 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
322
An Allusion to the 7th Epode of Horace,
1690.
Quo, quo Scelesti ruitis, &c.
1.
Whither, ye impious Britons, do ye run,As if already not enough undone?
Your Sea has oft run Purple to the Shore,
And Flanders is manur'd with English Gore;
Yet still you arm, and still prepare to fight
Against your K---, his Country, and his Right.
2.
If you must arm, unite the British Powers,Destroy your Rival Holland's lofty Towers,
And be her Ruin as she has been yours.
Holland deserv'd to be this Nation's Curse,
Bad as a Foe, but as a Friend much worse:
See the Batavians with a grinning Pride
Your present Ills and future Hopes deride.
3.
And well they may, for they can only boast,Because your Credit, Wealth, and Traffick's lost;
Theirs is the Gain, and they may triumph most.
Pleas'd with a selfish, dull, malicious Joy,
To see your selves none but your selves destroy;
'Tis obvious, but infatuated you
Still court your Ruin, and contrive it too.
4.
Tell me, Is't Madness this, or Hopes of Gain,Or do the Sons the Fathers Crimes sustain?
Why are you pale and speechless? Why appears
This Trembling? and why flow these guilty Tears?
323
You fain wou'd hide, too horrid to be hid.
5.
Yes, Britons, yes, you groan beneath the WeightOf Charles the Martyr's undeserved Fate;
Too well you know his unrepented Fall
Entails this Curse, and will confound you all.
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