Curse on the shouts of that licentious Throng,
Whose merriment (more brutal than the song
Of mad Agave, when wild Haemus o'er
Her Pentheus' mangled limbs the mother bore;)
Proclaims the fall of Liberty: — ye shades
Of mighty Chiefs, from your Elysian glades
Look down benign, avert the dire presage,
Nor with two Charles's brand one sinful age.
O, my poor country! what capricious tide
Of Fortune swells the Tyrant's motley pride!
Around his brows yon servile Prelates twine
The stale and blasted wreath of Right Divine;
While Harlots, like the Coan Venus fair,
Move their light feet to each lascivious air.