Yet to the World, all Hermit as I live, From all its vain Regards a Fugitive; Still in my Breast my _Country_ claims a Part, And Love of _Britain_ clings about my Heart: Then tell me, Sir, for You, 'tis said, best know, Is She, as Fame reports her, _fall'n so low_? Is _She_, who for so many Ages rode _Unquestion'd_ Monarch of the _Water-Flood_; Whose freighted Barks were hail'd in ev'ry Zone, And made each _India's_ envy'd Wealth her own; Protected still by such a Guardian Force, That were they e'er molested in their Course, Sure _Vengeance_ on th' Aggressor straight was pour'd, Unless _Seven-fold_ was for the Wrong restor'd? Is She now sunk to such _low Degree_, That _Gaul_ or _Spain_ must _limit_ out her _Sea_? That She must ask _what Winds_ her Sails shall fill, And steer by _Bounty_ who once steer'd _at Will_? Whilst the vast _Navies_ rais'd for her Support, _Nod_ on the _Main_, or _rot_ before the _Port_; With Hands _ty'd up_ vain _Menaces_ retail, Or try by meek _Perswasion_ to prevail? And is there--_What!_--So many _Millions_ gone, So _many_,--Heavens! yet nothing, _nothing_ done? Do then her Pow'rs this drowsy Sabbath keep? Is there no Trump will rouse 'em from their Sleep? Are they, quite lost to Empire and Renown, Bemus'd at Home, or sunk in _foreign Down_? Or, is it true, what Fame pretends to say, That You, Sir, are the _Author_ of To-day? That You're the fatal Cause of _Britain_'s Shame, The _Spend-thrift_ of her Freedom and her Fame? That _Albion_'s Sons are, by your Arts, become The _Dupes_ of Foreigners, and _Slaves_ of Home; That her fam'd S--te, on whose sage Debate, And _free_ Resolves, depended _Europe_'s Fate, Now meanly on your Nod _dependent_ sit, And _Yea_ or _No_ but just as you think fit; Nay, that the _Chiefs_ of even _Levi's Tribe_, Bow down to you, the _Converts_ of a _Bribe_? Whilst our trim _Warriors_, deaf to Honour's Call, Now wage no War but in the Senate-Hall; There wait your _Generalissimo_ Command, To fight _your_ Battles 'gainst the Patriot Band? And that should One more noble than the rest, Disdain to truckle to your high Behest, Speak what he thinks, and freely plead the Cause Of _Britain's_ Commerce, Liberty, and Laws; Exert his Pow'r to check Corruption's Swing, And serve, at _once_, his Country and his King, His _dang'rous_ Virtues are discarded straight, As sure as they are Vertues of your Hate; Stripp'd of all Honour, Dignity, and Rule, To cloath some _Kindred_ Oaf, or _Titled_ Tool. Or should a brave and honest _Adm'ral_ dare To make one Conquest tho' in Time of War, Without _your Leave_ to risk a vig'rous Blow, And shew what _Britons_, if they _might_, could do, Whilst ev'ry raptur'd Voice resounds his Praise, And grateful Hands triumphal Columns raise, Your venal Scribes are order'd all they can To _lessen_ and _prophane_ the _godlike Man_.