Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment And state of bodies would bewray what life We’ve led since thy Exile. Think with thyself, How more unfortunate than all living women Are we come hither; since thy sight, which should Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts, Constrains them weep, and shake with fear and sorrow; Making the mother, wife, and child to see The son, the husband, and the father tearing His Country’s bowels out: and to poor we Thy enmity’s most capital; thou barr’st us Our prayers to the Gods, which is a comfort That all but we enjoy. For how can we, Alas! how can we, for our Country pray, Whereto we’re bound, together with thy Victory, Whereto we’re bound? Alack! or we must lose The Country, our dear nurse; or else thy Person, Our comfort in the Country. We must find An eminent calamity, though we had Our wish, which side shou’d win. For either thou Must, as a foreign Recreant, be led With manacles thorough our streets; or else Triumphantly tread on thy Country’s ruin, And bear the palm, for having bravely shed Thy wife and children’s blood. For myself, son, I purpose not to wait on Fortune, ’till These wars determine: if I can’t persuade thee Rather to shew a noble grace to both parts, Than seek the end of one; thou shalt no sooner March to assault thy Country, than to tread (Trust to’t, thou shalt not) on thy mother’s womb, That brought thee to this world. I will now give you the old Translation, which shall effectually confute Mr. Pope: for our Author hath done little more than throw the very words of North into blank verse.