And on the sails of Commerce bitterns rest; 290 Be all, though princes in the earth before, Her merchants bankrupts, and her marts no more; Much rather would I, might the will of Fate Give me to choose, see Gotham's ruin'd state By ills on ills thus to the earth weigh'd down, Than live to see a Stuart wear a crown. Let Heaven in vengeance arm all Nature's host, Those servants who their Maker know, who boast Obedience as their glory, and fulfil, Unquestion'd, their great Master's sacred will; 300 Let raging winds root up the boiling deep, And, with Destruction big, o'er Gotham sweep; Let rains rush down, till Faith, with doubtful eye, Looks for the sign of mercy in the sky; Let Pestilence in all her horrors rise; Where'er I turn, let Famine blast my eyes; Let the earth yawn, and, ere they've time to think, In the deep gulf let all my subjects sink Before my eyes, whilst on the verge I reel; Feeling, but as a monarch ought to feel, 310 Not for myself, but them, I'll kiss the rod, And, having own'd the justice of my God, Myself with firmness to the ruin give, And die with those for whom I wish to live. This, (but may Heaven's more merciful decrees Ne'er tempt his servant with such ills as these!) This, or my soul deceives me, I could bear; But that the Stuart race my crown should wear, That crown, where, highly cherish'd, Freedom shone Bright as the glories of the midday sun; 320 Born and bred slaves, that they, with proud misrule, Should make brave freeborn men, like boys at school, To the whip crouch and tremble--Oh, that thought! The labouring brain is e'en to madness brought By the dread vision; at the mere surmise The thronging spirits, as in tumult, rise; My heart, as for a passage, loudly beats, And, turn me where I will, distraction meets. O my brave fellows! great in arts and arms, The wonder of the earth, whom glory warms 330 To high achievements; can your spirits bend, Through base control (ye never can descend So low by choice) to wear a tyrant's chain, Or let, in Freedom's seat, a Stuart reign? If Fame, who hath for ages, far and wide, Spread in all realms the cowardice, the pride, The tyranny and falsehood of those lords, Contents you not, search England's fair records; England, where first the breath of life I drew, Where, next to Gotham, my best love is due; 340 There once they ruled, though crush'd by William's hand, They rule no more, to curse that happy land. The first,[160] who, from his native soil removed, Held England's sceptre, a tame tyrant proved: Virtue he lack'd, cursed with those thoughts which spring In souls of vulgar stamp, to be a king; Spirit he had not, though he laugh'd at laws. To play the bold-faced tyrant with applause; On practices most mean he raised his pride, And Craft oft gave what Wisdom oft denied. 350