Fond of your freedom spurn the venal fee, And prove he's only…

With the sports of the field there's no pleasure can vie, While jocund we follow our hounds in full cry.

Why, praise is satire in these sinful days.

Honour’s a mistress all mankind pursue, Yet most mistake the false one for the true: Lur’d by the trappings, dazzled by the paint, We worship oft the idol for the saint.

'Tis not how witty, nor how free, Nor yet how beautifull she be, But how much kinde and true to me.

Wages is a cunning device of the devil, for the benefit of tender consciences, who would retain all the advantages of the slave system, without the expense, trouble, and odium of being slave-holders.

'Twas the blood of the Saxon within them that ran; They held—to be free is the birthright of man.