nce, boldly prompts you on,
I give my voice, and when one day hath pass'd,
In whose swift hours, may be wrought, highly up,
The resolution, of the soldiery,
With soothing words, and ample promises,
Of rich rewards, in lands and settlements,
From the confiscate property throughout,
These rebel colonies, at length subdu'd;
Then march we forth, beat up their drowsy camp,
And with the sun, to this safe capital,
Return, rich, with the triumphs of the war.
And be our plan, that which brave Haldiman,
Ere yet recall'd, advis'd to us. Let first,
Brave Howe, and Clinton, on that western point,
Land with the transports, and mean time Burgoyne,
With the artillery, pour sharp cannonade,
Along the neck, and sweep, the beachy plain,
Which lies to Roxborough, where yon western stream,
Flowing from Cambridge, mixes with the Bay.
Thus, these AMERICANS, shall learn to dread,
The force of discipline, and skill in arms.

ACT III.

SCENE I. _Bunkers-Hill._

_Enter GARDINER, with seven hundred men._

GARDINER.

This is the hill, brave countrymen, whose brow
We mean to fortify. A strong redoubt,
With saliant angles, and embrasures deep,
Be speedily thrown up. Let each himself,
Not undeserving, of our choice approve,
For out of thousands, I have challeng'd you,
To this bold enterprise, as men of might,
And valour eminent, and such this day,
I trust, will honour you. Let each his spade,
And pick-axe, vig'rously, in this hard soil,
Where I have laid, the curved line, exert.
For now the morning star, bright Lucifer,
Peers on the firmament, and soon the day,
Flush'd with the golden sun, shall visit us.
Then gallant countrymen, should faithless Gage,
Pour forth his lean, and half-starv'd myrmidons;
We'll make them taste our cartridges, and know,
What rugged steel, our bayonets are made of;
Or if o'er charg'd, with numbers, bravely fall,
Like those three hundred at Thermopylae,
And give our Country, credit in our deaths.

ACT IV.

SCENE I. _Boston._

GAGE [_solus_].

Oh, sweet tranquillity, and peace of soul,
That in the bosom of the cottager,
Tak'st up thy residence--cannot the beams,
Of royal sunshine, call thee to my breast?
Fair honour, waits on thee, renown abroad,
And high dominion, o'er this Continent,
Soon as the spirit, of rebellious war,
Is scourg'd into obedience. Why then, ye Gods,
This inward gnawing, and remorse of thought,
For perfidy, and breach of promises!
Why should the spouse, or