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PROLOGUE, By a Gentleman.

Britons, to Night, the Muse attempts to trace,
A Hero springing from the Brunswick Race.
Thro' twice two hundred rolling Years again,
Behold Him rise to grace the solemn Scene;
Just struggling up the slippery Steep of Fame,
Full in the Reach of every Glorious Aim,
Behold the Good, the Gen'rous, and the Great
Hurl'd headlong down the Precipice of Fate!
While our Scene swells with such peculiar Woe,
Ah, say! can British Eyes forbear to flow!
Yet tho' long number'd with the Mighty Dead,
Heav'n bad his Schemes of Empire still proceed!
From Son to Son transfus'd the great Design,
And urg'd to Glory his Illustrious Line,
Transplanted, whence the Danube whirls his Streams
To the rich Borders of our Trading Thames,
Where still the Virtues of a Brunswick Soul
Run, like those Streams, augmenting as they roll.
What once the Hand of Violence deny'd,
Tho' late, is now by lib'ral Fate supply'd.
Fair rise the Race, and with propitious Smiles,
Mildly Majestic, bless the QUEEN of Isles,
Possess the nobler Empire of the Sea,
And rule—the only Subjects that are Free.