The Muse too long with idle glories fed,
And train'd to trumpet o'er the warlike dead,
The wanton fain on giddy plumes would soar,
To Gallic Loire and Jordan's humbled shore;
Again would teach the Saracen and Gaul,
At EDWARD'S and at HENRY'S name to fall;
Romantick heroes! prodigal of blood;
What numbers stain'd each ill-disputed flood!
Tools to a Clergy! warring but to feast
With spoils of provinces each pamper'd Priest.
Be dumb, fond Maid; thy sacred ink nor spill
On specious Tyrants, popularly ill;
Nor be thy comely locks with Roses dight
Of either victor colour, Red or White.