'Tis base ingratitude—'tis Holland's hate.
My presence sav'd that country, chang'd its fate.
But the base pedlars gain'd my sov'reign's ear,
And at my counsels and my courage sneer;
They call me tyrant, breaker of my word,
Fond of a warrior's garb without his sword.
A servile courtier, saucy cavalier,
Bold as a lion when no danger's near,
They say I seek their country for myself,
To fill my bursting bags with plunder'd pelf;