| NUMBER XVII | To be continued Weekly. |
| SATURDAY, MAY 13, 1775 | [Price Two-pence Half-penny. |
Casca’s Epistle to LORD MANSFIELD.
* Uni æqures Virtuti atque ejus amicis.
To Virtue only just and Virtue’s Friends.
CAN you, my Lord, who serve despotic Ends,
Can you be “just to Virtue and her Friends?”
To wanton† Murders when did She afford
Protection yet, or alter a Record?
Say, does your callous Soul receive no Shock,
When, conscious, in the Hall, you view the‡ Clock?
Or can you fill perfidious ||Scroges’s place,
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Without a pressage of your own Disgrace?
Yes—Yes—to England’s shame, you’re out of reach,
And Laugh at him who Threatens to impeach.
If Burke should rise, the Farce no farther goes;
To one just Aye, North brings ten impious No’s.
In Youth, before dissembling was your Trade,
To James Libations on your Knees you made:
Not Loyalty, but Fear has sheath’d your Sting;
No Murray can be faithful to his King.
From the black North in famish’d Clans you swarm,
And, thawing, feel how Albion’s Sun can warm;
Your Clime you change, your Sentiments retain;
In Scotchmen Treason is an innate Stain;
Like Itch and Scurvy, in their Blood it reigns;
He who wou’d cure it, must exhaust their Veins.
Once against Rebels, ’twas your *Place to plead;
Your Mouth condemn’d, your Soul approv’d the Deed.
Whilst round your Heart sad Disappointmant hung,
Dissimulation oil’d your treach’rous Tongue.
A Murray then (your Brother too) was found
In Arms, in secret Trust; in Duty bound,
And Principle (like yours) to aid a Claim,
Which you affected with a Blush to name;
A Blush ill-acted;—to thy Ghostly pale,
(Index of Guilt) soft Nature lends no Veil.
No—She, my Lord, disdains to serve base Ends;
She’s “only just to Virtue and her Friends.”
On them She smiles, on CHATHAM’S Cheek she glows,
When injur’d Children are assail’d like Foes;
When Famine’s call’d to aid the coward-plan,
And North completes what Bute and You began.
Perish your Names!—your Thane in fear is fled,
With ev’ry Curse, but Scotland’s, on his Head;
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In Shade, but not (alas!) in Death enshrin’d,
Whilst you, his faithful Proxy, speak his Mind;
And (to weak George from soothing Flatt’ry dear)
Pour your Laird’s Poison in the Royal-ear.
Why do your treach’rous Actions shun the Light?
Why do Back-stairs feel Mansfield’s Steps at Night?
To George your Councils and yourself convey,
Fraught with Infection, in the face of Day.
Let not the royal Closet’s Whisper screen,
Your glorious Works; but let your Light be seen.
Conduct, avow, enforce your Patriot-plans,
Nor trust their Merits to Subaltern Clans.
Tho’ Bute absconds, yet aid your Joint-design,
Yourself, my Lord; and help to spring the Mine.
Whilst Grafton, Sandwich, Denbigh, North, stand forth,
And to astonish’d Ears, proclaim their Worth;
Whilst, with rank Nonsense, Suffolk, Pomfret, dare,
Without a Blush, to make Plebeians stare;
Why, when your Sov’reign’s pleas’d by Law to kill,
Step not you forth to guild the desp’rate Pill?
’Tis decent, sure, so pension’d, plac’d, and brib’d,
To recommend the Dose you have prescrib’d
But Fear, my Lord, mean, abject Fear, still gives
A Check—in you a lurking Traytor lives;
The worst of Traytors—you have Sense to see
Fair Freedom’s Charms, yet blast the Soul that’s Free.
Early and late, incessant in your Pains,
For brave America you forge vile Chains.
Yet meanly, in your House, or Court, take root,
When you should Speak, as Deputy to Bute.
He still lies Hid; perhaps, at *Clapham lurks,
Whilst You and Apsley carry on the Works.
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To grant a Nation’s Claim each House is loth,
But You have
