(4)
Howe're 'tmust be confest, the Gallick Pow'rs
Can ne're Engage on Equal Terms with Ours.
In Nature we have th' Odds, they Dread, we Scorn,
The English o're the French are Conq'rors Born.
The Terrour still of our Third Edward's Name
Rebukes their Pride, and Damps their tow'ring Fame;
Nor can the Tide of many rouling Years
Wash the stain'd Fields of Cressey and Poictiers.
A pointed Horrour strikes their Bosomes still,
When they survey that famous, fatall Hill,
Where Edward with his Host Spectator stood,
And left the Prince to make the Conquest good.
The Eagle thus from her fledg'd Young withdraws,
Trusts 'em t'engage whole Troops of Kites and Daws
Nor has the black Remembrance left their Brest
How our Fifth Harry to their Paris prest,
Whilst France wept Blood for their hot Dauphin's Jest.
We forc't their Cavalry their Foot t'ore-run,
As Tides withstood, bear their own Billows down:
Such was the Virtue of our Ancestours,
And such, on just Resentment, shall be Ours;
Our Temper'd Valour just Pretence requires,
As Flints are Struck, before they shew their Fires.
FINIS.
