Dead to the World's each Scene of Pomp or Care,
Wrapp'd up in Apathy to all that's there;
My sole Ambition o'er myself to reign,
My Avarice to make each Hour a Gain;
My Scorn—the Threats or Favours of a Crown,
A Prince's Whisper, or a Tyrant's Frown;
My Pride—forgetting and to be forgot;
My Lux'ry—lolling in my peaceful Grot.
All Rancour, Party, Pique, expung'd my Mind,
Free or to laugh at, or lament Mankind;
Here my calm Hours I with the Wise employ,
And the great Greek, or Roman Sage enjoy;
Or, gayly bent, the Mirth-fraught Page peruse,
Or, pensive, keep a Fast-Day with the Muse.
Close shut my Cottage-Gate, where none pretends
To lift the Latch, but Virtue and her Friends;
Tho' pardon me—a Word, Sir, in your Ear,
Once, long ago, I think I saw You here.

Yet to the World, all Hermit as I live,
From all its vain Regards a Fugitive;
Still in my Breast my Country claims a Part,
And Love of Britain clings about my Heart:
Then tell me, Sir, for You, 'tis said, best know,
Is She, as Fame reports her, fall'n so low?
Is She, who for so many Ages rode
Unquestion'd Monarch of the Water-Flood;
Whose freighted Barks were hail'd in ev'ry Zone,
And made each India's envy'd Wealth her own;
Protected still by such a Guardian Force,
That were they e'er molested in their Course,
Sure Vengeance on th' Aggressor straight was pour'd,
Unless Seven-fold was for the Wrong restor'd?
Is She now sunk to such low Degree,
That Gaul or Spain must limit out her Sea?
That She must ask what Winds her Sails shall fill,
And steer by Bounty who once steer'd at Will?
Whilst the vast Navies rais'd for her Support,
Nod on the Main, or rot before the Port;
With Hands ty'd up vain Menaces retail,
Or try by meek Perswasion to prevail?

And is there—What!—So many Millions gone,
So many,—Heavens! yet nothing, nothing done?
Do then her Pow'rs this drowsy Sabbath keep?
Is there no Trump will rouse 'em from their Sleep?
Are they, quite lost to Empire and Renown,
Bemus'd at Home, or sunk in foreign Down?
Or, is it true, what Fame pretends to say,
That You, Sir, are the Author of To-day?
That You're the fatal Cause of Britain's Shame,
The Spend-thrift of her Freedom and her Fame?
That Albion's Sons are, by your Arts, become
The Dupes of Foreigners, and Slaves of Home;
That her fam'd S—te, on whose sage Debate,
And free Resolves, depended Europe's Fate,
Now meanly on your Nod dependent sit,
And Yea or No but just as you think fit;
Nay, that the Chiefs of even Levi's Tribe,
Bow down to you, the Converts of a Bribe?
Whilst our trim Warriors, deaf to Honour's Call,
Now wage no War but in the Senate-Hall;
There wait your Generalissimo Command,
To fight your Battles 'gainst the Patriot Band?

And that should One more noble than the rest,
Disdain to truckle to your high Behest,
Speak what he thinks, and freely plead the Cause
Of Britain's Commerce, Liberty, and Laws;
Exert his Pow'r to check Corruption's Swing,
And serve, at once, his Country and his King,
His dang'rous Virtues are discarded straight,
As sure as they are Vertues of your Hate;
Stripp'd of all Honour, Dignity, and Rule,
To cloath some Kindred Oaf, or Titled Tool.

Or should a brave and honest Adm'ral dare
To make one Conquest tho' in Time of War,
Without your Leave to risk a vig'rous Blow,
And shew what Britons, if they might, could do,
Whilst ev'ry raptur'd Voice resounds his Praise,
And grateful Hands triumphal Columns raise,
Your venal Scribes are order'd all they can
To lessen and prophane the godlike Man.

That thus the Fountain of Britannia's Health,
Source of her Grandeur, Liberty, and Wealth,
Polluted by your all-corrupting Hand,
With rank Infection deluges the Land;
Parent at once of Want and Luxury,
Of open Rapine and dark Treachery;
The Knaves Elixir, and the Just Man's Bane,
Food to the Locust, Mildew to the Swain;
Pouring on those who once in Goshen dwelt;
More deadly Plagues than Ægypt ever felt,
And worse than Israel's heaviest Task inflicts
Tho' gone our Straw yet claiming double Bricks
Whilst Commerce flies before th' oppressive Weight,
And seeks in Gaul a more indulgent Fate;
Where, Shame to Britain! the fair Stranger Guest
Is hail'd with Raptures, and her Wrongs redress'd.

"What then?" I'm told you say, "we nothing lose,
"If they've our Commerce we've their wooden Shoes;
"And since our Merchants are so fancy grown,
"'Tis Time to pull sturdy Beggars down;
"They mutiny'd for War, and War they have,
"But such a one that soon a Peace they'll crave;
"Peace shall be Theirs, but such a Peace, that then
"They'll curse their Prayers and wish for War again;
"Thus pois'ning to 'em what they ask as best,
"I'll ruin 'em by granting their Request.

Are these Things so? Or is it Fiction all?
A sland'rous Picture drawn in Soot and Gall?
Offspring of Disappointment or Disgrace,
Of Those who want or who have lost a Place?
If so, why lives the Scandal? up for Shame,
Confront your Foes, and vindicate your Fame;
For, trust me Sir, to wink at such Offence,
Rather proclaims a Fear than Innocence;
"No one is guilty 'till he's guilty prou'd——
Come then, be this wild Clamour strait remov'd;
In conscious Justice cloath'd assert your Right,
Shake off this Load of Obloquy and Spite,
Like Samuel dauntless cry, Lo here I am!
"Witness against me if I'm ought to blame.
"Before the Lord and his Anointed say
"Whose Rights or Honours have I ta'en away?
"Whom, speak, have I defrauded or oppress'd,
"Or ever pilfer'd Forage from whose Beast?
"Of what vile Contract was I e'er the Scribe,
"Or of whose Hands have I receiv'd a Bribe?
"What Scheme did ever I at Home propose
"But whence some nameless Profit would have rose?
"Or what C—n——n e're devise abroad
"But such as Britain's Se——e did applaud?
"What of my Country's Money e'er bestow'd
"Except in secret Service for her Good?
"Or what Incumbrance on her Commerce laid,
"But for th' Increase of our Revenues made?
"In my dear Country's Service now grown gray
"Spotless I've walk'd before you to this Day
"My Thoughts laid out my precious Time all spent
"In the hard Slavery of Government;
"My Brother too the fruitless Bondage shares,
"And all your Peace is owing to his Cares,
"Girding his Loins he Travels far and near
"And brings home some rare Treaty ev'ry Year.
"You have my Sons too with you who bow down
"Beneath the weighty Service of the Crown;
"My Cousins and their Cousins too—hard Fate!
"Are loaded with the Offices of State;
"And not one Soul of all my Kindred's free
"From sharing in the Public Drudgery:

"Why then these Shafts of Calumny you throw,
"This groundless Odium cast on all I do?
"Speak out with Freedom what you have to say,
"Aside all Influence, Pow'r, and Skreen I lay, }
"And put my Conduct on the Proof To-day." }
This Sir, if you dare stand the Inquest, do,
And then if you've but Samuel's Answer too,
If all this heavy Charge is void of Ground,
And by the publick Voice you're guiltless found,
Resume your Power, with Terrors arm'd go forth,
And blast the Villains that traduc'd your Worth;
Who basely durst your Righteous Course Arraign,
And Soil the Glory's of great Brunswick's Reign.

But if you know your Cause is not the best
Know that you have Defrauded and Oppress'd,
That you have ta'en and giv'n many a Bribe,
And of a wicked Contract been the Scribe.
That you have pilfer'd Forage from the Beast,
And with the Publick Wealth your own encreas'd;
That a dire Scheme you laid t' Excise the Land,
And to a vile C—v——n set your Hand;
That you've Monopoliz'd each Post and Place,
To aggrandize your self and Mushroom Race,
That all your Kindred—Brother, Sons, and Cousins,
Have Titles and Employments by the Dozens;
And for as many Sidesmen as are wanted,
New Places are contriv'd, new Pensions granted.
If you are travell'd in these crooked Ways
With a long Train of black et Cetera's;
Whilst the whole Nation loaths your very Name,
And Babes and Sucklings your Dispraise proclaim;
Turn your Eyes inward, on yourself reflect,
Think what you are, then what you're to expect:
Pass a few Years the Sisters cut your Thread,
And rank you in the Number of the Dead;
But of what Dead? not those whose Memory,
Bloom with sweet Savour through Posterity.
Those deathless Worthies, who, as Good as Great,
Or rais'd a fall'n, or prop'd a sinking State;
Or in the breach of Desolation stood,
And for their Country's Welfare pledg'd their Blood.
No! with the Curs'd your Tomb shall foremost stand,
The Gaveston's and Wolsey's of the Land.

Your Epitaph—In this foul Grave lies HE,
Who dug the grave of British Liberty.

Since then your Glass has but few Hours to run,
Quit quit the Reins before we're quite undone.
Why should you torture out your Dregs of Life,
In publick Tumult, Infamy and Strife?
To the last gasp maintain a baneful Power
Only to see your Country die before?
If not for us—for your own Family,
And as you've made 'em Great, pray leave 'em Free.

But if there's nothing that can bribe your Will,
From this perverse Propensity to Ill;
If to the Grave you are on Mischeif bent.
By growth in Crimes too harden'd to Repent.
If, whilst perhaps you may, you won't Retreat,
Resolv'd the Nations Ruin to compleat,
On Britain's Downfall to erect a Name,
And trust to an immortal Guilt for Fame,
May'nt the Just Vengeance of an injur'd Land,
Thus greatly urg'd, exert a glorious Stand?
Drive not the Brave and Wretched to Despair,
For though of Freedom, Wealth and Power left bare,
The Plunder'd still have Tongues—and they may rear,
Their loud Complaints to reach their Sovereign's Ear,
Lay, with one Voice, their Wrongs before the Throne,
Whilst HE whose Fame to both the Poles is known,
All Europe's Arbiter, all Asia's Theme,
Affrick's Delight, America's Supreme;
HE who does still express his Royal Care,
His loving Subjects Injuries to repair;
To their Addresses graciously attends,
And above all their Liberty defends,
Who is as Wise as Pious, Mild as Great,
And whose sole Business is to nurse the State;
May judge their Cause and, greatly rous'd, command,
The Staff of Power from thy polluted Hand,
And to some abler Head and better Heart,
His long dishonour'd Stewardship impart.

Perhaps to Thee! great Carteret, who can'st boast.
Talents quite equal to the arduous Post;
A keen Discernment; strong, yet bridled Thought,
One Natures Dow'r, one by just Learning taught:
Calm Fortitude, unwarp'd Integrity,
And Flame divine to keep thy Country Free.

Or to thy Conduct, Pultney! whose just Zeal,
Is still exerted for the publick Weal;
Whose boundless Knowledge and distinguish'd Sense,
Flow in full Tides of rapid Eloquence;
And to the native Treasures of whose Mind,
We see form'd Worth, and wide Experience join'd.

With these the darling Chesterfield may sit
An able Partner—if his rebel Wit }
Can to such Pains and Penalties submit. }

And that fam'd Caledonian Youth, whose Morn
Propitious Skies, and Noon-tide Rays adorn,
Who rose so early in his Country's Cause,
Shone, though so Young, so bright, that our Applause
Was lock'd in Wonder—gazing Senates hung
On the divine Enchantment of his Tongue;
Hark with what Force he pleads in our Defence!
How just he speaks an injur'd People's Sense!
Half lost to Britain now, He chides his Fate,
For stealing him, by Titles, from the State;
Whilst we, lov'd Polwarth! with thy Titles more,
As might such Virtues to the State restore.

Then too the noble Cobham, first of Men!
May leave his Garden for the Camp again;
Call'd, like old Rome's Dictator from the Plough,
To plant once more the Laurel on his Brow.

And Brave Argile, who's form'd alike to wield
The Rhet'rick of the Senate and the Field,
So tun'd whose Eloquence, whose Breast so Mann'd,
None can the Speaker or the Chief withstand.

Yet feign Methink's I'd hope that you were clear
From this high Charge that eccho's in my Ear;
Trust that some Demon envious of my Rest
With visionary Wrongs distracts my Breast,
Or that this Blazon of enormous Crimes
Springs from the wanton Licence of the Times.
Therefore I put this Question to your Heart,——
Speak, Culprit—Are you Guilty? Nay, don't Start,
This is a Question all have right to ask,
To answer it with Honour is your Task;
That, If you dare unbosom, I expect,
Till when, I'm Yours, Sir, with all due Respect.

E.M.Hail blest Elizium! sweet, secure Retreat;
Quiet and Contemplation's sacred Seat!
Here may my Life's last Lamp in Freedom burn,
Nor live to light my Country to her Urn:
Die 'ere that huge Leviathan of State
Shall swallow all.—Who thunders at my Gate!
See John—But hah! what Tempest shakes my Cell?
Whence these big Drops that Ooze from ev'ry Shell?
From this obdurate Rock whence flow those Tears?
Sure some Ill Power's at hand—Soft! it appears.

E. M. What's That approaches, John? J. Why Sir, 'tis He.

E. M. What He? J. Why He Himself, Sir; the great He.

E. M. Enough. G. M. Your Slave, Sir. E. M. No Sir, I'm your Slave,
Or soon shall be.—How then must I behave?
Must I fall prostrate at your Feet? Or how—
I've heard the Dean, but never saw him Bow.

G. M. Hoh! hoh! you make me laugh. E. M. So Nero play'd,
Whilst Rome was by his Flames in Ashes laid.

G. M. Well, solemn Sir, I'm come, if you think fit,
To solve your Question. E. M. Bless me! pray, Sir, sit.

G. M. The Door! E. M. No Matter, Sir, my Door won't shut:
Stay here, John; we've no Secrets. G. M. Surly Put!
How restiff still! but I have what will win him
Before we part, or else the Devil's in him.

E. M. I wait your Pleasure, Sir. G. M. Why Fame, you say,
Reports that I'm the Author of To-Day:
I am—But not the Day that you describe,
Black with imagin'd Ills—Your Patriot Tribe,
Those growling, restless, factious Malecontents,
Who blast all Schemes, and rail at all Events;
Whom Ministers, nor Kings, nor Gods can please;
Whose Rage my Ruin only can appease;
That motley Crew, the Scum of ev'ry Sect,
Who'd fain destroy, because they can't direct;
Wits, Common-Council-Men, and Brutes in Fur,
Knights of the Shire, and of the Post.—E.M. This, Sir,
Is Gazetteer Abuse. G. M. These Miscreants dire
Apply the Torch themselves, then cry out Fire;
In Rhime, in Prose, in Prints, and in Debate,
They falsly represent the Nation's State.
Go forth, and see if Britain's fall'n so low;
Fly to her Coasts, and mark the glorious Show:
See Fleets how gallant! See Marines how stout! }
That wait but till the Wind shall turn about. }

E. M. What a whole Twelvemonth! G. M. Pray Sir, hear me out. }
See all their Sails unfurl'd, their Streamers play;
You'd think old Neptune's Self kept Holiday:
These shall protect our Commerce, scour the Main,
The Honour of the British Flag maintain;
Pour the avenging Thunder on the Foe, }
And—E. M. Mighty well; but when are they to go? }

G. M. When? Psha! why look'ee, Sir, that Time will show. }
Next view the martial Guardians of the Land:
Lo! her gay Warriors redden all the Strand:
Cockade behind Cockade, each Entrance keep,
Whilst in their Sheaths ten thousand Falchions sleep.

E. M. But, Sir, 'tis urg'd that these are needless quite,
Kept only for Review, and not for Fight:
That Fleets are Britain's Safety—G. M. Stupid Elves!
Why these, Sir, are to save you from yourselves:
Ye're prone, ye're prone to murmur and rebel,
And when mild Methods fail, we must compel:
Besides, consider Sir, th' Election's near—

E. M.—O, Sir, I'm answer'd—Now the Case is clear.

G. M. Ay,—I shall answer all the rest as well.

E. M. I doubt it not. G. M. On Se—s next you fell:
Fie! that was paw—Se—s are sacred Things,
And no more capable of Ill than—Kings.

E. M. 'Tis granted. G. M. Yet at them your Gall is spit;
You're told they Yea and No as I think fit;
And that if some brave One Rebellious prov'd,
From his Lord's Banquet he was strait remov'd;
Cast into utter Darkness, like the Guest,
Who was not in a Wedding Garment Dress'd.

Well, What of that? should not the Blind be led?
Should not so vast a Body have a Head?
And if one Finger's gangreen'd, sure 'tis best
To lop it off 'ere it infect the rest.
Free P——ts! mere stuff—What would be done?
Let loose, five hundred diff'rent Ways they'd run;
They'd Cavil, Jarr, Dispute, O'return, Project,
And the great Bus'ness of Supply Neglect;
On Grievances, not Ways and Means would go;
Nor one round Vote of Credit e're bestow:
The sinking Fund would strangely be apply'd,
And secret service Money quite denied:
Whilst Soap and Candles we untax'd should rue,
And Salt itself would lose it's Savour too:
Ev'n Gin would then be drank without controul,
And the poor civil List be ne're lick'd whole.
Down go all Pensioners, all Placemen down.
Those lov'd and trusty Servants of the Crown,
Who're always ready at their Chief's Command,
Would have no Vote to save the sinking Land:
Ev'n Levy's Bench might lose it's sacred Weight,
Remov'd, O sad Translation! from the State.
Then Pen's like yours would freely vent their Rage,
No License on the Press, or on the Stage;
Whilst loyal Gazetteer's, tho' ne're so witty,
No more might chasten the Rebellious City:
No more sage Freeman trumpet out my Fame,
Nor unstamp'd Farthing-Posts my worth proclaim.

E. M. Indeed—such dire Calamities attend!
O worse, Sir, worse—Heav'n knows where it might end.
Perhaps Ourself and our dear Brother too,
No longer might our Country's Business do—

E. M. That, Sir, you've done already—rather, then,
Your Business would be done. G. M. Ungrateful Men!
We that have serv'd you at such vast Expence, }
And gone thro' thick and thin. E. M. There's no Defence, }
Would serve your Purpose—Hence, then, good Sirs, Hence; }
Fly, for the Evil Days at Hand, Pray fly—

G. M. What leave my Country to be lost?—Not I;
The Danger's yet but in Imagination,
I hope one Seven Years more to save the Nation.

In vain you Patriot Oafs pronounce my Fall,
Like the great Laureat, S'Blood I'll stand you all.
What tho' you've made the People loath my Name,
I live not on such slender Food as Fame;
And yet that People's mine—My Will obey, }
Implicit Bow beneath my sovereign Sway, }
Whilst these my Messengers prepare my Way; }
These all your Slanders will at Sight refute,
They're sterling Evidence which none dispute.
For these, Content, or to be Damn'd or Sav'd—

E. M.—Nay if they will, why let 'em be enslav'd:
If they will barter all that's Good and Great,
For present Pelf, nor Mind their future State;
If none Thy baleful Influence will withstand,
Go forth, Corruption, Lord it o'er the Land;
If they are Thine for better and for worse,
On Them and on their Children light the Curse.

G. M. Corruption, Sir!—pray use a milder Term;
'Tis only a Memento to be firm;
The Times are greatly alter'd—Years ago,
A Man would blush the World his Price should know:
Scruple to own his Voice was to be bought;
And meanly minded what the Million thought;
Our Age more Prudent, and Sincere is grown,
The Hire they wisely take, they bravely own;
Laugh at the Fool, who let's his Conscience stand,
To barr his Passage to the promis'd Land;
Or, sway'd by Prejudice, or puny Pride,
Thinks Right and Int'rest of a different Side.

E. M. O Nation lost to Honour and to Shame!
So, then, Corruption now has chang'd its Name:
And what was once a paultry Bribe, to Day
Is gently stil'd an Honourable Pay.
Blessings on that great Genius who has wrought
This strange Conversion—Who has bravely bought
Our Liberty from Virtue—Pray go on.

G. M. Of Commerce next you talk—pretend 'tis gone,
To Foreign Climes—Amen, for what I care,
Perdition on the Merchants—They must dare!
To thwart my Purpose—I detest them—E. M. How!
G. M. Yes—And I think I'm even with 'em now.
They would not be convention'd, nor excis'd,
But they shall feel the Scourge themselves advis'd;
They shall be swingingly bewarr'd, I'll swear;
And since they'd not my little Finger bear,
My Loins shall press 'em 'till they guilty plead,
And sue for Mercy at my Feet. E. M. Indeed!
G. M. Aye, trust me, shall they——E. M. But don't tell 'em so; }
For they're a stubborn sturdy Gang you know, }
G. M. O! they'll be supple when their Cash runs low.
Their Purse, which makes them proud and insolent,
A trav'ling with their Commerce shall be sent—
E. M. Take Care they don't send you a trav'ling first;
G. M. No, Sir, I dare 'em now to do their Worst.
Seven Sessions more I am at least secure—
E. M. Nay then you'll crush 'em quite?—But are you sure,
There is a Spirit, Sir? G. M. What Spirit pray?
A Spirit that the Treasury can't lay.
E. M. I'm answer'd Sir,—G. M. Next, Friend, one Word about
Those spiteful Innuendoes you throw out,
That squint at Contracts, Forage, and what not,
'Tis more than Time that those Things were forgot.
You should not link the present with the past—
E. M. Yes when they make one glorious Whole at last;
When, tho' Times differ, Actions still agree,
And what Men were they are—What they will be,
We safely may pronounce—G. M. Well, Sir, but why
On my dear Family and Friends this Cry?
Suppose they've Places, Wealth, and Titles too,
Merit like Ours should surely have its Due.
That squaemish Steward's of all Fools the worst,
That lays not up for his own Houshold first;
Nor takes a proper Care of those staunch Friends,
By whose good Services he gains his Ends.
Besides, who'd drudge the Mill-Horse of the State;
Curst by the Vulgar, envy'd by the Great;
In one fastidious Round of Hurry live,
And join, in Toil, the Matin with the Eve;
Be hourly plagu'd 'bout Pensions, Strings, Translations,
Or, worse! that damn'd Affair of Foreign Nations.
Make War and Treaties with alternate Pain:
First sweat to build, then to pull down again.
Who'd cringe at Levees, or in Closets—Oh!
Stoop to the rough Remonstrance of the Toe?
Did not some Genius whisper, "That's the Road
"To Opulence, and Honours bless'd Abode;
"Thus you may aggrandize yourself, and Race;
"Pension this Knight, or give that Peer a Place."

E. M. So Angria, Sir, as justly might declare,
He plunder'd only to enrich his Heir;
Nor longer would his Piracies pursue,
Than 'till he had provided for his Crew.

G. M. Your Servant, Sir, I think you're pretty free— }
E. M. Why Truth is Truth, Sir, and will out, you see; }
G. M. Yes, s'death! but couple Angria with me!
E. M. I'll say no more on't—G. M. No you've said enough;
And what you next advise, is canting Stuff.

Turn my Eyes inward! not quite so devout;
They've Task sufficient to look sharp without:
And should the fatal Sisters cut my Thread
Some score Years hence—I trouble not my Head }
Where I'm entomb'd, or number'd with what Dead; }
I want no Grave-Stone to promulge my Fame,
Nor trust to breathless Marble for a Name,
Britannia's self a Monument shall stand
Of the bless'd Dowry I bequeath my Land:
Her Sons shall hourly my dear Conduct boast;
They best can speak it, who will feel it most.
But if some grateful Verse must grace my Urn,
Attend ye Gazeteers—Be this the Turn—

Weep, Britons, weep—Beneath this Stone lies He,
Who set your Isle from dire Divisions free, }
And made your various Factions all agree. }

E. M. That's right, G. M. You'd have me quit too—No, I'll still
Drive on, and make you happy 'gainst your Will.

As for your may and may, Sir,—may be Not,
Can my vast Services be There forgot?

As for those lauded Successors you name,
If once in Pow'r, they'd act the very same.
E. M. That's Cobweb Sophistry—Did they not fill
The noblest Posts? And had they not, pray, still,
But that they greatly scorn'd to league with those,
Who were at once their King's and Country's Foes?
G. M. Well, Sir, as there is nothing I can say
Will with your starch'd unbending Temper weigh;
My last best Answer I'll in Writing leave;
Pray mark it—E. M. How! May I my Eyes believe?
G. M. You may—I thought I should convince you, E. M. Yes,
That Fame for once spoke Truth—And as for This—
G. M. Furies! My thousand Bank, Sir, E. M. Thus I Tear,
Go, blend, Corruption, with corrupting Air.
G. M. Amazing Frenzie! Well, if this won't do,
What think you of a Pension? E. M. As of You.
G. M. A Place—E. M. Be gone, G. M. A Title—E. M. is a Lie
When ill conferr'd G. M. A Ribband—E. M. I defie
Farewell then Fool—If you'll accept of Neither,
You and your Country may be damn'd together.