The cheated nation's happy favourites see! Mark whom the great caress, who frown on me! London, the needy villain's general home, The common-sewer of Paris and of Rome, With eager thirst, by folly or by fate, Sucks in the dregs of each corrupted state. Forgive my transports on a theme like this-- I cannot bear a French metropolis. Illustrious Edward! from the realms of day, The land of heroes and of saints survey; 100 Nor hope the British lineaments to trace, The rustic grandeur, or the surly grace; But lost in thoughtless ease and empty show, Behold the warrior dwindled to a beau; Sense, freedom, piety, refin'd away, Of France the mimic, and of Spain the prey! All that at home no more can beg or steal, Or like a gibbet better than a wheel; Hiss'd from the stage, or hooted from the court, Their air, their dress, their politics import; 110 Obsequious, artful, voluble, and gay, On Britain's fond credulity they prey. No gainful trade their industry can 'scape. They sing, they dance, clean shoes, or cure a clap: All sciences a fasting Monsieur knows, And bid him go to hell, to hell he goes. Ah! what avails it that, from slavery far, I drew the breath of life in English air; Was early taught a Briton's right to prize, And lisp the tale of Henry's victories; 120 If the gull'd conqueror receives the chain, And flattery prevails, when arms are vain? Studious to please, and ready to submit, The supple Gaul was born a parasite: Still to his interest true where'er he goes, Wit, bravery, worth, his lavish tongue bestows; In every face a thousand graces shine, From every tongue flows harmony divine. These arts in vain our rugged natives try, Strain out, with faltering diffidence, a lie, 130 And get a kick for awkward flattery. Besides, with justice, this discerning age Admires their wondrous talents for the stage: Well may they venture on the mimic's art, Who play from morn to night a borrow'd part; Practised their master's notions to embrace, Repeat his maxims, and reflect his face; With every wild absurdity comply, And view its object with another's eye; To shake with laughter ere the jest they hear, 140 To pour at will the counterfeited tear; And as their patron hints the cold or heat, To shake in dog-days, in December sweat. How, when competitors like these contend, Can surly Virtue hope to fix a friend? Slaves that with serious impudence beguile, And lie without a blush, without a smile, Exalt each trifle, every vice adore, Your taste in snuff, your judgment in a whore, Can Balbo's eloquence applaud, and swear 150 He gropes his breeches with a monarch's air.