GOTHAM
.
BOOK
II
.
HOW
much
mistaken
are
the
men
,
who
think
That
all
who
will
,
without
restraint
,
may
drink
,
May
largely
drink
,
e'en
till
their
bowels
burst
,
Pleading
no
right
but
merely
that
of
thirst
,
At
the
pure
waters
of
the
living
well
,
Beside
whose
streams
the
MUSES
love
to
dwell
!
Verse
is
with
them
a
knack
,
an
idle
toy
,
A
rattle
gilded
o'er
,
on
which
a
boy
May
play
untaught
,
whilst
,
without
art
or
force
,
Make
it
but
jingle
,
Musick
comes
of
course
.
Little
do
such
men
know
the
toil
,
the
pains
,
The
daily
,
nightly
racking
of
the
brains
,
To
range
the
thoughts
,
the
matter
to
digest
,
To
cull
fit
phrases
,
and
reject
the
rest
,
To
know
the
times
when
HUMOUR
,
on
the
cheek
Of
MIRTH
may
hold
her
sports
,
when
WIT
should
speak
,
And
when
be
silent
;
when
to
use
the
pow'rs
Of
Ornament
,
and
how
to
place
the
flow'rs
,
So
that
they
neither
give
a
tawdry
glare
,
Nor
waste
their
sweetness
in
the
desart
air
;
To
form
(
which
few
can
do
,
and
scarcely
one
,
One
Critick
in
an
age
can
find
,
when
done
)
To
form
a
plan
,
to
strike
a
grand
Outline
,
To
fill
it
up
,
and
make
the
picture
shine
A
full
,
and
perfect
piece
;
to
make
coy
rime
Renounce
her
follies
,
and
with
sense
keep
time
,
To
make
proud
sense
against
her
nature
bend
,
And
wear
the
chains
of
rime
,
yet
call
her
friend
.
Some
Fops
there
are
,
amongst
the
Scribbling
tribe
,
Who
make
it
all
their
business
to
describe
,
No
matter
whether
in
,
or
out
of
place
;
Studious
of
finery
,
and
fond
of
lace
,
Alike
they
trim
,
as
Coxcomb
Fancy
brings
,
The
rags
of
beggars
,
and
the
robes
of
kings
.
Let
dull
Propriety
in
State
preside
O'er
her
dull
children
,
Nature
is
their
guide
,
Wild
Nature
,
who
at
random
breaks
the
fence
Of
those
tame
drudges
Judgment
,
Taste
,
and
Sense
,
Nor
would
forgive
herself
the
mighty
crime
Of
keeping
terms
with
Person
,
Place
,
and
Time
.
Let
liquid
Gold
emblaze
the
Sun
at
noon
,
With
borrow'd
beams
let
Silver
pale
the
Moon
,
Let
surges
hoarse
lash
the
resounding
shore
,
Let
Streams
Maeander
,
and
let
Torrents
roar
,
Let
them
breed
up
the
melancholy
breeze
To
sigh
with
sighing
,
sob
with
sobbing
trees
,
Let
Vales
embroid'ry
wear
,
let
Flow'rs
be
ting'd
With
various
tints
,
let
Clouds
be
lac'd
or
fring'd
,
They
have
their
wish
;
like
idle
monarch
Boys
,
Neglecting
things
of
weight
,
they
sigh
for
toys
;
Give
them
the
crown
,
the
sceptre
,
and
the
robe
,
Who
will
may
take
the
pow'r
,
and
rule
the
globe
.
Others
there
are
,
who
,
in
one
solemn
pace
,
With
as
much
zeal
,
as
Quakers
rail
at
lace
,
Railing
at
needful
Ornament
,
depend
On
Sense
to
bring
them
to
their
journey's
end
.
They
would
not
(
Heav'n
forbid
)
their
course
delay
,
Nor
for
a
moment
step
out
of
the
way
,
To
make
the
barren
road
those
graces
wear
,
Which
Nature
would
,
if
pleas'd
,
have
planted
there
.
Vain
Men
!
who
blindly
thwarting
Nature's
plan
Ne'er
find
a
passage
to
the
heart
of
man
;
Who
,
bred
'mongst
fogs
in
Academic
land
,
Scorn
ev'ry
thing
they
do
not
understand
;
Who
,
destitute
of
Humour
,
Wit
,
and
Taste
,
Let
all
their
little
knowledge
run
to
waste
,
And
frustrate
each
good
purpose
,
whilst
they
wear
The
robes
of
Learning
with
a
sloven's
air
.
Tho'
solid
Reas'ning
arms
each
sterling
line
,
Tho'
Truth
declares
aloud
,
"
This
work
is
mine
,
"
Vice
,
whilst
from
page
to
page
dull
Morals
creep
,
Throws
by
the
book
,
and
Virtue
falls
asleep
.
Sense
,
mere
,
dull
,
formal
Sense
,
in
this
gay
town
Must
have
some
vehicle
to
pass
her
down
,
Nor
can
She
for
an
hour
ensure
her
reign
,
Unless
She
brings
fair
Pleasure
in
her
train
.
Let
Her
,
from
day
to
day
,
from
year
to
year
,
In
all
her
grave
solemnities
appear
,
And
,
with
the
voice
of
trumpets
,
thro'
the
streets
Deal
lectures
out
to
ev'ry
one
She
meets
,
Half
who
pass
by
are
deaf
,
and
t'other
half
Can
hear
indeed
,
but
only
hear
to
laugh
.
Quit
then
,
Ye
graver
Sons
of
letter'd
Pride
,
Taking
for
once
Experience
as
a
guide
,
Quit
this
grand
Errour
,
this
dull
College
mode
;
Be
your
pursuits
the
same
,
but
change
the
road
;
Write
,
or
at
least
appear
to
write
with
ease
,
And
,
if
You
mean
to
profit
,
learn
to
please
.
In
vain
for
such
mistakes
they
pardon
claim
,
Because
they
wield
the
pen
in
Virtue's
name
.
Thrice
sacred
is
that
Name
,
thrice
bless'd
the
Man
Who
thinks
,
speaks
,
writes
,
and
lives
on
such
a
plan
!
This
,
in
himself
,
himself
of
course
must
bless
,
But
cannot
with
the
world
promote
success
.
He
may
be
strong
,
but
,
with
effect
to
speak
,
Should
recollect
his
readers
may
be
weak
;
Plain
,
rigid
Truths
,
which
Saints
with
comfort
bear
,
Will
make
the
Sinner
tremble
,
and
despair
.
True
Virtue
acts
from
Love
,
and
the
great
end
,
At
which
She
nobly
aims
,
is
to
amend
;
How
then
do
those
mistake
,
who
arm
her
laws
With
rigour
not
their
own
,
and
hurt
the
cause
They
mean
to
help
,
whilst
with
a
zealot
rage
They
make
that
Goddess
,
whom
they'd
have
engage
Our
dearest
Love
,
in
hideous
terrour
rise
!
Such
may
be
honest
,
but
they
can't
be
wise
.
In
her
own
full
,
and
perfect
blaze
of
light
,
Virtue
breaks
forth
too
strong
for
human
sight
:
The
dazzled
eye
,
that
nice
but
weaker
sense
,
Shuts
herself
up
in
darkness
for
defence
.
But
,
to
make
strong
conviction
deeper
sink
,
To
make
the
callous
feel
,
the
thoughtless
think
,
Like
God
made
Man
,
she
lays
her
glory
by
,
And
beams
mild
comfort
on
the
ravish'd
eye
.
In
earnest
most
,
when
most
she
seems
in
jest
,
She
worms
into
,
and
winds
around
the
breast
,
To
conquer
vice
,
of
vice
appears
the
friend
,
And
seems
unlike
herself
to
gain
her
end
.
The
Sons
of
Sin
,
to
while
away
the
time
Which
lingers
on
their
hands
,
of
each
black
crime
To
hush
the
painful
memory
,
and
keep
The
tyrant
Conscience
in
delusive
sleep
,
Read
on
at
random
,
nor
suspect
the
dart
Until
they
find
it
rooted
in
their
heart
.
'Gainst
Vice
they
give
their
vote
,
nor
know
at
first
That
,
cursing
that
,
themselves
too
they
have
curs'd
,
They
see
not
,
till
they
fall
into
the
snares
,
Deluded
into
Virtue
unawares
.
Thus
the
shrewd
doctor
,
in
the
spleen-struck
mind
When
pregnant
horrour
sits
,
and
broods
o'er
wind
,
Discarding
drugs
,
and
striving
how
to
please
,
Lures
on
insensibly
,
by
slow
degrees
,
The
patient
to
those
manly
sports
,
which
bind
The
slacken'd
sinews
,
and
relieve
the
mind
;
The
patient
feels
a
change
as
wrought
by
stealth
,
And
wonders
on
demand
to
find
it
health
.
Some
Few
,
whom
Fate
ordain'd
to
deal
in
rimes
In
other
lands
,
and
here
in
other
times
,
Whom
,
waiting
at
their
birth
,
the
Midwife
MUSE
Sprinkled
all
over
with
Castalian
dews
,
To
whom
true
GENIUS
gave
his
magic
pen
,
Whom
ART
by
just
degrees
led
up
to
men
,
Some
Few
,
extremes
well-shunn'd
,
have
steer'd
between
These
dang'rous
rocks
,
and
held
the
golden
mean
.
SENSE
in
their
works
maintains
her
proper
state
,
But
never
sleeps
,
or
labours
with
her
weight
;
GRACE
makes
the
whole
look
elegant
,
and
gay
,
But
never
dares
from
SENSE
to
run
astray
.
So
nice
the
Master's
touch
,
so
great
his
care
,
The
Colours
boldly
glow
,
not
idly
glare
.
Mutually
giving
,
and
receiving
aid
,
They
set
each
other
off
,
like
light
and
shade
,
And
,
as
by
stealth
,
with
so
much
softness
blend
,
'Tis
hard
to
say
,
where
they
begin
,
or
end
.
Both
give
us
charms
,
and
neither
gives
offence
;
SENSE
perfects
GRACE
,
and
GRACE
enlivens
SENSE
.
Peace
to
the
Men
,
who
these
high
honours
claim
,
Health
to
their
souls
,
and
to
their
mem'ries
fame
:
Be
it
my
task
,
and
no
mean
task
,
to
teach
A
rev'rence
for
that
worth
I
cannot
reach
;
Let
me
at
distance
,
with
a
steady
eye
,
Observe
,
and
mark
their
passage
to
the
sky
,
From
envy
free
,
applaud
such
rising
worth
,
And
praise
their
heav'n
,
tho'
pinion'd
down
to
earth
.
Had
I
the
pow'r
,
I
could
not
have
the
time
,
Whilst
spirits
flow
,
and
Life
is
in
her
prime
,
Without
a
sin
'gainst
Pleasure
,
to
design
A
plan
,
to
methodize
each
thought
,
each
line
Highly
to
finish
,
and
make
ev'ry
grace
,
In
itself
charming
,
take
new
charms
from
place
.
Nothing
of
Books
,
and
little
known
of
men
,
When
the
mad
fit
comes
on
,
I
seize
the
pen
,
Rough
as
they
run
,
the
rapid
thoughts
set
down
,
Rough
as
they
run
,
discharge
them
on
the
Town
.
Hence
rude
,
unfinish'd
brats
,
before
their
time
,
Are
born
into
this
idle
world
of
rime
,
And
the
poor
slattern
MUSE
is
brought
to
bed
With
all
her
imperfections
on
her
head
.
Some
,
as
no
life
appears
,
no
pulses
play
Through
the
dull
,
dubious
mass
,
no
breath
makes
way
,
Doubt
,
greatly
doubt
,
till
for
a
glass
they
call
,
Whether
the
Child
can
be
baptiz'd
at
all
.
Others
,
on
other
grounds
,
objections
frame
,
And
,
granting
that
the
child
may
have
a
name
,
Doubt
,
as
the
Sex
might
well
a
midwife
pose
,
Whether
they
should
baptize
it
,
Verse
or
Prose
.
E'en
what
my
masters
please
;
Bards
,
mild
,
meek
men
,
In
love
to
Critics
stumble
now
and
then
.
Something
I
do
myself
,
and
something
too
,
If
they
can
do
it
,
leave
for
them
to
do
.
In
the
small
compass
of
my
careless
page
Critics
may
find
employment
for
an
age
;
Without
my
blunders
they
were
all
undone
;
I
twenty
feed
,
where
MASON
can
feed
one
.
When
SATIRE
stoops
,
unmindful
of
her
state
,
To
praise
the
man
I
love
,
curse
him
I
hate
;
When
SENSE
,
in
tides
of
passion
borne
along
,
Sinking
to
prose
,
degrades
the
name
of
song
;
The
Censor
smiles
,
and
,
whilst
my
credit
bleeds
,
With
as
high
relish
on
the
carrion
feeds
As
the
proud
EARL
fed
at
a
Turtle
feast
,
Who
,
turn'd
by
gluttony
to
worse
than
beast
,
Eat
,
'till
his
bowels
gush'd
upon
the
floor
,
Yet
still
eat
on
,
and
dying
call'd
for
more
.
When
loose
DIGRESSION
,
like
a
colt
unbroke
,
Spurning
Connection
,
and
her
formal
yoke
,
Bounds
thro'
the
forest
,
wanders
far
astray
From
the
known
path
,
and
loves
to
loose
her
way
,
'Tis
a
full
feast
to
all
the
mongril
pack
To
run
the
rambler
down
,
and
bring
her
back
.
When
gay
DESCRIPTION
,
Fancy's
fairy
child
,
Wild
without
art
,
and
yet
with
pleasure
wild
,
Waking
with
Nature
at
the
morning
hour
To
the
lark's
call
,
walks
o'er
the
op'ning
flow'r
Which
largely
drank
all
night
of
heav'n's
fresh
dew
,
And
,
like
a
Mountain
Nymph
of
Dian's
crew
,
So
lightly
walks
,
she
not
one
mark
imprints
,
Nor
brushes
off
the
dews
,
nor
soils
the
tints
;
When
thus
DESCRIPTION
sports
,
e'en
at
the
time
That
Drums
should
beat
,
and
Cannons
roar
in
rime
,
Critics
can
live
on
such
a
fault
as
that
From
one
month
to
the
other
,
and
grow
fat
.
Ye
mighty
Monthly
Judges
,
in
a
dearth
Of
letter'd
blockheads
,
conscious
of
the
worth
Of
my
materials
,
which
against
your
will
Oft
You've
confess'd
,
and
shall
confess
it
still
,
Materials
rich
,
tho'
rude
,
enflam'd
with
Thought
,
Tho'
more
by
Fancy
than
by
Judgment
wrought
,
Take
,
use
them
as
your
own
,
a
work
begin
,
Which
suits
your
Genius
well
,
and
weave
them
in
,
Fram'd
for
the
Critic
loom
,
with
Critic
art
,
Till
thread
on
thread
depending
,
part
on
part
,
Colour
with
Colour
mingling
,
Light
with
Shade
,
To
your
dull
taste
a
formal
work
is
made
,
And
,
having
wrought
them
into
one
grand
piece
,
Swear
it
surpasses
ROME
,
and
rivals
GREECE
.
Nor
think
this
much
,
for
at
one
single
word
,
Soon
as
the
mighty
Critic
Fiat's
heard
,
SCIENCE
attends
their
call
;
their
pow'r
is
own'd
;
ORDER
takes
place
,
and
GENIUS
is
dethron'd
;
Letters
dance
into
books
,
defiance
hurl'd
At
means
,
as
Atoms
danc'd
into
a
world
.
Me
higher
business
calls
,
a
greater
plan
,
Worthy
Man's
whole
employ
,
the
good
of
Man
,
The
good
of
Man
committed
to
my
charge
;
If
idle
Fancy
rambles
forth
at
large
,
Careless
of
such
a
trust
,
these
harmless
lays
May
Friendship
envy
,
and
may
Folly
praise
,
The
crown
of
GOTHAM
may
some
SCOT
assume
,
And
vagrant
STUARTS
reign
in
CHURCHILL's
room
.
O
my
poor
People
,
O
thou
wretched
Earth
,
To
whose
dear
love
,
tho'
not
engag'd
by
birth
,
My
heart
is
fix'd
,
my
service
deeply
sworn
,
How
(
by
thy
Father
can
that
thought
be
borne
,
For
Monarchs
,
would
they
all
but
think
like
me
,
Are
only
Fathers
in
the
best
degree
)
How
must
thy
glories
fade
,
in
ev'ry
land
Thy
name
be
laugh'd
to
scorn
,
thy
mighty
hand
Be
shorten'd
,
and
thy
zeal
,
by
foes
confess'd
,
Bless'd
in
thy
self
,
to
make
thy
neighbours
bless'd
,
Be
robb'd
of
vigour
,
how
must
Freedom's
pile
,
The
boast
of
ages
,
which
adorns
the
Isle
And
makes
it
great
and
glorious
,
fear'd
abroad
,
Happy
at
home
,
secure
from
force
and
fraud
,
How
must
that
pile
,
by
antient
Wisdom
rais'd
On
a
firm
rock
,
by
friends
admir'd
and
prais'd
,
Envy'd
by
foes
,
and
wonder'd
at
by
all
,
In
one
short
moment
into
ruins
fall
,
Should
any
Slip
of
STUART's
tyrant
race
Or
bastard
,
or
legitimate
,
disgrace
Thy
royal
seat
of
Empire
!
but
what
care
What
sorrow
must
be
mine
,
what
deep
despair
And
self-reproaches
,
should
that
hated
line
Admittance
gain
thro'
any
fault
of
mine
!
Curs'd
be
the
cause
whence
GOTHAM's
evils
spring
,
Tho'
that
curs'd
cause
be
found
in
GOTHAM's
King
.
Let
War
,
with
all
his
needy
,
ruffian
band
,
In
pomp
of
horrour
,
stalk
thro'
GOTHAM's
land
Knee-deep
in
blood
;
let
all
her
stately
tow'rs
Sink
in
the
dust
;
that
Court
,
which
now
is
our's
,
Become
a
den
,
where
Beasts
may
,
if
they
can
,
A
lodging
find
,
nor
fear
rebuke
from
Man
;
Where
yellow
harvests
rise
,
be
brambles
found
;
Where
vines
now
creep
,
let
thistles
curse
the
ground
;
Dry
,
in
her
thousand
Vallies
,
be
the
Rills
;
Barren
the
Cattle
,
on
her
thousand
Hills
;
Where
Pow'r
is
plac'd
,
let
Tygers
prowl
for
prey
;
Where
Justice
lodges
,
let
wild
Asses
bray
;
Let
Cormorants
in
Churches
make
their
nest
,
And
,
on
the
sails
of
Commerce
,
Bitterns
rest
;
Be
all
,
tho'
princes
in
the
earth
before
,
Her
Merchants
Bankrupts
,
and
her
Marts
no
more
;
Much
rather
would
I
,
might
the
will
of
Fate
Give
me
to
chuse
,
see
GOTHAM's
ruin'd
state
By
ills
on
ills
,
thus
to
the
earth
weigh'd
down
,
Than
live
to
see
a
STUART
wear
her
crown
.
Let
Heav'n
in
vengeance
arm
all
Nature's
host
,
Those
Servants
,
who
their
Maker
know
,
who
boast
Obedience
as
their
glory
,
and
fulfill
,
Unquestion'd
,
their
great
Master's
sacred
will
.
Let
raging
Winds
root
up
the
boiling
deep
,
And
,
with
destruction
big
,
o'er
GOTHAM
sweep
;
Let
Rains
rush
down
,
till
FAITH
with
doubtful
eye
Looks
for
the
sign
of
Mercy
in
the
sky
;
Let
Pestilence
in
all
her
horrours
rise
;
Where'er
I
turn
,
let
Famine
blast
my
eyes
;
Let
the
Earth
yawn
,
and
,
e're
They've
time
to
think
,
In
the
deep
gulph
let
all
my
subjects
sink
Before
my
eyes
,
whilst
on
the
verge
I
reel
;
Feeling
,
but
as
a
Monarch
ought
to
feel
,
Not
for
myself
,
but
them
,
I'll
kiss
the
rod
,
And
,
having
own'd
the
Justice
of
my
God
,
Myself
with
firmness
to
the
ruin
give
,
And
die
with
those
for
whom
I
wish'd
to
live
.
This
(
but
may
Heav'n's
more
merciful
decrees
Ne'er
tempt
his
servant
with
such
ills
as
these
)
This
,
or
my
soul
deceives
me
,
I
could
bear
;
But
that
the
STUART
race
my
Crown
should
wear
,
That
Crown
,
where
,
highly
cherish'd
,
FREEDOM
shone
Bright
as
the
glories
of
the
mid-day
Sun
,
Born
and
bred
Slaves
,
that
They
,
with
proud
misrule
,
Should
make
brave
,
free-born
men
,
like
boys
at
school
,
To
the
Whip
crouch
and
tremble
—
O
,
that
Thought
!
The
lab'ring
brain
is
e'en
to
madness
brought
By
the
dread
vision
,
at
the
mere
surmise
The
thronging
Spirits
,
as
in
tumult
,
rise
,
My
heart
,
as
for
a
passage
,
loudly
beats
,
And
,
turn
me
where
I
will
,
distraction
meets
.
O
my
brave
fellows
,
great
in
Arts
and
Arms
,
The
wonder
of
the
Earth
,
whom
Glory
warms
To
high
Atchievements
,
can
your
Spirits
bend
Thro'
base
controul
(
Ye
never
can
descend
So
low
by
choice
)
to
wear
a
Tyrant's
chain
,
Or
let
,
in
FREEDOM's
seat
,
a
STUART
reign
.
If
Fame
,
who
hath
for
ages
far
and
wide
Spread
in
all
realms
,
the
Cowardice
,
the
Pride
,
The
Tyranny
,
and
Falsehood
of
those
Lords
,
Contents
You
not
,
search
ENGLAND's
fair
records
,
ENGLAND
,
where
first
the
breath
of
Life
I
drew
,
Where
,
next
to
GOTHAM
,
my
best
Love
is
due
.
There
once
they
rul'd
,
tho'
crush'd
by
WILLIAM's
hand
,
They
rule
no
more
,
to
curse
that
happy
land
.
The
First
,
who
,
from
his
native
soil
remov'd
,
Held
ENGLAND's
sceptre
,
a
tame
Tyrant
prov'd
.
Virtue
he
lack'd
,
curs'd
with
those
thoughts
which
spring
In
souls
of
vulgar
stamp
,
to
be
a
King
;
Spirit
he
had
not
,
tho'
he
laugh'd
at
Laws
,
To
play
the
bold-fac'd
Tyrant
with
applause
;
On
practises
most
mean
he
rais'd
his
pride
,
And
Craft
oft
gave
,
what
Wisdom
oft
denied
.
Ne'er
cou'd
he
feel
how
truly
Man
is
blest
In
blessing
those
around
him
;
in
his
breast
,
Crowded
with
follies
,
Honour
found
no
room
;
Mark'd
for
a
Coward
in
his
Mother's
Womb
,
He
was
too
proud
without
affronts
to
live
,
Too
timorous
to
punish
or
forgive
.
To
gain
a
crown
,
which
had
in
course
of
time
,
By
fair
descent
,
been
his
without
a
crime
,
He
bore
a
Mother's
exile
;
to
secure
A
greater
crown
,
he
basely
could
endure
The
spilling
of
her
blood
by
foreign
knife
,
Nor
dar'd
revenge
her
death
who
gave
him
life
;
Nay
,
by
fond
fear
,
and
fond
ambition
led
,
Struck
hands
with
Those
by
whom
her
blood
was
shed
.
Call'd
up
to
Pow'r
,
scarce
warm
on
England's
throne
,
He
fill'd
her
Court
with
beggars
from
his
own
,
Turn
where
You
would
,
the
eye
with
SCOTS
was
caught
,
Or
English
knaves
who
would
be
SCOTSMEN
thought
.
To
vain
expence
unbounded
loose
he
gave
,
The
dupe
of
Minions
,
and
of
slaves
the
slave
;
On
false
pretences
mighty
sums
he
rais'd
,
And
damn'd
those
senates
rich
,
whom
,
poor
,
he
prais'd
;
From
Empire
thrown
,
and
doom'd
to
beg
her
bread
,
On
foreign
bounty
whilst
a
Daughter
fed
,
He
lavish'd
sums
,
for
her
receiv'd
,
on
Men
Whose
names
would
fix
dishonour
on
my
pen
.
Lies
were
his
Play-things
,
Parliaments
his
sport
,
Book-worms
and
Catamites
engross'd
the
Court
;
Vain
of
the
Scholar
,
like
all
SCOTSMEN
since
The
Pedant
Scholar
,
he
forgot
the
Prince
,
And
,
having
with
some
trifles
stor'd
his
brain
,
Ne'er
learn'd
,
or
wish'd
to
learn
the
arts
to
reign
.
Enough
he
knew
to
make
him
vain
and
proud
,
Mock'd
by
the
wise
,
the
wonder
of
the
croud
;
False
Friend
,
false
Son
,
false
Father
,
and
false
King
,
False
Wit
,
false
Statesman
,
and
false
ev'ry
thing
,
When
He
should
act
,
he
idly
chose
to
prate
,
And
pamphlets
wrote
,
when
he
should
save
the
State
.
Religious
,
if
Religion
holds
in
whim
,
To
talk
with
all
,
he
let
all
talk
with
him
,
Not
on
God's
honour
,
but
his
own
intent
,
Not
for
Religion
sake
,
but
argument
;
More
vain
if
some
sly
,
artful
,
High-Dutch
slave
,
Or
,
from
the
Jesuit
school
,
some
precious
knave
Conviction
feign'd
,
than
if
,
to
Peace
restor'd
By
his
full
soldiership
,
Worlds
hail'd
him
Lord
.
Pow'r
was
his
wish
,
unbounded
as
his
will
,
The
Pow'r
,
without
controul
,
of
doing
ill
.
But
what
he
wish'd
,
what
he
made
Bishops
preach
,
And
Statesmen
warrant
,
hung
within
his
reach
He
dar'd
not
seize
;
Fear
gave
,
to
gall
his
pride
,
That
Freedom
to
the
Realm
his
will
denied
.
Of
Treaties
fond
,
o'erweening
of
his
parts
,
In
ev'ry
Treaty
,
of
his
own
mean
arts
He
fell
the
dupe
;
Peace
was
his
Coward
care
,
E'en
at
a
time
when
Justice
call'd
for
war
;
His
pen
he'd
draw
,
to
prove
his
lack
of
wit
,
But
,
rather
than
unsheathe
the
sword
,
submit
;
TRUTH
fairly
must
record
,
and
,
pleas'd
to
live
In
league
with
MERCY
,
JUSTICE
may
forgive
Kingdoms
betray'd
,
and
Worlds
resign'd
to
SPAIN
,
But
never
can
forgive
a
RALEIGH
slain
.
At
length
(
with
white
let
Freedom
mark
that
year
)
Not
fear'd
by
those
,
whom
most
he
wish'd
to
fear
,
Not
lov'd
by
those
,
whom
most
he
wish'd
to
love
,
He
went
to
answer
for
his
faults
above
,
To
answer
to
that
God
,
from
whom
alone
He
claim'd
to
hold
,
and
to
abuse
the
throne
,
Leaving
behind
,
a
curse
to
all
his
line
,
The
bloody
Legacy
of
RIGHT
DIVINE
.
With
many
Virtues
which
a
radiance
fling
,
Round
private
men
;
with
few
which
grace
a
King
,
And
speak
the
Monarch
,
at
that
time
of
life
When
Passion
holds
with
Reason
doubtful
strife
,
Succeeded
CHARLES
,
by
a
mean
Sire
undone
,
Who
envied
virtue
,
even
in
a
Son
.
His
Youth
was
froward
,
turbulent
,
and
wild
;
He
took
the
Man
up
,
e're
he
left
the
child
;
His
Soul
was
eager
for
imperial
sway
E'er
he
had
learn'd
the
lesson
to
obey
.
Surrounded
by
a
fawning
,
flatt'ring
throng
,
Judgment
each
day
grew
weak
,
and
Humour
strong
;
Wisdom
was
treated
as
a
noisome
weed
,
And
all
his
follies
let
to
run
to
seed
.
What
ills
from
such
beginnings
needs
must
spring
!
What
ills
to
such
a
land
,
from
such
a
King
!
What
could
She
hope
!
what
had
she
not
to
fear
!
Base
BUCKINGHAM
possess'd
his
youthful
ear
;
STRAFFORD
and
LAUD
,
when
mounted
on
the
throne
Engross'd
his
love
,
and
made
him
all
their
own
,
STRAFFORD
and
LAUD
,
who
boldly
dar'd
avow
The
trait'rous
doctrines
taught
by
Tories
now
;
Each
strove
t'undo
him
,
in
his
turn
and
hour
,
The
first
with
pleasure
,
and
the
last
with
pow'r
.
Thinking
(
vain
thought
,
disgraceful
to
the
throne
!
)
That
all
Mankind
were
made
for
Kings
alone
,
That
Subjects
were
but
Slaves
,
and
what
was
Whim
Or
worse
in
common
men
,
was
Law
in
him
;
Drunk
with
Prerogative
,
which
Fate
decreed
To
guard
good
Kings
,
and
Tyrants
to
mislead
,
Which
,
in
a
fair
proportion
,
to
deny
Allegiance
dares
not
,
which
to
hold
too
high
No
Good
can
wish
,
no
Coward
King
can
dare
,
And
held
too
high
,
no
English
Subject
bear
;
Besieg'd
by
Men
of
deep
and
subtle
arts
,
Men
void
of
Principle
,
and
damn'd
with
parts
,
Who
saw
his
weakness
,
made
their
King
their
tool
,
Then
most
a
slave
,
when
most
he
seem'd
to
rule
;
Taking
all
public
steps
for
private
ends
,
Deceiv'd
by
Favourites
,
whom
he
call'd
friends
,
He
had
not
strength
enough
of
soul
to
find
That
Monarchs
,
meant
as
blessings
to
Mankind
,
Sink
their
great
State
,
and
stamp
their
fame
undone
,
When
,
what
was
meant
for
all
,
they
give
to
One
;
List'ning
uxorious
,
whilst
a
Woman's
prate
,
Modell'd
the
Church
,
and
parcell'd
out
the
State
,
Whilst
(
in
the
State
not
more
than
Women
read
)
High-Churchmen
preach'd
,
and
turn'd
his
pious
head
;
Tutor'd
to
see
with
ministerial
eyes
;
Forbid
to
hear
a
loyal
Nation's
cries
;
Made
to
believe
(
what
can't
a
Fav'rite
do
)
He
heard
a
Nation
hearing
one
or
two
;
Taught
by
State-Quacks
himself
secure
to
think
,
And
out
of
danger
,
e'en
on
danger's
brink
;
Whilst
Pow'r
was
daily
crumbling
from
his
hand
,
Whilst
murmurs
ran
thro'
an
insulted
land
,
As
if
to
sanction
Tyrants
Heav'n
was
bound
,
He
proudly
sought
the
ruin
which
he
found
.
Twelve
years
,
twelve
tedious
and
inglorious
years
,
Did
ENGLAND
,
crush'd
by
pow'r
and
aw'd
by
fears
,
Whilst
proud
Oppression
struck
at
Freedom's
root
,
Lament
her
Senates
lost
,
her
HAMPDEN
mute
.
Illegal
taxes
,
and
oppressive
loans
,
In
spite
of
all
her
pride
,
call'd
forth
her
groans
,
PATIENCE
was
heard
her
griefs
aloud
to
tell
,
And
LOYALTY
was
tempted
to
rebel
.
Each
day
new
acts
of
outrage
shook
the
state
,
New
Courts
were
rais'd
to
give
new
Doctrines
weight
;
State-Inquisitions
kept
the
realm
in
awe
,
And
curs'd
Star-Chambers
made
,
or
rul'd
the
law
;
Juries
were
pack'd
,
and
Judges
were
unsound
;
Thro'
the
whole
kingdom
not
one
PRATT
was
found
.
From
the
first
moments
of
his
giddy
youth
He
hated
Senates
,
for
They
told
him
Truth
.
At
length
against
his
will
compell'd
to
treat
,
Those
whom
he
could
not
fright
,
he
strove
to
cheat
,
With
base
dissembling
ev'ry
grievance
heard
,
And
,
often
giving
,
often
broke
his
word
.
O
where
shall
helpless
Truth
for
refuge
fly
,
If
Kings
,
who
should
protect
her
,
dare
to
lie
?
Those
who
,
the
gen'ral
good
their
real
aim
,
Sought
in
their
Country's
good
their
Monarch's
fame
,
Those
who
were
anxious
for
his
safety
,
Those
Who
were
induc'd
by
duty
to
oppose
,
Their
truth
suspected
,
and
their
worth
unknown
,
He
held
as
foes
,
and
traitors
to
his
throne
,
Nor
found
his
fatal
errour
till
the
hour
Of
saving
him
was
gone
and
past
,
till
Pow'r
Had
shifted
hands
,
to
blast
his
hapless
reign
,
Making
their
Faith
,
and
his
Repentance
vain
.
Hence
(
be
that
curse
confin'd
to
GOTHAM's
foes
)
War
,
dread
to
mention
,
Civil
War
arose
;
All
acts
of
Outrage
,
and
all
acts
of
shame
Stalk'd
forth
at
large
,
disguis'd
with
Honour's
name
;
Rebellion
,
raising
high
her
bloody
hand
,
Spread
universal
havock
thro'
the
land
;
With
zeal
for
Party
,
and
with
Passion
drunk
,
In
Public
rage
all
private
Love
was
sunk
,
Friend
against
Friend
,
Brother
'gainst
Brother
stood
,
And
the
Son's
weapon
drank
the
Father's
blood
;
Nature
,
aghast
,
and
fearful
lest
her
reign
Should
last
no
longer
,
bled
in
ev'ry
vein
.
Unhappy
Stuart
!
harshly
tho'
that
name
,
Grates
on
my
ear
,
I
should
have
died
with
shame
,
To
see
my
King
before
his
subjects
stand
,
And
at
their
bar
hold
up
his
royal
hand
,
At
their
commands
to
hear
the
monarch
plead
,
By
their
decrees
to
see
that
Monarch
bleed
.
What
tho'
thy
faults
were
many
,
and
were
great
,
What
tho'
they
shook
the
basis
of
the
state
,
In
Royalty
secure
thy
Person
stood
,
And
sacred
was
the
fountain
of
thy
blood
.
Vile
Ministers
,
who
dar'd
abuse
their
trust
,
Who
dar'd
seduce
a
King
to
be
unjust
,
Vengeance
,
with
Justice
leagu'd
,
with
pow'r
made
strong
,
Had
nobly
crush'd
;
the
King
could
do
no
wrong
.
Yet
grieve
not
,
CHARLES
,
nor
thy
hard
fortunes
blame
;
They
took
thy
life
,
but
they
secur'd
thy
fame
.
Their
greater
crimes
made
thine
like
specks
appear
,
From
which
the
Sun
in
glory
is
not
clear
.
Had'st
Thou
in
peace
and
years
resign'd
thy
breath
At
Nature's
call
,
had'st
Thou
laid
down
in
death
As
in
a
sleep
,
thy
name
,
by
Justice
borne
On
the
four
winds
,
had
been
in
pieces
torne
.
Pity
,
the
Virtue
of
a
gen'rous
soul
,
Sometimes
the
Vice
,
hath
made
thy
mem'ry
whole
.
Misfortunes
gave
,
what
Virtue
could
not
give
,
And
bade
,
the
Tyrant
slain
,
the
Martyr
live
.
Ye
princes
of
the
Earth
,
ye
mighty
few
,
Who
,
worlds
subduing
,
can't
yourselves
subdue
,
Who
,
goodness
scorn'd
,
wish
only
to
be
great
,
Whose
breath
is
blasting
,
and
whose
voice
is
fate
,
Who
own
no
law
,
no
reason
but
your
will
,
And
scorn
restraint
,
tho'
'tis
from
doing
ill
,
Who
of
all
passions
groan
beneath
the
worst
,
Then
only
bless'd
when
they
make
others
curst
;
Think
not
,
for
wrongs
like
these
unscourg'd
to
live
;
Long
may
Ye
sin
,
and
long
may
Heav'n
forgive
;
But
,
when
Ye
least
expect
,
in
sorrow's
day
,
Vengeance
shall
fall
more
heavy
for
delay
;
Nor
think
that
Vengeance
heap'd
on
you
alone
Shall
(
poor
amends
)
for
injur'd
worlds
atone
;
No
;
like
some
base
distemper
,
which
remains
,
Transmitted
from
the
tainted
Father's
veins
,
In
the
Son's
blood
,
such
broad
and
gen'ral
crimes
Shall
call
down
Vengeance
e'en
to
latest
times
,
Call
Vengeance
down
on
all
who
bear
your
name
,
And
make
their
portion
bitterness
and
shame
.
From
land
to
land
for
years
compell'd
to
roam
,
Whilst
Usurpation
lorded
it
at
home
,
Of
Majesty
unmindful
,
forc'd
to
fly
,
Not
daring
,
like
a
King
,
to
reign
,
or
die
,
Recall'd
to
repossess
his
lawful
throne
More
at
his
people's
seeking
,
than
his
own
,
Another
CHARLES
succeeded
;
in
the
school
Of
travel
he
had
learn'd
to
play
the
fool
,
And
,
like
pert
pupils
with
dull
Tutors
sent
To
shame
their
Country
on
the
Continent
,
From
love
of
ENGLAND
by
long
absence
wean'd
,
From
ev'ry
Court
he
ev'ry
folly
glean'd
,
And
was
,
so
close
do
evil
habits
cling
,
Till
crown'd
,
a
Beggar
;
and
when
crown'd
,
no
King
.
Those
grand
and
gen'ral
pow'rs
,
which
Heav'n
design'd
An
instance
of
his
mercy
to
Mankind
,
Were
lost
,
in
storms
of
dissipation
hurl'd
,
Nor
would
he
give
one
hour
to
bless
a
world
;
Lighter
than
levity
which
strides
the
blast
,
And
,
of
the
present
fond
,
forgets
the
past
,
He
chang'd
and
chang'd
,
but
,
ev'ry
hope
to
curse
,
Chang'd
only
from
one
folly
to
a
worse
;
State
he
resign'd
to
those
whom
state
could
please
,
Careless
of
Majesty
,
his
wish
was
ease
;
Pleasure
,
and
Pleasure
only
was
his
aim
;
Kings
of
less
Wit
might
hunt
the
bubble
fame
;
Dignity
,
thro'
his
reign
,
was
made
a
sport
,
Nor
dar'd
Decorum
shew
her
face
at
Court
,
Morality
was
held
a
standing
jest
,
And
Faith
a
necessary
fraud
at
best
;
Courtiers
,
their
monarch
ever
in
their
view
,
Possess'd
great
talents
,
and
abus'd
them
too
;
Whate'er
was
light
,
impertinent
,
and
vain
,
Whate'er
was
loose
,
indecent
,
and
profane
,
(
So
ripe
was
Folly
,
Folly
to
acquit
)
Stood
all
absolv'd
in
that
poor
bauble
,
WIT
.
In
gratitude
,
alas
!
but
little
read
,
He
let
his
Father's
servants
beg
their
bread
,
His
Father's
faithful
servants
,
and
his
own
,
To
place
the
foes
of
both
around
his
throne
.
Bad
counsels
he
embrac'd
thro'
indolence
,
Thro'
love
of
ease
,
and
not
thro'
want
of
sense
;
He
saw
them
wrong
,
but
rather
let
them
go
As
right
,
than
take
the
pains
to
make
them
so
.
Women
rul'd
all
,
and
Ministers
of
State
Were
for
commands
at
Toilettes
forc'd
to
wait
;
Women
,
who
have
,
as
Monarchs
,
grac'd
the
land
,
But
never
govern'd
well
at
Second-hand
.
To
make
all
other
errors
slight
appear
,
In
mem'ry
fix'd
,
stand
DUNKIRK
and
TANGIER
;
In
mem'ry
fix'd
so
deep
,
that
Time
in
vain
Shall
strive
to
wipe
those
records
from
the
brain
,
AMBOYNA
stands
—
Gods
,
that
a
King
could
hold
In
such
high
Estimate
,
vile
,
paultry
gold
,
And
of
his
duty
be
so
careless
found
,
That
,
when
the
blood
of
Subjects
from
the
ground
For
Vengeance
call'd
,
he
should
reject
their
cry
,
And
,
brib'd
from
Honour
,
lay
his
thunders
by
,
Give
HOLLAND
peace
,
whilst
ENGLISH
victims
groan'd
,
And
butcher'd
subjects
wander'd
,
unaton'd
!
O
,
dear
,
deep
injury
to
ENGLAND's
fame
,
To
them
,
to
us
,
to
all
!
to
him
,
deep
Shame
!
Of
all
the
passions
which
from
frailty
spring
,
Av'rice
is
that
which
least
becomes
a
King
.
To
crown
the
whole
,
scorning
the
public
good
,
Which
thro'
his
reign
he
little
understood
,
Or
little
heeded
,
with
too
narrow
aim
He
reassur'd
a
Bigot
Brother's
claim
,
And
,
having
made
time-serving
Senates
bow
,
Suddenly
died
,
that
Brother
best
knew
how
.
No
matter
how
—
he
slept
amongst
the
dead
,
And
JAMES
his
Brother
reigned
in
his
stead
.
But
such
a
reign
—
so
glaring
an
offence
In
ev'ry
step
'gainst
Freedom
,
Law
,
and
Sense
,
'Gainst
all
the
rights
of
Nature's
gen'ral
plan
,
'Gainst
all
which
constitutes
an
Englishman
,
That
the
Relation
would
mere
fiction
seem
,
The
mock
creation
of
a
Poet's
dream
,
And
the
poor
Bard's
would
,
in
this
sceptic
age
,
Appear
as
false
as
their
Historian's
page
.
Ambitious
Folly
seiz'd
the
seat
of
Wit
,
Christians
were
forc'd
by
Bigots
to
submit
,
Pride
without
sense
,
without
Religion
Zeal
,
Made
daring
inroads
on
the
Common-weal
,
Stern
Persecution
rais'd
her
iron
rod
,
And
call'd
the
pride
of
Kings
,
the
pow'r
of
God
,
Conscience
and
Fame
were
sacrific'd
to
ROME
,
And
ENGLAND
wept
at
FREEDOM's
sacred
tomb
.
Her
Laws
despis'd
,
her
Constitution
wrench'd
From
its
due
,
nat'ral
frame
,
her
Rights
retrench'd
Beyond
a
Coward's
suff'rance
,
Conscience
forc'd
,
And
healing
Justice
from
the
Crown
divorc'd
,
Each
moment
pregnant
with
vile
acts
of
pow'r
,
Her
patriot
BISHOPS
sentenc'd
to
the
Tow'r
,
Her
OXFORD
(
who
yet
loves
the
STUART
name
)
Branded
with
arbitrary
marks
of
shame
,
She
wept
—
but
wept
not
long
;
to
arms
she
flew
,
At
Honour's
call
th'
avenging
sword
She
drew
,
Turn'd
all
her
terrors
on
the
Tyrant's
head
,
And
sent
him
in
despair
to
beg
his
bread
,
Whilst
she
(
may
ev'ry
State
in
such
distress
Dare
with
such
zeal
,
and
meet
with
such
success
)
Whilst
She
(
may
GOTHAM
,
should
my
abject
mind
Chuse
to
enslave
,
rather
than
free
mankind
,
Pursue
her
steps
,
tear
the
proud
Tyrant
down
,
Nor
let
me
wear
if
I
abuse
the
crown
)
Whilst
She
(
thro'
ev'ry
age
,
in
ev'ry
land
,
Written
in
gold
let
REVOLUTION
stand
)
Whilst
She
,
secur'd
in
Liberty
and
Law
,
Found
what
She
sought
,
a
Saviour
in
NASSAU
.
END
OF
THE
SECOND
BOOK
.