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 With Noble Blood adorn'd, and blooming Years,

You were not made to torm like Muqueteers;

Scotland run too much venture in your Blood,

To have your Rate o little undertood;

You had no deperate Fortunes there to raie

Your Names enough, you could not fight for Praie:

Then why o lavih, why o rahly brave?

To play away the Lives you ought to ave;

Scotland has Sons indeed, but none to pare,

To furnih out the Shows and Sports of War;

You are her tenderet part which touch the whole,

And what lets out your Blood, lets out her Soul.

Pardon the Satyrs interrupting here,

She owns, he hates this volunteering War,

When neither King nor Country to retrive,

The injur'd help, or the Oppre'd relieve,

Neither to gain Dominion, or to ave;

Men die for nothing but the Fame of Brave.

So Foter hang'd himelf with deep Deign,

Only to ee himelf be buried fine.

Hard Fate of Men, that only for a Name,'

Will in their own Detruction eek their Fame.