Whiles baleful breasts invite our thumping fists.
Let every sign that mournful passions work,
Express what piteous plights our minds amaze.
This day supplants what no day can supply;
These hands have wrought those wastes, that never age,
Nor all the brood of Brute shall e’er repair:
That future men may joy the surer rest,
These wars prevent their birth and nip their spring.
What nations erst the former age subdu’d
With hourly toils to Britain’s yoke, this day