this we know and see;
This Truth subdu’d your modest Member *Leigh.
The Man had Sense, and felt his own Disgrace,
How well an †Aston wou’d supply his Place!
So represented, with such Leaders too,
(North—George—obsequious to your Lordship’s Cue.)
This War against ourselves will soon be won,
Odious America be soon undone.
Remonstrances are vain, Bute won’t relax,
But sternly bids North lay another Tax.
The Tax of Death, by Bayonet and Ball;
But Famine is the hardest Tax of all.
From Scotland, could that Thought derive its Source?
Where is sharp Famine felt with greater Force?
In all the Horrors there the Fiend’s array’d;
There her shrunk Hand for ever chills the Blade.
There, with lank Sides, the meagre Cattle moan;
Their Keeper asks for Bread and gets a Stone.
From this distress Bute and yourself soon fled,
Yet pour it’s plagues upon a Nation’s head.
By vilest means, my Lord, you seek vile ends;
Thus are you “just to virtue and her friends.”
In all your strokes a master’s hand appears:
Stand forth—claim all your praise, and banish fears.
If Conscience dictates every ill you do,
Frankly expose the Knave you hide, to view.
Plebeians scorn—to gain your King’s applause,
Like base ‡De Burgo, fawn and wrest the Laws.
[print edition page 147]
Dispise what faithful History shall say;
Full in your Zenith now, enjoy your Day;
Tho’ in Times annals your foul Name shou’d rust,
Whilst Fame to Holt’s erects lasting bust.
He had no *Smythe; no bias he had shown,
But dragg’d Assassins from behind the Throne.
Guardian of England’s Laws he gave ’em sway,
And held them forth for Sovereigns to obey.
Against the People’s Rights he took no part,
But judg’d, and counsell’d, with an honest Heart.
Prerogative (unpension’d and unbrib’d)
He kept within the bounds that Law prescrb’d,
By Freedom’s side he firmly took his stand,
Yet held the Ballance with an equal Hand.
Of that fair Plant he cherish’d ev’ry Shoot,
And, with a Parent’s fondness, nurs’d the Root.
His Name, whilst Law endures, shall live in Praise;
Ashby and White, †no Mansfield can erase.
But you, my Lord, to Infamy still true,
Indulge your King’s Caprice in all you do.
If Citizens their humble Plaints express,
You bid him spurn the May’r, and his Address.
With pleasantry your Sov’reign’s heat asswage,
And arm him for the ‡horned Cattle’s rage.
[print edition page 148]
Instruct him how to Speak, to Sneer, and Frown,
To try if Tricks will bear a City down:
To be astonish’d that one Voice shou’d sue
To turn a Tyrant from his Bloody-view.
Death is the Word—let loose the Dogs of Prey;
Burgoyne’s the Man, my Lord; encrease his Pay.
Your Heart’s well known; your Voice attention Draws;
Arise and vindicate your Master’s cause.
In Art supreme, in Perfidity not weak,
Show bashful Lordlings what it is to speak.
Let not such Fools as Suffolk, when they rise,
Without a word of English, snatch the Prize.
Shall Peers, whose Infamy is scarce half-blown,
Vaunt Mansfield’s Schemes, as if they were his own;
In Language, which no Grammar e’er equipp’d,
Language, for which a School-boy wou’d be whipp’d?
No.—Be yourself, my Lord; and unconfin’d,
Assert your Right of ruining Mankind.
Break forth in all your Ciceronian blaze,
And let your Front no more than Heart amaze.
Equal in Private and in Public shine,
And dare to be another Cataline.
Shou’d galling Junius make a new attack,
(Whose Lashes still are flagrant on your Back,)
The Libeller by some State blood-hound Trace,
And let him feel the Terrors of your Place.
Grafton in Friendship some sure Snare will lay,
As Friend, and Spy, he’ll join him and betray.
If precedent Injustice can anoint,
John Wilkes’s Case, will be a Case in point.
Then, make the Senate ring; like Pomfret rave;
And scorn by pension’d
