Produced by Bryan Ness, Sam W. and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print project.) AN HEROIC EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD CRAVEN. [PRICE ONE SHILLING.] AN HEROIC EPISTLE TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE THE LORD CRAVEN, On his delivering the following SENTENCE at the COUNTY MEETING at ABINGDON, on TUESDAY November 7, 1775. "I WILL HAVE IT KNOWN THERE IS RESPECT DUE TO A LORD." * * * * * "_Room for my LORD! Virtue stand by and bow._" Churchill. * * * * * THE THIRD EDITION. * * * * * _LONDON:_ Printed for JOHN WHEEBLE, No. 22, Fleet-Street. M,DCC,LXXVI. AN HEROIC EPISTLE TO LORD CRAVEN. Too long have Britain's sons with proud disdain Survey'd the gay Patrician's titled train, Their various merit scann'd with eye severe, Nor learn'd to know the peasant from the peer: At length the Gothic ignorance is o'er, And vulgar brows shall scowl on LORDS no more; Commons shall shrink at each ennobled nod, And ev'ry lordling shine a demigod: By CRAVEN taught, the humbler herd shall know, How high the Peerage, and themselves how low. Illustrious Chief, your eloquence divine Shall raise the whole right honourable line; All shall with joy your bright example view, And love the tribe that boasts a son like you; While Liberty shall lead you to her throne With jocund hand, and claim you for her own. When warm in youth, on Isis' learned shore, You early listen'd to her sacred lore; Abhorr'd the dull confinement of the schools, Contemn'd their statutes, and despis'd their rules. Ev'n when to burst their bonds your ardor fail'd, And law, tyrannic law, at last prevail'd, Tho' forc'd a while to bend beneath the yoke, Its weight your dauntless spirit never broke, Still rankled in your breast the fatal wound, Tho' years had o'er it roll'd their circling round, On [A]SCROPE, tho' late, you rear'd your threat'ning arm, And shew'd the will without the pow'r to harm. With Freedom's warmth, tho' thus your bosom glow'd, From no licentious heat the ardour flow'd When peaceful leaders rul'd with gentle sway, Still were you first their mandates to obey; Tho' Proctors, arm'd with all th' insulting pride Of legal pow'r, your daring soul defy'd, Yet to the ruler of the festive band You bow'd, nor scorn'd the toast-master's command; Obedient drank each penal draft of wine, And only fear'd a salt and water fine.