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The laurel wreath, by glory's hand
Twin'd round her awful brow,

As what her grief and rage disdain'd,
She rent in fury now.

Away she hurl'd her boasted shield,

Away her useless spear;

What joys to slaves, can trophies yield,

What pride the pomp of war. "Behold the dire effects," she cried, "Of William's perjured truth!

"Behold the Orphan, who relied "On a false guardian's oath.

"How couldst thou with a lover's zeal,

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My widow'd cause espouse,

"Yet quit that cause, you serv'd so well,

"In scorn of all thy vows?

"How couldst thou swear, wealth,titles,power,

"Thy candour would disclaim;

"Yet barter, in an evil hour,

"That candour for a name?

"How couldst thou win my easy heart, "A patriot to believe?

"How could I know, but by the smart, "A patriot would deceive? "Bethink thee of thy broken trust,

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Thy vows to me unpaid;

Thy honour humbled in the dust,

(6 Thy country's weal betrayed. "For this may all my vengeance fall

"On thy devoted head d;

"Living be thou the scorn of all,

"The curse of all when dead."

This said, while thunder round her broke,

She vanished into air;

And William's horror while she spoke,

Was followed by despair.




ARRIVE in safety all ye Heroes brave,
That from America survive the grave;
Let Fame cry fraud, ill-conduct, or neglect,
No Inquisition Britons now expect.
Since Orford loaded with an age of crimes,
Escapes insulting, these degenerate times :
Since Bath, that great Paladium, till of late,
Defends each vice in Ministers of State:
Well may these Ministers remit the scores
Of Generals, Admirals, and Commodores.

It was uncertain whether he was a Whig or a Jacobite, whether very brave or a coward; for he had fought several duels, and had run away in the Rebellion. He was a troublesome, tiresome, speaker, but now and then tempered with good sense.-W.

HOR. LIB. II. ODE XVI.-Otium Divos, &c.



IN each ambitious measure crost,
Each friend that should support you lost,
By Faction's tempest rudely tost:

At length you ask the gods for ease.
But what avails your pious care,
Your heart pour'd out in endless prayer,
Ease is not venal tho' you are,

As wealth may tempt, or titles please.

For not the Treasurer, Staff, and all
That Orford grasp'd before his fall,
Or his successor Pelham shall,

Can ease the self-devoted mind.
Care flies into the rooms of State,
Nor can the slaves that on him wait
Drive the curst phantom from the Gate:

Care stays, when none else dare, behind.

How happier at his frugal board
Lives the plebian tho' no lord,
His father's wealth his only hoard;
Who acts within his proper sphere;
Whilst honest Morpheus o'er his brows,
His choicest wildest poppies strows,
And sleep, the gods best gift, bestows,
Unbroke by avarice or fear.

Why flies our arrow to those heights?
Our feeble thread spun by the Fates,
Each hour the fatal Scissars waits,
Nor will one moment's pause afford!
We bustle to be raised on high,
New lands explore, new suns descry,
Alas! 'twere well could self, too, fly,
And lose the squire in the lord.

Beyond the present hour forbear,
The following is not worth your care;

In life's contracted span how rare,

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