But (not to make a brave and honest Pride
Try those means first, She must disdain when tried)
There are a thousand ways, a thousand arts,
By which, and fairly, Men of real parts
May gain a living, gain what Nature craves;
Let Those, who pine for more, live, and be slaves.
Our real wants in a small compass lye,
But lawless Appetite with eager eye,
Kept in a constant Fever, more requires,
And we are burnt up with our own desires.
Hence our dependence, hence our slav'ry springs;
if contented, are as great as Kings.
Ourselves are to Ourselves the cause of ill;
We may be Independent, if we will.
The Man who suits his Spirit to his state
Stands on an equal footing with the Great,
MOGULS themselves are not more rich, and He,
Who rules the English nation, not more free.
Chains were not forg'd more durable and strong
For  than others, but They've worne them along,
And therefore wear them still, They've quite forgot
What Freedom is, and therefore prize her not.
Could They, tho' in their sleep, could They but know
The blessings which from INDEPENDENCE flow,
Could They but have a short and transient gleam
Of LIBERTY, tho' 'twas but in a dream,
They would no more in bondage bend their knee,
But, once made Freemen, would be always free.
The Muse if She one moment freedom gains,
Can never more submit to sing in chains.
Bred in a cage, far from the seather'd throng,
The Bird repays his keeper with his song,
But, if some playful child sets wide the door,
Abroad he flies, and thinks of home no more,
With love of Liberty begins to burn,
And rather starves than to his cage return.