How durst th', I say, oppose thy curship 'Gainst arms, authority and worship?

Butler's Hudibras.

The resty knaves are overrun with ease,
As plenty ever is the nurse of faction:
If in good days, like these, the headstrong herd
Grow madly wanton and repine; it is
Because the reins of power are held too slack,
And reverend authority of late

Has worn a face of mercy more than justice.
Rowe's Jane Shore.

The state is out of time; distracting fears
And jealous doubts jar in our public counsels;
Amidst the wealthy city, murmurs rise,
Loud railings, and reproach, on those that rule,
With open scorn of government; hence credit,
And public trust 'twixt man and man are broke,
The golden streams of commerce are withheld,
Which fed the wants of needy hinds, and artizans,
Who therefore curse the great, and threat rebellion.
Rowe's Jane Shore.

Curse on the innovating hand attempts it!
Remember him, the villain, righteous heaven,
In thy great day of vengeance! blast the traitor!
And his pernicious counsels; who, for wealth,
For pow'r, the pride of greatness, or revenge,
Would plunge his native land in civil wars.

Rowe's Jane Shore.

When shall the deadly hate of faction cease,
When shall our long divided land have rest,
If every peevish, moody malcontent,
Shall set the senseless rabble in an uproar?
Fright them with dangers, and perplex their brains,
Each day with some fantastic giddy change?
Rowe's Jane Shore.
For forms of government let fools contest;
Whate'er is best administer'd is best.

Pope's Essay on Man. Who strikes at sov'reign pow'r had need strike home;

For storms that fail to blow the cedar down,
May tear the branches, but they fix the roots.
Jeffrey's Edwin.

The more the bold, the bustling, and the bad,
Press to usurp the reins of power, the more
Behoves it virtue, with indignant zeal,
To check their combination.

Thomson.

I do despise these demagogues, that fret
The angry multitude: they are but as
Che froth upon the mountain wave the bird
That shrieks upon the sullen tempest's wing.
Sir A. Hunt's Julian.

Permitted oft, tho' not inspir'd by Heaven, Successful treasons punish impious kings

Dr. Johnson's Irene Their eyes look fire on him who questions them. The hollow murmurs of their mutter'd wrath Sound dreadful thro' the dark extended ranks, Like subterranean grumblings of an earthquake Joanna Baillie's Basil.

The land is full of blood: her savage birds
O'er human creatures do scream and batten:
The silent hamlet smokes not; in the field
The aged grandsire turns the joyous soil:
Dark spirits are abroad, and gentle worth,
Within the narrow house of death, is laid
An early tenant.

Joanna Baillie's Ethwald

Rebellion! foul dishonouring word,
The holiest cause that tongue or sword
Whose wrongful blight so oft has stain'd
Of mortal ever lost or gain'd!
How
many a spirit born to bless
Hath sunk beneath that withering name,
Whom but a day's, an hour's success
Had wafted to eternal fame!

As exhalations, when they burst
From the warm earth, if chill'd at first,
If check'd in soaring from the plain,
Darken to fogs and sink again;—
But if they once triumphant spread
Their wings above the mountain-head,
Become enthroned in upper air,
And turn to sun-bright glories there!
Moore's Lalla Rooks

I know that there are angry spirits
And turbulent mutterers of stifled treason,
Who lurk in narrow places, and walk out
Muffled to whisper curses to the night;
Disbanded soldiers, discontented ruffians,
And desperate libertines who brawl in taverns.
Byron's Doge of Venice.