ev’n on Kings in that sad Hour attends:
Charles found, at last, his People were his Friends;
To Notions, false as Friends, he bid adieu;
These had deceiv’d; the BLOCK spoke plain, but TRUE.
Ne’er may a BRUNSWICK taste such BITTER FRUIT,
But leave the AXE to MANSFIELD, NORTH, and BUTE.
These Lines, inspir’d by CHURCHILL’S laurell’d Shade,
I write, unknown, unpatronized, unpaid:
Proud, if my honest Muse, by chance, has cropp’d
One Flow’r from that fair Wreath which Churchill dropp’d.
Let Johnson toil for Hire, with Falsehoods please;
(NORTH’S FIAT feeds, and DUBBS him with DEGREES.)
His be the SHAME; the gen’rous Transport mine,
To goad a VILLAIN’S Heart at ev’ry Line.
Disdaining Pidlers, who for FLOWRET’S roam,
Like BRUTUS, ROUGH, I’ll plant the Dagger HOME.
[print edition page 155]
TYRANTS and TRAYTORS CASCA ne’er forgives;
Tremble SUCH Monsters whilst that CASCA lives.
The Blasts he blows their GUILTY Souls shall shock,
And drive them to PERDITION and the BLOCK.
Printed and published for the Authors, by T. W. SHAW, in Fleet-Street, opposite Anderton’s Coffee House, where Letters to the Publisher will be thankfully received.
[print edition page 156]
[print edition page 157]
THE
CRISIS
| NUMBER XVIII | To be continued Weekly. |
| SATURDAY, MAY 20, 1775 | [Price Two-pence Half-penny. |
Casca’s Epistle to LORD NORTH
—ita digerit omnia Cælchas.
VIR.1
If sad BRITANNIA wails, in deep Distress,
Her Taxes greater and her Freedom less:
She owes these Grievances to Bute’s vile Tribe,
North’s Dissolution, and a Treas’ry Bribe.
To you my Lord, these honest Lines I send;
To you the Sov’reign’s not the People’s Friend.
The Sov’reign’s Friend? yes, when I think again,
A Friend like Wolsey in a Harry’s reign.2
[print edition page 158]
Harry, who gave his Royal Lusts full scope;
Commenc’d a Devil and renounc’d the Pope.
In Bute and North two Devils make us groan,
And at Quebec the Pope resumes his Throne.
Harry’s despotic Frowns o’er cast us now;
Fate hangs on Bute’s proud Will and George’s Brow.
Below, North represents absconding Bute,
Above, a *Nation dyes by Roy le veut.†
Proud of North’s Name Corruption wears no Veil;
At North’s soft Bribe, no Senator turns Pale.
Shrew’d Walpole never went your Lordship’s length;
But Boldness with supplies has gather’d strength.
Safe from Impeachments in this venal Time,
Each Parricide may triumph in his Crime.
Knaves in your Lordship’s Numbers put their hope;
Lords fear no AX, and Commoners no ROPE,
Virtue’s fair Dawn you’ve clouded with a Sum;
And check’d her Test for Seven Years to come.
ASSOCIATION is a dreadful Sound;
And Bute must dye if Virtue is not bound.
Shou’d Tests ensue; Impeachments wou’d take place,
And old St. Stephen wear an Honest Face.
What must be done?—“dissolve, crys Bute in Fits:
“Dissolve—and stab your Country with new Writs.”
He spoke: and North obedient to his Voice,
With Gold prepar’d his Boroughs for their Choice.
Appriz’d his Members of the dex’trous Cheat,
And plac’d Corruption in her former Seat.
Crouching she licks the Hand by which she’s fed,
And Joys to see Sir Fletcher 3 at her Head;
[print edition page 159]
To see North ape Bute’s dictatorial Nod,
For George deserts his Country and his GOD.
To see her Sons alert when North Commands,
And at his beck lift up Four Hundred Hands.
But whence this mighty influence? whence this Pow’r?
All Virtue’s delug’d in a golden Show’r
A Treas’ry Storm what Virtue can resist?
Ev’n George to drown her, dips his Civil List.
With Thirst hydropic all North’s Patriots drink,
And half a Million scarce will make’ em sink.
From craving more no Decency restrains,
At once they Poison and exhaust our Veins.
Let those, who feel the Civil List decrease,
Call on Mountstewart to restore his Fleece.
Father and Son are equally a Curse:
One dupes the Sov’reign, and one drains the Purse.
In Baubles and douceurs what Treasures fly?
How are the People plunder’d to supply!
Elegance lavish’d on a SCOT is vain,
A Hovel might content an Embryo Thane.
His Ancestors (this Truth is Wormwood now,)
Whose Hut contain’d their Wife, their Bairns, and Cow,
Thought e’er their Union taught their Pride to feel,
A Pounde in Siller was a muckle deale.
But since Scots felt the Blessings of that Law,
Which laid their Thanes on Down instead of Straw,
Bless’d them with Commerce, Arts, and all their Fruits,
And bade them herd no longer with their Brutes;
By Culture humaniz’d their Savage mind,
And plac’d them on a footing with Mankind;
Their haughty