Page:The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift, Volume 7.djvu/354

342 Thou still with tyrants in succession curst, The last invaders trampling on the first: Nor fondly hope for some reverse of fate, Virtue herself would now return too late. Not half thy course of misery is run, Thy greatest evils yet are scarce begun. Soon shall thy sons (the time is just at hand) Be all made captives in their native land; When, for the use of no Hibernian born, Shall rise one blade of grass, one ear of corn; When shells and leather shall for money pass, Nor thy oppressing lords afford thee brass. But all turn leasers to that mongrel breed. Who, from thee sprung, yet on thy vitals feed; Who to yon ravenous isle thy treasures bear, And waste in luxury thy harvest there; For pride aid ignorance a proverb grown, The jest of wits, and to the court unknown. I scorn thy spurious and degenerate line, And from this hour my patronage resign.

there be truth in what you sing, Such godlike virtues in the king; A minister so fill'd with zeal And wisdom for the commonweal: If