Pity it is, he said, this Sword of mine,
Of late so gloriously did shine,
In Foreign Fields 'midst Show'rs of Blood,
With which I've cut my Passage through
The Snowy Alps and Pyrenean Hills,
Where Death the Land with vast Destruction fills,
'Mongst Warriors, who
Venture their Lives for their dear Countries good,
Should now be laid aside
'Mongst Rubbish Iron old,
From reaking Blood scarce cold;
Or else converted to a Knife,
For some damn'd Villain first to cut
A Princes Bread, and next his Throat:
In vain we venture to preserve his Life,
In vain to Foreign Fields we come,
In vain to Foreign Force alli'd,
If a nefarious Brood at Home
Embarrass his Affairs,
Prolong the Wars,
Only t' enrich his Enemies,
Weaken his Government, and his Allies.
XIV.
'Tis strange a Prince, shou'd ere a Fool preferr,
To be an Officer!
A Knave may serve an unjust Government,
But ne'er prevent
Those Mischiefs may attend the just:
For who would trust
A Villain may be bought by Gold,
Unless design'd on purpose to be sold?
If Princes wou'd use Fools as Shop-men do
Their Signs or Boards of show,
To tell the passers by there's better stuff
Within, 'tis rational enough.
But to set Centry at the Door, }
A Patriot or a Senator,
Philosopher or Orator,
To tell the Passers by their is within,
A Merry Andrew to be seen,
Is very much ridiculous,
Tho' to our grief we often find it thus.
Thus Princes Bastardize
Their Countries Sons Legitimate,
And give the fair Estate
Unto a Spurious Brood,
That ne'er did good;
The honest Work, the Knave enjoys the Prize.
XV.
A Government adorn'd with Fools,
Empty Trifles, useless Tools,
Looks like a Toy-Shop gloriously bedeckt
With gawdy gewgaws, Childrens play things,
Painted Babies, Tinsel Creatures,
Wooden Folk, with Human features,
Made just for show, and no advantage brings,
And prove of no effect.
It dwindles to a Raree-Show,
In which no Man must act a Part
But the dull Blockhead and the Beau,
The huffing Fop without a Heart;
What Wise Man would a Journey take
On a dull Steed has broke his Back?
Or have recourse
Unto a Hobby-Horse?
Those act by such wise Rules,
Who prop Just Princes by a Tyrant's Tools.
XVI.
Surely the Genius of a fruitful Isle
Is either lost,
Or what is worst,
Murder'd by those who shou'd support her Fame,
Add Glory to her Name;
The Heavens themselves have cast an angry look,
Seldom the Glorious Sun does shine
But Veils its face Divine.
Jove does misguide the Seasons every Year;
Nought can we read in Nature's Book,
To reap her Fruits scarce worth our while.
Our Mother Earth,
From whose unhappy Womb,
We Mortals come,
Ne'er shows a Glorious Birth,
But proves abortive as our Actions are;
Nought have we left but hope,
Just like the Blind at Noon we grope:
The number of our Sins we must fulfil,
And if we're sav'd, it is against our will.