'Tis strange a Prince, shou'd ere a _Fool_ preferr, To be an Officer! A _Knave_ may serve an unjust Government, But ne'er prevent Those Mischiefs may attend the just: For who would trust A Villain may be bought by Gold, Unless design'd on purpose to be sold? If Princes wou'd use _Fools_ as Shop-men do Their Signs or Boards of show, To tell the passers by there's better stuff Within, 'tis rational enough. But to set Centry at the Door, } A Patriot or a Senator, } Philosopher or Orator, } To tell the Passers by their is within, A _Merry Andrew_ to be seen, Is very much ridiculous, Tho' to our grief we often find it thus. Thus Princes Bastardize Their Countries Sons Legitimate, And give the fair Estate Unto a Spurious Brood, That ne'er did good; The honest Work, the _Knave_ enjoys the Prize. XV. A Government adorn'd with Fools, Empty Trifles, useless Tools, Looks like a Toy-Shop gloriously bedeckt With gawdy gewgaws, Childrens play things, Painted Babies, Tinsel Creatures, Wooden Folk, with Human features, Made just for show, and no advantage brings, And prove of no effect. It dwindles to a _Raree-Show_, In which no Man must act a Part But the dull _Blockhead_ and the _Beau_, The huffing _Fop_ without a Heart; What Wise Man would a Journey take On a dull Steed has broke his Back? Or have recourse Unto a _Hobby-Horse_? Those act by such wise Rules, Who prop Just Princes by a Tyrant's Tools. XVI. Surely the Genius of a fruitful Isle Is either lost, Or what is worst, Murder'd by those who shou'd support her Fame, Add Glory to her Name; The Heavens themselves have cast an angry look, Seldom the Glorious Sun does shine But Veils its face Divine. _Jove_ does misguide the Seasons every Year; Nought can we read in Nature's Book, To reap her Fruits scarce worth our while. Our Mother Earth, From whose unhappy Womb, We Mortals come, Ne'er shows a Glorious Birth, But proves abortive as our Actions are; Nought have we left but hope, Just like the Blind at Noon we grope: The number of our Sins we must fulfil, And if we're sav'd, it is against our will. _FINIS._ * * * * * THE FOREIGNERS. A POEM. PART I. _LONDON_, Printed for _A. Baldwin_ in _Warwicklane_, MDCC. The Foreigners.