And Cruelty could never find a place; To Holland for that charity we roam, Which happily begins and ends at home. France, in return for peace and power restored, For all those countries which the hero's sword Unprofitably purchased, idly thrown Into her lap, and made once more her own; 200 France hath afforded large and rich supplies Of vanities full trimm'd; of polish'd lies; Of soothing flatteries, which through the ears Steal to, and melt the heart; of slavish fears Which break the spirit, and of abject fraud-- For which, alas! we need not send abroad. Spain gives us Pride--which Spain to all the earth May largely give, nor fear herself a dearth-- Gives us that Jealousy, which, born of Fear And mean Distrust, grows not by Nature here-- 210 Gives us that Superstition, which pretends By the worst means to serve the best of ends-- That Cruelty, which, stranger to the brave, Dwells only with the coward and the slave; That Cruelty, which led her Christian bands With more than savage rage o'er savage lands, Bade her, without remorse, whole countries thin, And hold of nought, but Mercy, as a sin. Italia, nurse of every softer art, Who, feigning to refine, unmans the heart; 220 Who lays the realms of Sense and Virtue waste; Who mars while she pretends to mend our taste; Italia, to complete and crown our shame, Sends us a fiend, and Legion is his name. The farce of greatness without being great, Pride without power, titles without estate, Souls without vigour, bodies without force, Hate without cause, revenge without remorse, Dark, mean revenge, murder without defence, Jealousy without love, sound without sense, 230 Mirth without humour, without wit grimace, Faith without reason, Gospel without Grace, Zeal without knowledge, without nature art, Men without manhood, women without heart; Half-men, who, dry and pithless, are debarr'd From man's best joys--no sooner made than marr'd-- Half-men, whom many a rich and noble dame, To serve her lust, and yet secure her fame, Keeps on high diet, as we capons feed, To glut our appetites at last decreed; 240 Women, who dance in postures so obscene, They might awaken shame in Aretine; Who when, retired from the day's piercing light, They celebrate the mysteries of Night, Might make the Muses, in a corner placed To view their monstrous lusts, them Sappho chaste; These, and a thousand follies rank as these, A thousand faults, ten thousand fools, who please Our pall'd and sickly taste, ten thousand knaves, Who serve our foes as spies, and us as slaves, 250 Who, by degrees, and unperceived, prepare Our necks for chains which they already wear, Madly we entertain, at the expense Of fame, of virtue, taste, and common sense. Nor stop we here--the soft luxurious East, Where man, his soul degraded, from the beast In nothing different but in shape we view,