If my son you would be,
If my son you would be,
Like Britons undaunted, like Britons be free.
Tranquillity, heightened by friendship’s supply,
Degraded may censure, with malice stalk by!
Auspiciously reigning, those plumpers, they say,
Unluckily carry the spoils of each day.
And thus, &c.
Regardless of great ones, we live uncontrolled,
We’re potters and plumpers, we’re not to be sold.