And ev’ry wind of glory fans them on;Immortal trophies dwell upon his brow,
Fresh as the garlands he has won but now.
By different steps the high ascent he gains,
And differently that high ascent maintains:
Princes for pride and lust of rule make war,
And struggle for the name of conqueror;
Some fight for fame, and some for victory,
He fights to save, and conquers to set free.
Then seek no phrase his titles to conceal,
And hide with words what actions must reveal;
No parallel from Hebrew stories take,
Of godlike kings my similies to make;
No borrowed names conceal my living theme,
But names and things directly I proclaim;
His honest merit does his glory raise,
Whom that exalts let no man fear to praise;
Of such a subject no man need be shy,
Virtue’s above the reach of flattery;
He needs no character but his own fame,
Nor any flattering titles but his own name.
William’s the name that’s spoke by every tongue,
William’s the darling subject of my song;
Listen, ye virgins, to the charming sound,
And in eternal dances hand it round;
Your early offerings to this altar bring,
Make him at once a lover and a king;
May he submit to none but to your arms,
Nor ever be subdued, but by your charms;
May your soft thoughts for him be all sublime,
And ev’ry tender vow be made for him;
May he be first in ev’ry morning thought,
And heav’n ne’er hear a prayer where he’s left out;
May every omen, every boding dream,
Be fortunate by mentioning his name;
May this one charm infernal powers affright,
And guard you from the terror of the night;
May ev’ry cheerful glass as it goes down
To William’s health, be cordials to your own:
Let ev’ry song be chorust with his name,
And music pay her tribute to his fame;
Let ev’ry poet tune his artful verse,
And in immortal strains his deeds rehearse:
And may Apollo never more inspire
The disobedient bard with his seraphic fire
May all my sons their grateful homage pay,
His praises sing, and for his safety pray.
Satire, return to our unthankful isle,
Secured by heaven’s regards, and William’s toil:
To both ungrateful, and to both untrue,
Rebels to God, and to good nature too.
If e’er this nation be distress’d again,
To whomsoe’er they cry, they’ll cry in vain;
To heav’n they cannot have the face to look,
Or, if they should, it would but heav’n provoke;
To hope for help from man would be too much,
Mankind would always tell ’em of the Dutch:
How they came here our freedoms to maintain,
Were paid, and cursed, and hurried home again;
How by their aid we first dissolved our fears,
And then our helpers damn’d for foreigners:
’Tis not our English temper to do better,
For Englishmen think ev’ry one their debtor.
’Tis worth observing, that we ne’er complain’d
Of foreigners, nor of the wealth we gain’d,
Till all their services were at an end:
Wise men affirm it is the English way,
Never to grumble till they come to pay;
And then they always think, their temper’s such,
The work too little, and the pay too much.
As frighted patients, when they want a cure,
Bid any price, and any pain endure:
But when the doctor’s remedies appear,
The cure’s too easy, and the price too dear:
Great Portland near was banter’d when he strove,
For us his master’s kindest thoughts to move:
We ne’er lampoon’d his conduct, when employ’d
King James’s secret councils to divide:
Then we caress’d him as the only man,
Who could the doubtful oracle explain;
The only Hushai, able to repel
The dark designs of our Achitophel:
Compared his master’s courage to his sense,
The ablest statesman, and the bravest prince;
On his wise conduct we depended much,
And liked him ne’er the worse for being Dutch:
Nor was he valued more than he deserved,
Freely he ventured, faithfully he served;
In all King William’s dangers he has shared,
In England’s quarrels always he appear’d:
