AIM then no more, fond Prince, at  Throne,
Wake from the flatt'ring Dream, and guard thy own,
In ev'ry Element alike we Reign,
And launch our ready Squadrons on the Main:
Our Champions, jocund o'er the flowing Bowl,
Reigns in their Wooden Worlds, from Pole to Pole;
Fearless of Danger, cut their conqu'ring Way,
And from invading Tyrants scour the Sea.
Safer thou might'st in Lakes of Sulphur sleep,
Than brave these dreadful Masters of the Deep:
Beneath their Cannons roar, thy Flaggs must fall,
presides, and these are  all.
These, bold as Lyons, will the Fight maintain,
Or drive thee back, or sink thee in the Main:
Tho' Boisterous as the Winds at Sea they roar,
They're gentle all, as Southern Gales on Shore.
Th' Engagement past, the tender Thoughts return,
And for the Fair in Love's foft Fires they burn;
In Beauty's dear Embraces lull'd they lie,
But when their  calls, Her strongest Foes defie.