Talleyrand, what’s the state of my great preparation,
To crush, at one stroke, this vile, insolent nation,
That baffles my projects, my vengeance derides,
Blasts all my proud hopes, checks my arrogant strides.
Boasts a Press unrestrained, points its censure at Me,
And while Frenchmen are Slaves, still presumes to be free?
TALLEYRAND.
In a Month, Sire, or less, your magnanimous host,
Their standards shall fix on the rude British Coast.
BUONAPARTE.
’Tis well—let the troops be kept hungry and bare,
To make them more keen—for that Island’s good fare.
Give them drafts upon London, instead of their pay,
And rouse them to ravish, burn, plunder, and slay.
Prepare, too,—some draughts, for the sick and the lame;
You know what I mean.
TALLEYRAND.
As in Syria?
BUONAPARTE.
The same!
That England I hate, and its armies subdued,
The slaughter of Jaffa shall there be renew’d.
Not a wretch that presumes to oppose, but shall feel
The flames of my fury, the force of my steel.
Their daughters, and wives, to my troops I consign;
So shall vengeance, sweet vengeance, deep-glutted, be mine,
Their children—
TALLEYRAND.