--Every wrinkle
which care has imprinted on your brow, every tremulous infirmity which
constant watchfulness has introduced into your frame, acting as mementos
that the day of account cannot be far distant.--The iron you wear on
your bosom, that by its stern pressure tells you what you deserve.--The
public clamour, which will not now permit you to immolate the confined
victims whom your own lips have pronounced innocent of recent
provocations, and against whom you dare not revive the charge of
acknowledged resistance, which, by long impunity, you seem to have
pardoned. All these reasons are pledges for our safety. You cannot
further tempt the sufferance of Englishmen. Your declining health makes
you fear to add to the long indictment which your crimes have prepared
against you.
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds,
Upon Death's purple altar now,
See where the victor-victim bleeds:
All heads must come to the cold tomb;
Only the actions of the just
Smell sweet, and blossom in the dust.
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