BRITANNIA.

Wretched Britannia! Hapless and undone!
How have my Follies call'd this Vengeance down,
And anger'd Heav'n to so severe a Frown?
Shall a Curst Nicety of Honours Law,
Tug from these Fondling Arms, my Dear Nassaw?
Councils, or hated business, call thee hence!
To Love, and Me, nothing's a just pretence.
Injurious War! Curse on the very Word;
Unkind Bellona, if thou'st call'd my Lord,
Shield that dear Bosom from the ungentle Sword.
Gods!- Should Britannia find that Rival there;
What ill remains? What is there left to fear?
Had not rough Sounds, and Groans of Dying Foes,
Charm'd thy brave Youth, I had ignor'd these Woes.
Now less belov'd, and fewer Charms I wear
Than Wounds, or Death it self receiv'd in War;
Ah me! Why was he born a conquerour?

BELGIA.

What Damon fills thy boding Soul with Fears
Nymph, What has rais'd the Storm of Sighs and Tears?

BRITANNIA.

Oh you demand. 'Tis a Discourteous part,
To give the Wound, and Wonder at the Smart.
Have you not rent my Heart, and stab'd my Soul,
And all my Joys with my dear Albion stole?
By you at once of Love, and guard berest,
And to the triumphs of proud Gallia left
Cruel- -yet to such Griefs you'd add Restraint,
And check the Ecchoes of my loud Complaint.

BELGIA.

Thou Rav it, Fond Maid, such Idle Dreams as these
Assist thy Impatience to o'erthrow thy Peace;
Gave I not first thy Albion to thy Arms,
Bold, and Undaunted, full of martial Charm
In Armour were his first Approaches made,
And Warlike Sounds the only Serenade:
Your Infant Loves by War more Sinewy grew,
While Mars on Albion smil'd, no less than you.
Here could I tell the Everlasting Story,
Of my Nassaw, and Noble Albion's Glory.
Had not the dazling lustre of his Name,
Already fill'd the wondering World with fame.
To you, 'twere but Impertinence to prove,
The sole Inducement of Your Heart to Love;
Can you forget what Charms in Honour dwells?
Honour, Divinest of all Magick Spells!
By which my Dastard Soul's secur'd from fear,
And the hoarse Sounds of War delight my Ear.
Suppose our lov'd Nassaw, by fierce Alarms
(The Voice of Glory) summon'd to his Arms.
My Tears were an unpardonable Wrong,
What general e'er was harm'd, who Honour won?
Must such fond Sorrows injure Albion?
Have I less Love than you? Is he less mine?
Yet I can hold a Grief like yours a Crime;
I'd scorn to own, nay Blush, to think a Sin,
You've indulg'd your Heart so fondly in,
Methinks you're bold indeed, who dare Repine
At the Commission of the powers Divine;
Since they are pleas'd to honour Albion so,
While Heaven directs as Generalissimo,
But e'er I push these Martial Thoughts too far,
Which I perceive so ungrateful to Your Ear.
Least your mad Passion by mistake be sand,
Know I've not call'd your Albion to Command,
But to Consult, and to secure your ease,
His business!- Belgia and Britannia's Peace-
And can his Absence, such well manag'd Hours,
Admit of such Ungrateful Signs as yours?
Blush at the foolish Fondness of a Bride-

BRITANNIA.

Blush at the wild excursion of your pride.
My Albion! Could my Albion come from you,
Be my kind Lord, and not ungentle too.
Well, my Step-Mother, now too late I've seen,
What all Your Actions, and your drifts have been.
Why were my Praises spoke to Albion,
Call'd Fair, and Lov'd, and Courted, and Undone?
Malicious Gallia could but Curse my Joys,
Which Belgia gave, and she alone destroys
Now the Fantastick Ape, Laughs, shews her Teeth,
While the dull Croud resounds my killing Grief;
But since my tears must buy you Gallia's smile,
No more let me be call'd the Happy Isle:
My tears- Alas! your Cruelties are more,
You'd quench her thirsty Vengeance with my Gore.
No sooner shall my dear Nassaw be gone,
Neatly retir'd, by yuor Pretences home,
But Gallia claps her Ponyard in my side,
And clears the way for a more Beauteous bride.
Fonder- More Foolish Belgia, to suppose
That my Remove shall not increase your Foes.
Mine shall despise thee, for the Inhuman Deed,
But for thy Crimes, Why should my Albion bleed?
For whom you spread your Machavillian Snares,
And fill with dull (to me dull) States Affairs.
Frown not, my Albion, though I disapprove,
The kindness of my dear mistaken Love,
I shake not for my worthless self so much,
As I can die to think thy dangers such.
Can Belgia boast in thee a larger share?
She may- but not her Love with mine compare,
Should Albion fall her Honour's Sacrifice,
Could her harsh Voice adorn his Obsequies,
Like the soft Mournings of my tender Crys?

BELGIA.

Then my harsh Voice offends your curious Ear,
In your fair Eyes, I'm Ridicul'd, I fear,
But since you've been pleas'd to affront me so,
No fears of mine forbid to let you know,
That you Britannia have been found of late,
Soft to a Scorn, Nice, and Effeminate,
From your Brave Ancestors degenerate.

BRITANNIA.

Hold Angry Matron, hold, What have I done?
Pardon the hasty Errors of my Tongue,

BELGIA.

'Tis your Erroneous Zeal for Albion,
Which, I believe has offer'd me the wrong;
But your Blind Love for him shall never be
Pretence, thus to reproach and injure me.
Britannia, the just Gods, as well as thee,
Could ne'er forget so black a Perjury;
Wou'd I please Gallia with thy Overthrow,
Could Hell contrive, and break so strict a Vow?
You hear'd when I again the Strumpet swore,
Then let her Name offend my Ear no more.
Nor is this all, you'r bolder yet, and dare
Censure the Love I to your Albion bear,
You're Young, and Smooth, and scorn these rough old Hands,
Which wrapt his tender Sides in Swadling Bands;
Tis true, proud Nymph, what you disdain to own,
These Wither'd Breasts gave suck to Albion.
While on my Careful Knee Heaven's Darling sate,
By this Knee rais'd to a more Glorious Fate
The Child with Lawrels play'd, and smil'd on Bays,
While in his Ear I sung his future praise.
this hoarse rough Voice, which you so much despise,
Oft brought kind Morpheus to his half-clos'd Eyes,
Shall not a Nurse, and tender Mother too,
Feel Pangs of Love as sharp and strong as you.
Shall Nuptial Vows, or fair Britannia's Charms
For ever lock my Albion in her Arms.
Lock him for ever from these Longing Eyes,
Belgia (ye Gods!) with Expectations dies.
Why have I Wish'd, and Sigh'd so long in vain?
Partakes Nassaw of his soft Brides Disdain,
And fears to see this Wrinkled Face so long,
'Till I'm scorn'd as much by Albion,-
But see he comes, spight of thy Wrath he'll come.
Nassaw, now to the Gods I'll trust again,
Those Gods I never trusted yet in vain;
When poor Hibernia call'd him to her aid,
(Whose gashly Wounds, made Mars himself afraid.)
'Twas those kind Gods return'd the Mortal Blow,
Heaven will not spare him yet- I Belgia know
There's greater things for Albion yet to do:
But hold- Britannia, you've forgot, I find,
How dear a Pledge your Lord has left behind;-
Thou Smil'st again, How fast thy Sorrow dies,
Sorrow, the fair Britannia's worst Disguise!
Fresh Beauties in thy Cheeks themselves display!
What can the Lovely change pretend to say?

BRITANNIA.

That I no more can for his Absence mourn,
Who leaves so dear a Pledge of his return,
Belgia 'twas cruel, and your fault indeed,
To let my Soul so long with Sorrows bleed,
You've wrong'd my Heart, (Belg.) Then there was wrong for wrong,
Give me your hand, be Friends, and let's a'done.