Nor called the gods with vulgar spite To vindicate his helpless right, But bowed his comely head Down, as upon a bed.
This was that memorable hour Which first assured the forcèd power: So, when they did design The Capitol's first line,
A bleeding head, where they begun, Did fright the architects to run; And yet in that the State Foresaw its happy fate!
And now the Irish are ashamed To see themselves in one year tamed: So much one man can do That doth both act and know.
They can affirm his praises best, And have, though overcome, confessed How good he is, how just, And fit for highest trust;
Nor yet grown stiffer with command, But still in the Republic's hand (How fit he is to sway, That can so well obey!),
He to the Commons' feet presents A kingdom for his first year's rents, And (what he may) forbears His fame to make it theirs:
And has his sword and spoils ungirt To lay them at the public's skirt. So when the falcon high Falls heavy from the sky,
She, having killed, no more doth search But on the next green bough to perch, Where, when he first does lure, The falconer has her sure.
What may not then our isle presume While victory his crest does plume? What may not others fear If thus he crowns each year?