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No Miſery's ſo great, but they make worſe,
Each others Beeing, and each others Curſe.
They mingle Death with every punct of Time,
And only in Deſtruction are ſublime;
Slow Poiſons which no Antidote can cure,
Lingring in Life and in Deſtruction ſure;
Potent in ſtrength their ſtrong Dominions grow,
Not Men but Nations they can overthrow.

Wake Scotland from thy long Lethargic Dream,
Seem what thou art, and be what thou ſhalt ſeem,
Shake off the Poverty, the ſloth will dy,
Succeſs alone can quicken Induſtry.
No more the bondage of reproach endure,
Or bear thoſe Harms thou canſt ſo quickly cure.
To Land Improvement and to Trade apply,
They'l plentifully pay thine Induſtry.
The barren Muirs ſhall weighty ſheaves beſtow,$\scriptstyle {\left.{\begin{matrix}\ \\\\\ \\\ \ \end{matrix}}\right\}\,}$
Th' uncultivated Vales rich Paſtures ſhow,
The Mountains Flocks and Herds in ſtead of Snow.

Natures a Virgin very Chaſt and coy,
To Court her's nonſence, if ye will enjoy,
She muſt be raviſh't,
When ſhe's forc't ſhe's free,
A perfect Proſtitute to Induſtry;
Freely ſhe opens to th' Induſtrious hand,

And pays them all the Tribute of the Land.