Forbore the torrent of his verse to pour,
Nor loosed his satire till the needful hour:
His sovereign's right, by patience half betrayed,
Waked his avenging genius to its aid.
Blest muse, whose wit with such a cause was crowned,
And blest the cause that such a champion found;
With chosen verse upon the foe he falls,
And black sedition in each quarter galls;
Yet, like a prince with subjects forced to engage,
Secure of conquest, he rebates his rage;