No! in thy  rude Slumbers take,
And dream of Conquests thou shalt never make;
At distance be thy Leathern Doublet worn,
Nor risque thy Life to purchase certain Scorn;
For now the  apprehend
The dismal Consequence of such a Friend:
Begin to tremble at the Truths they hear,
And vow their Champions shall for  declare:
They fear thy Tast shou'd lead young  astray,
And quite unman their Monarch ev'ry way:
In his Excuse they still would have to tell,
Tho' War's his Foe, He loves exceeding well;
The Proof from whence he sprung, is'not to Fight;
His  proves  Right.