THE

Unbyafs'd Honeft BRITO N.

Made upon an Election for Parliament Men.

OX of thefe vile Diftinctions, HIGH and

Low,

This War of Words, vain Party-Feuds
which flow

From Spleen, not Reason; Prithee what's to me,
Whether my Friend a Whig or Tory be?
I'm no State Bigot, and in neither blame
The Honeft Men, but the Dishonest Name.
We, Slaves to Sounds, and Politician's Art,
For empty Names with real Freedom part.
Prerogative and Property, ftrange Words!

That turn our Heads, and then unsheath our Swords,

Are

Are Terms with which fly Statesmen cheat us all,
And used alternate, as they rife or fall.
The Whig, in Pow'r Prerogative, strains high,
Tory difgrac'd, ftands firm for Property.

Old ENGLAND, an Old Bubble, hugs the Cheat,
Tho' ftill deceiv'd, ftill favours the Deceit :

Till ruin'd.

Hold! your grave Reflections spare;

Reason with Int'reft makes unequal War:
Since Party-Zeal's the fureft Way to rife,
Who argues againft-Places? Friend-be wife.
We, Scaffoldings of Pow'r, are us'd and prais'd,
By rifing Greatness, but thrown by, when rais'd.
So my Triennial Friend smooths haughty Brow,
With humble Fawn does to stiff Burgess bow;
Begs Votes, but mounted in Triumphal Chair,
He fwells, and reaffumes his distant Air.
A Jolly Priest advanc'd to Peter's Chair,
The Story's fhort, and may deserve your Ear,
Sends for the Partner of his loofer Hours,
His Bottle Friend, a Rake, like one of ours;
Whose Absence blaming, thus he did excufe.

Would you, Great Sir! thofe Thoughts and Minutes lofe
On me, which must the World command and guide ? -
To whom, with Smiles, his Holiness reply'd:

We'll ftill be merry, Friend; and thou shalt find
A little Folly governs all Mankind.

Wrote

Wrote on the TOMB-STONE of a Rich MAN.

Seless Riches, can you fave

U Sele

Your Admirers from the Grave?

He was Rich, and I am Poor,

I am living, He no more.

The fame Tomb at once contains

The wife Man's Senfe, the Idiot's Brains.
Men and Women huddled lie,
Without distinguishing they're nigh.
Here lies High-Church, here lies Low,
And ne'er difputed, as I know;
Lawyer and Client hither come,
Nor quarrel here for Elbow-room.

TO

ΤΟ ΤΗΕ

KING.

On His MAJETY's Landing in Holland.

HE Mufe, who, near thy Britain's watry

Bounds,

Here hail'd Thee first, Great Prince! in British Sounds,

Now greets her Lord, who, fond the World to bless, Comes o'er to fix the Greater like the Lefs.

Hail! Umpire of the Globe! Bid Discord ceafe; Form mighty Leagues; Awe Empires into Peace; Juft Claims affert; and, fpreading Terrors round, Make threat'ning Walls fall at thy Trumpet's Sound.

Poife Europe's Ballance in Thy steady Hand:
Commanding Britain, the whole World command.
Kings, Armies, Nations, for Thy Prefence wait;
And from thy Dietates watch the Birth of Fate.

What Joy Thy good Old Subjects now must boast! For most they love Thee, who have known Thee most. Their Lord, their Father, they with Transports meet; Feaft on Thy Smiles, and bath with Tears Thy Feet. Each for his Prince a Thousand Sports prepares; Sports long neglected for Britannick Cares.

Yet, while the Sov'reign acts a Father's Part,
And all Thy Subjects share, like Sons, Thy Heart,
Think how, like Orphans, greater Nations mourn;
Think each True Britain from a Parent torn.

Like Friends, like Lovers, 'till they felt the Smart,
They never knew how grievous 'tis to part,
Your other felf, Your Genius, tho? You leave,
Depriv'd of You, they cannot ceafe to grieve.
From ev'ry Part they for their Monarch call;
Hafte back! Be feen; be known, be loved by all:
Kind to the True, with Goodness charm the reft;
Spight of themselves, compel them to be bleft.
Their Rights, their Faith, their Freedom ftill maintain,
Great GEORGE for Europe, condescends to Reign.
Firm, like thy felf, heroick Virtue goes,

Tho' rugged Ways, high Rocks and Crouds oppose;