Hush, hush, say no more lest some listeners should hear, And our troops should be taught these fierce Britons to fear. They are brave; and my soldiers have felt it--what then? Our numbers are more--to their five, we are ten. Say their sailors are skilful, oak hearted, and true, One army may fail, yet another may do. And though thousands should fatten the sharks in the sea, There are thousands remaining, _to perish for me_. In a night, or a fog, we will silent steal over, And surprise unexpected, the Castle of Dover. Then to gull the poor dupes of that navy bound land, You have lies ready coin’d--_’tis your trade_, at command. We will tell them, and swear it, our sole end and aim, Is to make them all equally rich--all the same. I see by your smile you interpret my meaning, _That where my troops reap, they leave nothing for gleaning_. They soar at a palace, they swoop to a cot, And plunder--not leaving one bone for the pot. Now, Sir, to your duty, your business prepare, Leave the rest to _my_ Genius, _my_ fortune, _my_ care. [_Exit Buonaparte, Talleyrand looking after him._ TALLEYRAND. Your fortune, I fear, Sir, will play you a trick:-- Notwithstanding his vaunts, he is touch’d to the quick. What folly! what madness, this project inspires, To conquer a nation, whom liberty fires. Even now from their shores, loudly echoed, I hear The song of defiance appalling mine ear. Their spirit once rous’d, what destruction awakes! What vengeance, the wretched invaders o’ertakes. Prophetic, I plead, but my warning is vain, Ambition still urges, and maddens his brain: Fired with hopes of rich booty, his soldiers all burn, THEY MAY GO, SOME MAY LAND, BUT NOT ONE WILL RETURN. J. B. (November 5, 1803) produced ‘Boney in time for Lord Mayors Feast.’ At this banquet a sailor produces Napoleon chained, and with a collar round his neck. He thus introduces him: ‘Here he is, please your Honors. We caught him alive, on the Suffolk Coast. He was a little queerish at first, but a few Stripes at the Gangway soon brought him about. I told him he was just in time for the Lord Mayor’s Show. What does your honor think of him for the Man in Armour?’ The Lord Mayor, glass in hand, says: ‘Ay, you see how we live at this end of the town, but you get no Roast beef here, Master Boney--Let him have plenty of Soup Maigre--and in the evening take him up to the Ball Room for the amusement of the Ladies--Come, heres the glorious Ninth of November.’