III. to the Queen, at Supper

With love, though rude, we crowd this hallow'd place, And clog that triumph which we mean to grace, To view the Queen, that frees us from alarms, Secures our quiet, and directs our arms. England before its ruin'd trade deplor'd, A mourning victor and disputed lord. Now mouldering fleets in Gallic harbours lie, While British ships their double world defy. Our Muses hear the battles from afar, And sing the triumphs, and enjoy the war. This now; but soon the quivering spear they'll wield, And lead the shouting squadrons to the field. They'll serve that Princess whom before they sung, Defend that Queen beneath whose eye they sprung.

So spreading oaks, from lovely Windsor born, Shall shelter Britain, which they now adorn: With swelling sails o'er distant seas they'll go, And guard that Goddefs by whose care they grow.