Fye! fye! Sir James! it cruel is
Of the old Dutchman to make prize.
Tho', on enquiry, you may find
It was for good King Cong. designed,
Do'st think it is an honest job
This Mity bunch of Kings to rob?
The Wine they want to cheer their spirits:
The Cordage to reward their merits:
Tea's now no more a cursed plant;
It now has Virtue — which they want.
Their Linen and their Silks return —
They're all in rags; their garments torn!
Yet e'en of rags nigh destitute —
The bullion which their friends recruit.
Tho' by Experiment you find
Their Bark is Jesuits, rescind:
And I dare tell you, free as wink,
Detain their Salt , they then must stink:
Or, if you mean at all to save,
Their Brandy let the Varlets have.