But if there's nothing that can bribe your Will, From this perverse Propensity to Ill; If to the Grave you are on Mischeif bent. By growth in Crimes too harden'd to Repent. If, whilst _perhaps_ you may, you _won't Retreat_, Resolv'd the Nations _Ruin_ to compleat, On _Britain_'s Downfall to erect a Name, And trust to an _immortal Guilt_ for Fame, May'nt the _Just Vengeance_ of an injur'd Land, Thus greatly urg'd, exert a glorious _Stand_? Drive not the _Brave_ and _Wretched_ to Despair, For though of Freedom, Wealth and Power left bare, The Plunder'd still have _Tongues_--and they may rear, Their loud Complaints to reach their _Sovereign's_ Ear, Lay, with one Voice, their _Wrongs_ before the _Throne_, Whilst HE whose _Fame_ to both the Poles is known, All Europe's Arbiter, all Asia's Theme, Affrick's Delight, America's Supreme; HE who does still express his Royal Care, His loving Subjects Injuries to repair; To their _Addresses_ graciously attends, And above all their _Liberty_ defends, Who is as Wise as Pious, Mild as Great, And whose sole Business is to nurse the State; _May_ judge their Cause and, greatly rous'd, command, The _Staff_ of _Power_ from thy _polluted_ Hand, And to some _abler Head_ and _better Heart_, His long _dishonour'd Stewardship_ impart. Perhaps to Thee! great _Carteret_, who can'st boast. Talents quite equal to the arduous Post; A keen Discernment; strong, yet bridled Thought, One Natures Dow'r, one by just Learning taught: Calm Fortitude, unwarp'd Integrity, And Flame divine to keep thy Country Free. Or to thy Conduct, _Pultney_! whose just Zeal, Is still exerted for the publick Weal; Whose boundless Knowledge and distinguish'd Sense, Flow in full Tides of rapid Eloquence; And to the native Treasures of whose Mind, We see form'd Worth, and wide Experience join'd. With these the darling _Chesterfield_ may sit An _able_ Partner--if his _rebel Wit_ } Can to such _Pains_ and _Penalties_ submit. } And that fam'd _Caledonian Youth_, whose Morn Propitious Skies, and Noon-tide Rays adorn, Who rose so _early_ in his Country's Cause, Shone, though so Young, _so bright_, that our Applause Was lock'd in Wonder--gazing Senates hung On the divine Enchantment of his Tongue; Hark with what Force he pleads in our Defence! How just he speaks an injur'd People's Sense! _Half_ lost to _Britain_ now, He chides his Fate, For stealing him, _by Titles_, from the State; Whilst we, lov'd _Polwarth_! with thy Titles _more_, As might such Virtues to the State restore. Then too the noble _Cobham_, first of Men! May leave his Garden for the Camp again; Call'd, like old Rome's Dictator from the Plough, To plant once more the Laurel on his Brow.