'd;
That a dire Scheme you laid t' Excise the Land,
And to a vile C—v——n set your Hand;
That you've Monopoliz'd each Post and Place,
To aggrandize your self and Mushroom Race,
That all your Kindred—Brother, Sons, and Cousins,
Have Titles and Employments by the Dozens;
And for as many Sidesmen as are wanted,
New Places are contriv'd, new Pensions granted.
If you are travell'd in these crooked Ways
With a long Train of black et Cetera's;
Whilst the whole Nation loaths your very Name,
And Babes and Sucklings your Dispraise proclaim;
Turn your Eyes inward, on yourself reflect,
Think what you are, then what you're to expect:
Pass a few Years the Sisters cut your Thread,
And rank you in the Number of the Dead;
But of what Dead? not those whose Memory,
Bloom with sweet Savour through Posterity.
Those deathless Worthies, who, as Good as Great,
Or rais'd a fall'n, or prop'd a sinking State;
Or in the breach of Desolation stood,
And for their Country's Welfare pledg'd their Blood.
No! with the Curs'd your Tomb shall foremost stand,
The Gaveston's and Wolsey's of the Land.

Your Epitaph—In this foul Grave lies HE,
Who dug the grave of British Liberty.

Since then your Glass has but few Hours to run,
Quit quit the Reins before we're quite undone.
Why should you torture out your Dregs of Life,
In publick Tumult, Infamy and Strife?
To the last gasp maintain a baneful Power
Only to see your Country die before?
If not for us—for your own Family,
And as you've made 'em Great, pray leave 'em Free.

But if there's nothing that can bribe your Will,
From this perverse Propensity to Ill;
If to the Grave you are on Mischeif bent.
By growth in Crimes too harden'd to Repent.
If, whilst perhaps you may, you won't Retreat,
Resolv'd the Nations Ruin to compleat,
On Britain's Downfall to erect a Name,
And trust to an immortal Guilt for Fame,
May'nt the Just Vengeance of an injur'd Land,
Thus greatly urg'd, exert a glorious Stand?
Drive not the Brave and Wretched to Despair,
For though of Freedom, Wealth and Power left bare,
The Plunder'd still have Tongues—and they may rear,
Their loud Complaints to reach their Sovereign's Ear,
Lay, with one Voice, their Wrongs before the Throne,
Whilst HE whose Fame to both the Poles is known,
All Europe's Arbiter, all Asia's Theme,
Affrick's Delight, America's Supreme;
HE who does still express his Royal Care,
His loving Subjects Injuries to repair;
To their Addresses graciously attends,
And above all their Liberty defends,
Who is as Wise as Pious, Mild as Great,
And whose sole Business is to nurse the State;
May judge their Cause and, greatly rous'd, command,
The Staff of Power from thy polluted Hand,
And to some abler Head and better Heart,
His long dishonour'd Stewardship impart.

Perhaps to Thee! great Carteret, who can'st boast.
Talents quite equal to the arduous Post;
A keen Discernment; strong, yet bridled Thought,
One Natures Dow'r, one by just Learning taught:
Calm Fortitude, unwarp'd Integrity,
And Flame divine to keep thy Country Free.

Or to thy Conduct, Pultney! whose just Zeal,
Is still exerted for the publick Weal;
Whose boundless Knowledge and distinguish'd Sense,
Flow in full Tides of rapid Eloquence;
And to the native Treasures of whose Mind,
We see form'd Worth, and wide Experience join'd.

With these the darling Chesterfield may sit
An able Partner—if his rebel Wit }
Can to such Pains and Penalties submit. }

And that fam'd Caledonian Youth, whose Morn
Propitious Skies, and Noon-tide Rays adorn,
Who rose so early in his Country's Cause,
Shone, though so Young, so bright, that our Applause
Was lock'd in Wonder—gazing Senates hung
On the divine Enchantment of his Tongue;
Hark with what Force he pleads in our Defence!
How just he speaks an injur'd People's Sense!
Half lost to Britain now, He chides his Fate,
For stealing him, by Titles, from the State;
Whilst we, lov'd Polwarth! with thy Titles more,
As might such Virtues to the State restore.

Then too the noble Cobham, first of Men!
May leave his Garden for the Camp again;
Call'd, like old Rome's Dictator from the Plough,
To plant once more the Laurel on his Brow.

And Brave Argile, who's form'd alike to wield
The Rhet'rick of the Senate and the Field,
So tun'd whose Eloquence, whose Breast so Mann'd,
None can the Speaker or the Chief withstand.