William Combe

“ And when, tho’ late, he made a bold appeal
To arms, from frowning Peers and fawning zeal,
And dar’d attempt with sacrilegious sword,
To offer equal combat to a LORD,
Sudden your noble limbs your coursers bore,
From Berkshire’s hills to Avon’s distant shore:
And eager to preserve from foul disgrace,
Th’ unsullied honors of a noble race,
Rather than have it said you meanly stood
To stain your faulchion with Plebeian blood,
You yielded bravely to a harsher fate,
And made submissions to the man you hate. ”

“ Ev’n when to burst their bonds your ardor fail’d,
And law, tyrannic law, at last prevail’d,
Tho’ forc’d a while to bend beneath the yoke,
Its weight your dauntless spirit never broke,
Still rankled in your breast the fatal wound,
Tho’ years had o’er it roll’d their circling round,
[Pg 7] On [A] SCROPE, tho’ late, you rear’d your threat’ning arm,
And shew’d the will without the pow’r to harm.
With Freedom’s warmth, tho’ thus your bosom glow’d,
From no licentious heat the ardour flow’d
When peaceful leaders rul’d with gentle sway,
Still were you first their mandates to obey ”

“ Nor keeps a corner in the thing it loves
For others uses; those who madly brave
Attack the rights you have, or think you have,
Shall weep their rashness, that in luckless hour,
Oppos’d th’ omnipotence of lordly pow’r. ”