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When Freedom's active, all-preserving Spring
Inspired, alike, the Cobler, and the King;
In those now gone, but memorable Days,
No Fear there was that from its noble Bafe
The Conftitution of the Realm should fly,
Though one perverted Member stept awry.

But Politics wear now a darker Hue,
The Social Compact's almoft to renew;
Community's difcordant Hinges jar,

And wage more dreadful than of Arms a War.
One Monster, more unnatʼral than the rcft,
Although with Britain's richest Favours bleft,
Wants ev'ry upright Sentiment, or quells,
Against his Country, and his King rebels.
Breaks ev'ry Shoot of genuine English Worth,
With heavy Inundations from the North.
And (horrid but to think!) what ftill is worse,
As of our Crimes he were God's chofen Curfe;
To him from Hell to ftay, methinks 'tis given,
Till every Patriot is difpatch'd to Heaven.


In fuch a Situation much depends Whither each private Refolution tends ; If to be Free is yet one's gen'rous Aim, Or for low Purposes to quench the Flame. One Vote may haften England's hapless Doom, One Vote again may bid her Glories bloom.

If you examine, in the human Frame, The Cafe I've urg'd, is very much the fame. Beats your Heart strong, and is your Body hale ? Shocks, c'en tho' rude, in vain the Man affail : Soon rough Impediments away we fling, And Health recovers its elaftic Spring.

But Fancy on the Couch a Patient laid,
Faft pofting to the Acherontic Shade:
Quick all his former Strength diffolves away,
Quick all the Principles of Life decay.
The cruel Quack Life's low Remainder drills,
Purges and bleeds, and if you let him,-kills.
But fhould God kindly put it in your Head,
To call a true Physician to the Bed,


An honest Man, accuftom'd to dispense
A fmaller Share of Gallipots than Sense;

The stubborn Malady his Thoughts explore,
And Medicine's ample Region o'er and o'er :
At Length a Drug of grand Effect, though small,
Spent Health, by his Prescription, will recall;
The falutary Drop new Life supplies,
Withhold the falutary Drop, he dies.

A. All this, I grant you, is extremely fine, And Senfe and Virtue breathe in ev'ry Line. But then a Fellow, with a Tyburn Face,

Came down, and told me I must lose my Place

Unless I vote as

God knows who prescribe

One's Bread, you know, fweet Sirs, a pow'rful Bribe.

Could you, my Soul ethereal, by your Leave,

Or e'er a Patriot of our State atchieve

For your

dear Country any glorious Feat,

Unless did vouchfafe fometimes to eat? you

B. No

let me innocently have good Cheer

Till I am ripe for the funereal Bier :



I'll make the utmost of my

little Span

Whilft I enjoy the Privilege of Man;

I'll eat and drink, a Freeman, to my Grave,

But I will rather ftarve than be a Slave.

I too, myself, or have, or had a Post,

Perhaps it is this very Moment loft:

I faw the Government's, or the Tool's Tool;
The Knave thought me his Brother, or a Fool;
But foon my honest Heart the Spaniel told
"That One in Britain wou'd not yet be fold;"
I bade him "know his Ground, and keep aloof,
"Slaves were not Vermin for my hallow'd Roof."
Gods! how the Project makes my Anger boil
D-l's Friends engag'd fhou'd now recoil

A. Promife, and then recant, good Teacher, fay, Is that the modern Patriotic Way?

B. Never on any Doctrine be fevere,
Till to its Force you lend a patient Ear.
If I had promis'd Dl my Vote,
Thus I'd addrefs him, as a Briton ought.


"That I've already pledg'd my Vote, is true,
"But now I find I pledg'd it not to you.
"Methought I gave it to a Man, whose Soul
"Brook'd not, nor would espouse unjust Controul;
"Still ftrenuous to fulfill the good Intent

"For which our Members to the House are fent;
"Indignant that in this, or any Reign,

"Full many a Hero fhou'd have bled in vain ;

"That many

shou’d in vain, for England's Wrong, "Have bid the Heart flow dauntlefs from the Tongue.

"But now you'd rivet our unworthy Chains,

"Back'd with a Terror which a Man difdains.
"If thus you dare to injure us before,

"Sure when you reprefent, you'll injure more :
"The courtly Labyrinth I plainly see;
"Ne'er fhall a Tyrant find a Friend in me."

Is this a Trick, wou'd Mazarine aver?

Clarke, from the Gospel-Tenets, do I err?


A. Well, my poor Heart cannot, like yours, expand;

One has not noble Feelings at Command.

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