PART II. (page 51)
Till Pity rowz’d him from his lost Repose,
His Life to unseen Hazards to expose:
Till Pity mov’d him in our Cause t’ appear;
Pity! that Word which now we hate to hear.
But English Gratitude is always such,
To hate the Hand which does oblige too much.
Britannia’s Cries gave Birth to his Intent,
And hardly gain’d his unforseen Assent:
His boding Thoughts foretold him he should find
The People Fickle, Selfish, and Unkind.
Which Thought did to his Royal Heart appear
More dreadful than the Dangers of the War:
For nothing grates a Generous Mind so soon,
As base Returns for hearty Service done.
Satyr be silent, awfully prepare
Britannia’s Song, and William’s Praise to hear.
Stand by, and let her chearfully rehearse
Her Grateful Vows in her Immortal Verse.
H 2 Loud