A. S. BUONAPARTE. Talleyrand, what’s the state of my great preparation, To crush, at one stroke, this vile, insolent nation, That baffles my projects, my vengeance derides, Blasts all my proud hopes, checks my arrogant strides. Boasts a _Press unrestrained_, points its censure at ME, And while Frenchmen are Slaves, still presumes to be free? TALLEYRAND. In a Month, Sire, or less, your magnanimous host, Their standards shall fix on the rude British Coast. BUONAPARTE. ’Tis well--let the troops be kept hungry and bare, To make them more keen--for that Island’s good fare. Give them _drafts upon London_, instead of their pay, And rouse them to _ravish_, _burn_, _plunder_, and _slay_. Prepare, too,--_some draughts_, for the sick and the lame; You know what I mean. TALLEYRAND. _As in Syria?_ BUONAPARTE. _The same!_ That _England I hate_, and its armies subdued, The _slaughter of Jaffa_ shall there be renew’d. Not a wretch that presumes to oppose, but shall feel The flames of my fury, the force of my steel. Their daughters, and wives, to my troops I consign; So shall vengeance, sweet vengeance, deep-glutted, be mine, Their children-- TALLEYRAND. What! massacre them, my dread Lord? BUONAPARTE. Why not? with _me_ PITY _was never the word_! That island once conquer’d, the world is my own, And its ruins shall furnish the base of my throne. TALLEYRAND. What a project! how vast!--yet allow me one word; Sir, the English are brave, and can wield well the sword. In defence of their freedom, their _King_, and their soil, Not a man but would dare the most perilous toil. Should our troops but appear, they will rush to the field, And will die on the spot to a man e’er they yield. In defence of their honour, their women will fight, And their navy, triumphant, still sails in our sight. BUONAPARTE.