The Fox Vnkennel'd; OR, The Whiggs IDOL.
IF Men are deem'd for Loyalty
As Traytors to their Prince,
No wonder if Impiety
Should gain Pre-eminence.
When those of Merit are displac'd,
And worthless Wretches rise,
Vertue will soon be in Disgrace,
And Vice assume the Prize.
Great
ORMOND who of late did shine
Like
Sol in this our Sphere,
Seems now eclipsed for a Time,
To shine again more clear.
These Earth-born Sons may Interpose,
And Cloud this Orb a-while,
But Heaven will all the Cheat disclose,
And on this Planet smile.
ORMOND who no Addition wants,
To make his Soul compleat,
Won't basely cringe for further Grants,
To make himself less Great.
Poor Minds may stoop to Things that's base,
But this Heroic Soul
Derives his Greatness from his Race,
Train'd up in Honour's School.
He always fought with a Design
To do his Country Right,
His Sovereign would not undermine,
To heap up Millions by't.
His Prince's Councils ne'er betray'd,
To please a
Dalela
Nor others Provinces invade,
To rise by Infamy.
He never Voted for a Bill,
to please
[...]he Populace,
Bring forty Votes against it still,
Because it should not pass.
No
B—r T—y ever made,
To magnifie the
Dutch,
And
[...]u
[...]n his own Countr
[...]'s Trade,
That carres
[...]'d h
[...]m so much.
Nor ever
[...]e
[...] did go about,
Or send his haughty Wife
To Closet Members for to Vote
Him General for Life.
He ne'er oppos'd Her Majesty,
Whose Right it was to fill
A Regimental Vacancy,
When She declar'd for
Hill.
No base Deductions ever made
From Foreign Troops Abroad,
Nor fed upon his Soldiers Bread,
Such Baseness he abhorr'd.
Ne'er rob'd a General of his Right,
His Honour, or his Fame,
To load a fawning Parasite,
That cou'd not act the same.
Contingent Moneys he applies
Unto its proper Uses,
Not let the
French for want of Spies
Decamp, then form Excuses.
No Foreign Banks his ill-got Wealth
Their Credit does maintain,
Nor sneak Abroad to screen himself,
And save his sinking Fame.
Ingratitude ne'er fill'd his Breast,
Nor found an Entrance there,
Ne'er rob'd his Monarch of her Rest,
In hopes to fill the Chair.
No vile tumultuous Monsters bent
To show their Rage and Spleen,
Made up of Nature's Sedement,
Were led in Pomp by him.
To trample on that Royal Dust
Which made him what he is,
Nor e'er betray'd his Nation's Trust,
To raise its Enemies.
No Righteous Judges e'er displac'd,
[...]o gratifie his Pride,
For Voting once against His Grace,
Must now be laid aside.
Let Souls deprav'd thus grasp the Air,
The empty Bubble prize,
ORMOND moves in a nobler Sphere,
His Actions reach the Skie
[...].
London, Printed by J. Benson in the Strand.