PART I (page 3)
Who Fifty Millions Sterling have disburs’d,
To be with Peace and too much Plenty curs’d.
Who their old Monarch eagerly undo,
And yet uneasily obey the New.
Search, Satyr, search, a deep Incision make;
The Poyson’s strong, the Antidote’s too weak.
‘Tis pointed Truth must manage this Dispute,
And down-right English Englishmen confute.
Whet thy just Anger at the Nation’s Pride;
And with keen Phrase repel the Vicious Tide.
To Englishmen their own beginnings show,
And ask them why they fight their Neighbours so.
Go back to Elder Times, and Ages past,
And Nations into long Oblivion cast;
To Old Britannia’s Youthful Days retire,
And there for True-Born Englishmen enquire.
Britannia freely will disown the Name,
And hardly knows her self from whence they came:
B 2 Won