With gloating eye the fair one view'd, Desired her first, and then pursued: She (for what other can she do?) Must fly--or how can he pursue? The Muse (so custom hath decreed) Now proves her spirit by her speed, 390 Nor must one limping line disgrace The life and vigour of the race; She runs, and he runs, till at length, Quite destitute of breath and strength, To Heaven (for there we all apply For help, when there's no other nigh) She offers up her virgin prayer, (Can virgins pray unpitied there?) And when the god thinks he has caught her, Slips through his hands and runs to water, 400 Becomes a stream, in which the poet, If he has any wit, may show it. A city once for power renown'd Now levell'd even to the ground, Beyond all doubt is a direction To introduce some fine reflection. Ah, woeful me! ah, woeful man! Ah, woeful all, do all we can! Who can on earthly things depend From one to t'other moment's end? 410 Honour, wit, genius, wealth, and glory, Good lack! good lack! are transitory; Nothing is sure and stable found, The very earth itself turns round: Monarchs, nay ministers, must die, Must rot, must stink--ah, me! ah, why! Cities themselves in time decay; If cities thus--ah, well-a-day! If brick and mortar have an end, On what can flesh and blood depend! 420 Ah, woeful me! ah, woeful man! Ah, woeful all, do all we can! England, (for that's at last the scene, Though worlds on worlds should rise between, Whither we must our course pursue) England should call into review Times long since past indeed, but not By Englishmen to be forgot, Though England, once so dear to Fame, Sinks in Great Britain's dearer name. 430 Here could we mention chiefs of old, In plain and rugged honour bold, To Virtue kind, to Vice severe, Strangers to bribery and fear, Who kept no wretched clans in awe, Who never broke or warp'd the law; Patriots, whom, in her better days, Old Rome might have been proud to raise; Who, steady to their country's claim, Boldly stood up in Freedom's name, 440 E'en to the teeth of tyrant Pride, And when they could no more, they died. There (striking contrast!) might we place A servile, mean, degenerate race; Hirelings, who valued nought but gold, By the best bidder bought and sold; Truants from Honour's sacred laws, Betrayers of their country's cause; The dupes of party, tools of power, Slaves to the minion of an hour; 450 Lackies, who watch'd a favourite's nod, And took a puppet for their god. Sincere and honest in our rhymes, How might we praise these happier times! How might the Muse exalt her lays, And wanton in a monarch's praise! Tell of a prince, in England born, Whose virtues England's crown adorn, In youth a pattern unto age, So chaste, so pious, and so sage; 460