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While what they want not, what they yet retain,Adds tenfold grief, more anguished throbs of painTo each unnumbered, unrecorded woe,Which bids the bitterest tear of want to flow;But that the comfort, which despotic swayHas yet allowed, stern War must tear away.
Ye cold advisers of yet colder kings,To whose fell breast no passion virtue brings,Who scheme, regardless of the poor man's pang,Who coolly sharpen misery's sharpest fang,Yourselves secure. Your's is the power to breatheO'er all the world the infectious blast of death,To snatch at fame, to reap red murder's spoil,Receive the injured with a courtier's smile,Make a tired nation bless the oppressor's name,And for injustice snatch the meed of fame.Were fetters made for anguish, for despair?Must starving wretches torment, misery bear?
