Prologue

Peace to the muse's empire — let the stage
Shun civil war , and only act its rage:
While rising strife divides our neighbouring state,
To prove our taste abhorrent of debate,
We soften feuds , with a pacific scheme,
And take a good old treaty , for our theme .

F AR be the omen , that attends the name.
Treaties, in England , are of losing fame ;
In Bocalini 's scale, they treaties lay,
The more thrown in, the lighter , still, they weigh ,
Tho', says Comines , in war , these English beat ,
Morbleu , we Frenchmen souce 'em , when they treat .

Such satire might be just, in ages past,
But no bad politicks have strength, to last.
How can it, now, be truth, when Britain 's kings
Stretch over Europe , their protective wings?
See the first seeds of jarring purpose rise,
And mark the growing guilt , with guardian eyes.
'Till forc'd accord the promis'd harvest sweeps,
And all, at once, is peace — and murder sleeps .

A WAY , with parties , and their partial fears;
Whence our long calm , of twenty peaceful years?
Why so remote, do these state thunders spread,
Nor break, in dang'rous nearness , o'er our head?
Half thy lov'd blessings, liberty , would cease,
Cou'd war, and rapine, force the fence of peace:
But, like a safe-guard mountain , stands the throne ,
Nor hear we of a storm , 'till 'tis o'erblown .

How greater, far, this pow'r to save , than kill ,
The wish how god-like ! and how vast the skill!
The hand of ruin we, with ease, employ,
And every puny tyrant can destroy:
But, like the God , who bids the waves be still ,
To curb the rage of struggling war, at will!
To say to monarchs — Let your discord rest ,
I will not see the world, I guard, distrest .
— This is, indeed, to rule — Such princes claim,
If not a sounding , yet a shining , fame.
Faction but helps the greatness , it defies,
And lives, but by the mercy , it denies.
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