The Fox Unkennel'd;
OR,
The Whiggs IDOL.
By a Young Nobleman of the University of OXFORD.
|
IF Men are deem'd for Loyalty
|
As Traytors to their Prince,
|
No wonder if Impiety
|
Should gain Pre-eminence.
|
When those of Merit are displac'd
|
And worthless Wretches rise,
|
Vertue will soon be in Disgrace,
|
And Vice assume the Prize.
|
Great ORMOND who of late did shine
|
Like Sol in this our Sphere,
|
Seems now eclipsed for a Time,
|
To shine again more clear.
|
These Earth-born Sons may Interpose,
|
And Cloud this Orb a-while,
|
But Heaven will all the Cheat disclose,
|
And on this Planet smile.
|
ORMOND who no Addition wants,
|
To make his Soul compleat,
|
Won't basely cringe for further Grants,
|
To make himself less Great.
|
Poor Minds may stoop to Things that's base,
|
But this Heroic Soul
|
Derives his Greatness from his Race,
|
Train'd up in Honour's School.
|
He always fought with a Design
|
To do his Country Right,
|
His Sovereign would not undermine,
|
To heap up Millions by't.
|
His Prince's Councils ne'er betray'd,
|
To please a Dalela
|
Nor others Provinces invade,
|
To rise by Infamy.
|
He never Voted for a Bill,
|
to please the Populace,
|
Bring forty Votes against it still,
|
Because it should not pass.
|
No B------r T------y ever made,
|
To magnifie the Dutch,
|
And ruin his own Country's Trade,
|
That carress'd him so much.
|
Nor ever yet did go about,
|
Or send his haughty Wife
|
To Closet Members for to Vote
|
Him General for Life.
|
He ne'er oppos'd Her Majesty,
|
Whose Right it was to fill
|
A Regimental Vacancy,
|
When She declar'd for Hill.
|
No base Deductions ever made
|
From Foreign Troops Abroad,
|
Nor fed upon his Soldiers Bread,
|
Such Baseness he abhorr'd.
|
Ne'er rob'd a General of his Right,
|
His Honour, or his Fame,
|
To load a fawning Parasite,
|
That cou'd not act the same.
|
Contingent Moneys he applies
|
Unto its proper Uses,
|
Not let the French for want of Spies
|
Decamp, then form Excuses.
|
No Foreign Banks his ill-got Wealth
|
Their Credit does maintain,
|
Nor sneak Abroad to screen himself,
|
And save his sinking Fame.
|
Ingratitude ne'er fill'd his Breast,
|
Nor found an Entrance there,
|
Ne'er rob'd his Monarch of her Rest,
|
In hopes to fill the Chair.
|
No vile tumultuous Monsters bent
|
To show their Rage and Spleen,
|
Made up of Nature's Sedement,
|
Were led in Pomp by him.
|
To trample on that Royal Dust
|
Which made him what he is,
|
Nor e'er betray'd his Nation's Trust,
|
To raise its Enemies.
|
No Righteous Judges e'er displac'd,
|
To gratifie his Pride,
|
For Voting once against His Grace,
|
Must now be laid aside.
|
Let Souls deprav'd thus grasp the Air,
|
The empty Bubble prize,
|
ORMOND moves in a nobler Sphere,
|
His Actions reach the Skie.
|
|
|
|
|
|