_Britannia_ pleas’d, looks round her realms to see Your various causes of Felicity! 20 (To glorious War, a glorious peace succeeds; For most we triumph when the Farmer feeds) Then truly are we great when truth supplies Our Blood, our Treasures drain’d by victories. Turn happy _Briton_, to the throne your Eyes, 25 And in the royal offspring see, How amply bounteous providence supplies The source of your felicity. _Air._ Behold in ev’ry Face imperial Graces shine All native to the Race of _George_ and _Caroline_: 30 In each young Hero we admire The blooming virtue of his sire; In each maturing fair we find, Maternal charms of softer kind. _Recitativo._ In vain thro’ ages past has _Phœbus_ reli’d, 35 E’re such a sight blest _Albion_ could behold Thrice happy Mortals, if your state you knew, Where can the Globe so blest a nation shew? All that of you indulgent Heav’n requires, Is loyal Hearts, to reach your own Desires. 40 Let Faction then her self born views lay down, And Hearts united, thus address the Throne. _Air._ Hail! Royal _Cesar_, hail! Like this may ev’ry annual Sun Add brighter Glories to thy Crown, 45 ’Till Suns themselves shall fail. _Recitativo._ May Heav’n thy peaceful Reign prolong, Nor let to thy great Empires wrong, Foreign or native Foes prevail. _Hail_, &c. See p. 10, 11. _~ODE~ humbly inscribed to the Poet Laureat, taken from ~Lon. Evening Post~ Jan. 7. as there said by ~Step. Duck~, Esq._ _Semei in annoridet Apollo._ _Recitativo._ Accept, O _Cibber_, the advent’rous lay, Which, to your honour, dares both sing and say: To you great Prince of Comedy and Song, The Tributes o’ inferior Pens belong; You, who by royal favour wear the Bays, And grateful eternize our Monarch’s Praise. _Air._ Let us sing to the King, All about the circling Year; Sing a _floreat_ to the _laureat_, Ev’ry Season brings good cheer, Grateful _Britons_, thank the bard, Who by Peace does plenty guard, Such as hungry War does need, War, that does on plenty feed. _Recitativo._ Phœbus with joy looks _Britain_ round to see, The happy state of his lov’d Poetry, To _Eusdes_, _Cibber_ gloriously succeeds; Wit triumphs most, when bard like farmer feeds! Then truly are we great, when he can shew The way _his own out-doings to out-do_. Cast, envious Poets, on his Verse your Eyes, Behold the offspring of his brain. How his rich Genius constantly supplies The source of his poetick vein! _Air._