For in the Frenchmen’s hand what cards may come
When he alone doth shuffle them! He’d spoil
For us the game. He can’t expect
We’ll cease, for love of amity, from strife;
For who would bear, forsooth, for so long time,
The outrageous wrong, the proud man’s triumphing,
The being beat, the excessive dues to pay,
The chaff of grinning Frenchmen, and the sneers
That easy John Bull far too often brooks,
When we ourselves may our conditions make,