Ye nobles who surround the British throne,
Reflect its lustre, and improve your own;
You who resemble, in rich robes of state,
That majesty august on which you wait,
Witness how often his decisive sense,
His wit, his art, and copious eloquence,
Have singly won the question to his side,
Made Oxford blush, and St. John drop his pride;
Whilst every ear was with his accents charm'd,
As every breast was with his ardour warm'd:
Faction was touch'd and felt the secret force,
Dumb, and convicted, but without remorse,
Envy with rage contending in her face,
To see his triumph and her just disgrace.