Beau Trumps monologue (Act 2) — The Group: A Farce

I think with you---- ----unparalleled his effront'ry, When by chican'ry and specious art, 'Midst the distress in which he'd brought the city, He found a few (by artifice and cunning, By much industry of his wily friend The false Philanthrop----sly undermining tool, Who with the Syren's voice---- Deals daily round the poison of his tongue) To speak him fair--and overlook his guilt. They by reiterated promise made To stand his friend at Britain's mighty court, And vindicate his native injur'd land, Lent him their names to sanctify his deeds. But mark the traitor----his high crimes gloss'd o'er Conceals the tender feelings of the man, The social ties that bind the human heart; He strikes a bargain with his country's foes, And joins to wrap America in flames. Yet with feign'd pity, and Satanic grin, As if more deep to fix the keen insult, Or make his life a farce still more complete, He sends a groan across the broad Atlantic, And with a phiz of Crocodilian stamp, Can weep, and wreathe, still hoping to deceive, He cries the gath'ring clouds hang thick about her, But laughs within----then sobs---- ----Alas! my country?