Soon would they our frail Race of Mortals end, Did not kind Heav’n auspicious Succours lend; Sweet Angel-Forms, Peace, Virtue, Health and Love, How near ally’d, how like to those above!  These often drive the Air, those Furies chace And fetter in their own infernal Place:  850 These lent at once NASSAW and ENGLAND Aid, And bright MARIA to our Shores convey’d:  Her, all their Pow’r and all their Charms they gave, To govern what her Heroe came to save.  Nor Envy this, who in her noisome Cell By Traitors in their swift Descent to Hell, Her rising Glories heard, then with a Groan She crawl’d before her Sov’reign’s direful Throne:  A Pile of Sculls the odious Fantom bore, With Bones half-naked mixt, and dropping putrid Gore; 860 There thus—­Shall Heav’n defraud us of our Reign, And BRITAIN, only BRITAIN break her Chain?  What can we there, while more than mortal Grace Forbids our Entrance, and secures the Place?  Awhile I gaz’d and viewed her as I fled, When first she came, till half my Snakes were dead; And had I tarry’d longer near her Throne, Had soon some base insipid Vertue grown:  So fast the wide progressive Ills increase, } If longer unoppos’d our Power will cease; } 870 The base degenerate World dissolve to Peace; } Our boasted Empire there will soon be o’er, And Mortals tremble at our Arms no more.  She said, her Tidings all the Court affright, And doubled Horror fill’d the Realms of Night:  Till out foul Lewdness leap’d, and shook the Place. } The fulsom’st Fiend of all th’ infernal Race; } A crusted Leprosie deform’d her Face; } With half a bloodshot Eye the Fury glar’d, Yet when for Mischief she above prepar’d, 880 She painted and she dress’d, those Arts she knew, And to her self her self a Stranger grew, (Thus old and batter’d Bawds behind the Scenes, New rigg’d and dawb’d, pass on the Stage for Queens;) Nor yet, she cries, of Britain we’ll despair } I’ve yet some trusty Friends in Ambush there, } All is not lost, we’ve still the Theatre:  } I’ll batter Virtue thence, nor fear to gain } New Subjects daily from her hated Reign; } Is not Great D——­ ours and all his Train? } He knows he has new Laurels here prepar’d, } 890 For those he lost above, a just Reward, } For his wide Conquests he’ll command the Guard:  } Headed by him one Foot we’ll scorn to yield,