Your fangs you fastened on the mitred crown, }
And freed from God and monarchy your town. }
What though your native kennel still be small,
Bounded betwixt a puddle and a wall;
Yet your victorious colonies are sent
Where the north ocean girds the continent.
Quickened with fire below, your monsters breed
In fenny Holland, and in fruitful Tweed;
And like the first the last affects to be,
Drawn to the dregs of a democracy.