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Now all the Youth of England are on Fire, And silken Dalliance in the Wardrobe lies; Now thrive the Armourers and Honour's Thoguht Reigns solely in the Breast of every Man. A braver choice of Dauntles Spirits Than now the British Bottoms have waft o'er, Did never float upon the swelling Tide. Let there then follow (if base traitors dare it) The proud Controul of fierce & bloody War— Here have we War for War & Blood for Blood, Controulm$t$ for Controulm$t$—Shake France & Rome By Heaven, methinks, it were an easy Leap To pluck bright Honour from pale-fac'd Moon; Or dive into the Bottom of the Deep, Where fathom-Line could never touch Ground, And pluck up drowned Honour by the Locks. Time serves, wherein you may redeem Your banish'd Honours & restore yourselves Into the good Thoughts of the World again, And make your Chronicles as rich with Praise As is the Owse & Bottom of the Sea With sunken Wrack, & sumle Treauries. Think then upon the Conquests of your Fathers, And like true subject Sons of Progenitors Go cheerfully together, & digest Your angry Choler on your Rebel Enemies. Shadow your Right under your Wings of War; You've only but the Corps-base Highland pilferers. But Shadows & the Shews of Men to fight Who thrill & shake, Highland & French Men both. Even at the crying of your nation's Crow, Thinking that Voice an armed Englihman. Submision—tis a Scotch plad traytors Word— You English Warriors wot not what it means. If Englishmen Eer beg, they beg Mortality, Rather than Life preserv'd with Infamy. Fly to your Highlands, Rebels—sue for peace If not—& treason dares to Wait Chastisement, Bleed traitors & fair Peace ascend to Heaven, Whilst we correct your proud defiance That beats God's Peace to Heaven. &emsp;Do Homage, quit Dupes of France & Rome And we'll withdraw us & our bloody Power, But if you frown upon this proffer'd Peace, And tempt the fury of our three Attendants, Lean Famine, quartering Steel, wide spreading Fire; They in a Moment even with the Earth Shall lay your dupes yourselves & all your hopes. For heark—the English Drum, a warning Bell, Sings heavy Musick to your timorous Souls, And soon shall ring your dire Departure out.

Sweep like a Peacock, Charles, along thy Tail, We'll pull thy Plumes & take away thy Train. Our forward Spirits rais'd by George & Liberty Will lift us where most Trade of Danger ranges, Terror, France's Bloody Scourge. Revenge aghast shall paint with Slaughter's Pencil The Whirlwind Fury of incensed Englishmen &emsp;Our threatening Colours,, then wind up: And tame the savage Spirit of wild War; That like a Lyon foster'd up at hand, It may lie gently at the Foot of Peace, And be no farther harmful than in Shew. But not— Till out attempt be so much glorified, As to our ample hope was promised, Before we drew this gallant Head of War, And cull'd those fiery Spirits from the World To out-look Conquest & to win Renown Even in the Jaws of Danger & of Death. For—Plot Rome, threat France, frown Spain, Ioin all Come the three Corners of the World in Arms, And we shall shock them—Nought can make us rue, If England to it self doth rest but true.

Publish'd According to Act of Parliament. Price 6