An awful Frown ſits on their threatning Brow,
And yet the Soul's all ſmooth, and Calm below;
Thinking in Temper, rather grave than Gay,
Fitted to govern, able to obey.
Nor are their Spirits very ſoon enflam'd,
And if provok'd, not very ſoon reclaim'd.
Fierce when reſolv'd, and fix'd as Bars of Braſs,
And Conqueſt through their Blood can only paſs.
In ſpight of Coward Cold, the Race is Brave,
In Action Daring, and in Council Grave;
Their haughty Souls in Danger always grow,
No Man durſt lead 'em where they durſt not go.
Sedate in Thought, and ſteady in Reſolve,
Polite in Manners, and as Years Revolve;
Always ſecure their largeſt ſhare of Fame,
And by their Courage keep alive their Name.
The lab'ring Poor dejected and ſuppreſt•
See not th' approaching Proſpect of their Reſt.
Knowledge of Liberty's their only want,
And loſs of Expectation's their Content.
Too much ſubjected to immoderate Power,
