Ere the blabbing eastern scout, The nice morn, on th' Indian steep From her cabin'd loop-hole peep.
And, re-assembling our afflicted powers, consult how we may henceforth most offend.
For what is glory but the blaze of fame?
Laws can discover sin, but not remove it
These are thy glorious works, Parent of good!
Who can in reason then or right assume monarchy over such as live by right his equals, if in power or splendor less, in freedom equal?