Seton

I fear thy first surmise resolves to truth, Unless kind Heaven doth send us speedy aid; He is no idle, no inglorious foe Goaded by youth, ambition, rival factions; And like his father, whom that faction duped, Too lofty-minded for his subjects’ weal. Had not rich France, the lion lured aside, He’d mounced us long ere now. Alas! alas! I can unfold no more.