Prologue

Vertues, and Vices, are to Realms confin'd: And, Climates give a Tincture to the Mind. Still This, or That, Peculiar Inclination Remains, Unalter'd;—and denotes a Nation. Thus Rivers flow; thus Mountains, ever, stand; The Marks, through every Age, of every Land. Britons, you'll see, when Vanoc comes before yee, The Love of Freedom is your ancient Glory. The Romans, first, this Native Vertue broke; Made us Polite;—and bow'd us to the Yoke. The Saxons, then, Unpolish'd,—greatly Rude, Strangers to Luxury,—and Servitude, Reviv'd the British Manliness of Soul, That spurns at Tyranny, nor brookes Controul. In Time, another Set of Romans came; And brought worse Slavery:—Though they chang'd the Name: Tamed us with Luxuries of a different Kind; And made plain Truth distasteful to the Mind. By Nassaw's Aid, at last, we drive Them, hence; And, once again, return to common Sense. In Britain, ever may It keep Possession! Establish'd, by the Protestant Succession. Blest in a Prince, whose high-traced Lineage springs From the famed Race of our Old Saxon Kings; Our Zeal for Liberty we, safely, own:— He makes it the firm Basis of his Throne. Remember, then, the Dangers, you have past:— And, let your Earliest Virtue—be your Last.