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 An awful Frown its on their threatning Brow,

And yet the Soul's all mooth, and Calm below;

Thinking in Temper, rather grave than Gay,

Fitted to govern, able to obey.

Nor are their Spirits very oon enflam'd,

And if provok'd, not very oon reclaim'd.

Fierce when reolv'd, and fix'd as Bars of Bras,

And Conquet through their Blood can only pas.

In pight of Coward Cold, the Race is Brave,

In Action Daring, and in Council Grave;

Their haughty Souls in Danger always grow,

No Man durt lead 'em where they durt not go.

Sedate in Thought, and teady in Reolve,

Polite in Manners, and as Years Revolve;

Always ecure their larget hare of Fame,

And by their Courage keep alive their Name.

The lab'ring Poor dejected and uppret•

See not th' approaching Propect of their Ret.

Knowledge of Liberty's their only want,

And los of Expectation's their Content.

Too much ubjected to immoderate Power,

Their Petty Tyrants all their Pains devour.