is the Soul;
[print edition page 162]
That their Protection hangs on Royal breath;
To Day ’tis slav’ry and to Morrow Death.
That all are REBELS, but that Passive Tribe,
Who kiss his Chains, his Footstool and his Bribe.
That ev’ry Subject’s Trayterous in his View,
Who dares petition, meet, consult or sue.
These Sentiments are Bute’s by Mansfield penn’d;
Mansfield who tells us he is Virtues Friend.*
This Doctrine good my Lord, full scope affords,
To your vile Commons and your supple Lords.
Since ev’ry Act brings forth some Grievance new,
Enlarge the narrow bounds of Treason too.
Like Mary’s Minion in her Tyrant Reign,
Enlarge Old Edwards †Act amend, explain,
Shew Edward’s Sages they mistook the Case;
Declare new Treasons—’tis an Act of Grace.
Declare it Treason but to wish Success‡
To Freedom’s Arms, or Supplicate redress;
Work your new Doctor’s Insult into Fact;
’Tis Johnson’s Thought, so call it Johnson’s Act.
Go farther still, and stop the teeming Press;
If wishing’s Treason, writing is no less.
Safe in your Votes, Corruption now invites:
This is your Time—Lop off the Hand that writes.
By Libels full of Truth, your Mansfield bleeds,
And Bute still dreads Impeachement’s swelling Seeds.
Preserve your Sov’reign in Tyrannic Health;
Nor let him read the CRISIS but by Stealth.
No Quarter to that whiggish CRISIS give;
[print edition page 163]
But let the Tory Patriot’s*Falsehoods live.
Let Johnson’s Sheets attract the Monarch’s Eye;
There he may see how Knaves well Paid can lye.
In Johnson’s Tenets let him read his own;
That Kings are born to laugh whilst Subjects groan;
That POWER is their’s in Supplication’s spite;
Whatever They and Heav’n inflict, is right.
When Kings for wanton Slaughter give the Word,
Subjects are bound to fall upon their Sword.
When Kings by Famine choose their Slaves shou’d dye;
Those Slaves must drop without an asking Eye.
So much for Life—to claim our own is vain:
Like Montesquieu they †fancy who complain.
What has a Slave? nor Fire, nor Cloaths, nor Meat;
Not for themselves they’re warm’d, or cloath’d, or eat;
But to defend their Master in his Pride;
Their Sov’reign; who may Tax their very Hide.
Flay off their Skin in Wantonness and Sport,
Or send an Order for their Heads from Court.
Shou’d Freedom’s odious Form presume to rise,
North makes a Motion, and the Phantom flies.
Mansfield and Bute the ‡murd’rous Bill invent,
North brings it in—’tis pass’d—and gains Assent.
No Tax, no Pain, no Penalty’s too much;
All are thrice hallow’d by the Scepter’s touch.
Thus by no Tyranny the Slave’s oppress’d;
The Means are sacred, and the End is bless’d.
He’s the best Subject who most prostrate lyes,
He’s the true Patriot who submits and dyes.
Thus Johnson Writes:—at Court his Works have praise;
No Resolution-Whims in George’s Days!
[print edition page 164]
Thus frantic Savages present their Breast,
To pointed Lightnings, with false Zeal possess’d;
Behold th’ Enthusiasts all Jove’s rage invoke;
And he’s the Happiest who receives the Stroke.
O mighty King! wise Council! righteous Throne!
Where Freedom, Property, nor Life’s our own.
Britons, adore this Sun, that gilds your Days;
Surround St. James’s with new Songs of Praise.
Let WILKES no more, like BECKFORD’S GHOST,4 arise,
And with PETITIONS sear his Sov’reign’s Eyes.
For wrong’d America let Pity cease,
Let all her Sons be massacr’d in Peace.
Those Minds, says GEORGE, which Sympathy can stir,
In blackest Treason with his Foes concurr.
Those are his Foes; BUTE’S, NORTH’S, and MANSFIELD’S too,
Who of their Actions take too near a View.
Demand the Cause why Sword or Famine drinks
Bostonian-blood?—Crys Johnson, Boston thinks;
Thinks as her cursed Ancestors were us’d,
By whom our MARTYR CHARLES was so abus’d.
O
