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With what uperiour lutre and command May tedfast Zeal in Albion's Senate hine! What glorious lawrells court the Patriots hand! How bae the hand that can uch Meed decline! And was, kind Fate! to natch thee honors mine? Yes! greene they pred, and fayre they bloomd for me; Thy birth and duty bade the chiefe be thine; Oh lot, vain Trifler, lot in each degree! Thy Country never turnd her hopefull eyes on Thee.

Yet, how the Fielde of Worth luxurious miles! Nor Africk yields, nor Chilys earth contains Such funds of wealth as crown the Plowmans toils, And tinge with waving gold Britannias plains; Even on her mountains cheerfull Plenty reigns, And wildly grand her fleecy wardrobe preads. What noble Meed the honest Statesman gains, Who through these publique nerves new vigour heds, And bids the Ueful Artes exalt their drooping heads: