  SPEAK, satire; for there’s none can tell like thee Whether ’tis folly, pride, or knavery That makes this discontented land appear Less happy now in times of peace than war? Why civil feuds disturb the nation more Than all our bloody wars have done before? Fools out of favour grudge at knaves in place, The court preferments make men knaves in course, But they which would be in them would be worse. ’Tis not at foreigners that we repine, Would foreigners their perquisites resign; The grand contention’s plainly to be seen, To get some men put out, and some put in. For this our senators make long harangues, And florid members whet their polished tongues. Statesmen are always sick of one disease, And a good pension gives them present ease; That’s the specific makes them all content With any king and any government. Good patriots at court abuses rail, And all the nation’s grievances bewail; But when the sovereign’s balsam’s once applied, The zealot never fails to change his side; And when he must the golden key resign, The railing spirit comes about again. Who shall this bubbled nation disabuse, While they their own felicities refuse, Who the wars have made such mighty pother, And now are falling out with one another: With needless fears the jealous nation fill, And always have been saved against their will: Who fifty millions sterling have disbursed, To be with peace and too much plenty cursed: Who their old monarch eagerly undo, And yet uneasily obey the new? Search, satire, search; a deep incision make; The poison’s strong, the antidote’s too weak. ’Tis pointed truth must manage this dispute, Whet thy just anger at the nation’s pride, And with keen phrase repel the vicious tide; To Englishmen their own beginnings show, And ask them why they slight their neighbours so. Go back to elder times and ages past, And nations into long oblivion cast; To old Britannia’s youthful days retire, And there for true-born Englishmen inquire. Britannia freely will disown the name, And hardly knows herself from whence they came; Wonders that they of all men should pretend To birth and blood, and for a name contend. Go back to causes where our follies dwell, And fetch the dark original from hell. Speak, satire, for there’s none like thee can tell. Daniel Defoe. |
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