Sonnet on Arbitrary Government

Boast not your state, slaves of despotic sway, Where wanton Gallia, 'midst her vine-clad hills, Her olive bowers, her myrtle-shaded rills, Her mild air's fan, her genial sun's survey:

Nor ye, where Asia like a queen sits gay, 'Midst her rich groves where odorous balm distils, And the charm'd eye th' Elysian landscape fills, And hand in hand young Spring and Autumn play:

Each boon to you your haughty lords deny, And at their will your frail lives you resign: Behold, and 'midst your flowery scenes repine! Under bleak Albion's cloud-envelop'd sky, Her meanest sons secure enjoy their own, And bow to Heaven and Liberty alone.