AN ANSWER TO THE SATYR Upon the French KING.
WHY all this Rage,
Jack? Whence this sad disaster?
What makes thee thus abuse thy Royal Master!
Why all this Passion for
Italian Molly,
That thou could'st wish to
Firk a Bumm with
Holly?
Had'st thou no other way to shew thy Folly?
And is't not monstrous thus to shift thy Sails,
And Ridicule the vertuous
Prince of
Wales?
The feeble
Prop of
Abdicated Right;
The
Hope of each expiring
Jacobite.
But why the Devil, must the
Turks and
Tartars,
Lamented be as
Confessors, and
Martyrs?
Is it to let us understand your mind,
And know, to what
Religion you're inclin'd?
If so, I'll Swear You are the fittest Man
To write a Comment on the
Alcoran;
For if the
Fable won't with Reason chime,
You'll make Amends; and Daub it o're in
Rhime.
Lord! What strange Times must we expect to Come,
When each
Non-juror turns a
Whipping Tom?
Faith 'tis high time the
Whiggs shou'd all be jogging:
If once the
Tory Poets talk of
Flogging;
Or send their brawny Buttocks to the
Tanners,
Since
Oates's
Pennance can't Reform their Manners.
Forsake thy
Muse, Jack; take a
School; 'tis better
To Flogg Boys
Arses, than pay Scores with Meeter.
As once you in a merry Frollick told one,
A young
Bum-fiddle's better than an old one.
Then, stead of
Tythe-Piggs, Quarter Pay comes in,
To furnish out your now dismantled
Chin.
By help of this you may Restore your Nose,
Retrieve your
Pimples, and Repair your Cloaths,
Know where to
Dine when your Intestines croke,
And not be forc'd to Stuff your Gutts with Smoke;
Constrained no more, by Nodding and by Beckening,
To Intimate the
Bar must Score the Reckoning;
Have always ready Coin your
Club to pay:
And
Sheppard will Rejoice to see the day,
When he no more shall count his Summs on
Tick,
Nor you complain that
Publick Faith is sick.
Then, take a
Friend's Advice, and Change betimes
To
Penitential Prose your
Mungrel Rhimes.
WILLIAM and
LEWIS mount a nobler Pitch,
Than your enfeebled
Malice e're can reach.
The glorious Beams of their
concentring Light,
Contracts your
Power, and Disdains your
Spite.
Your Haggard Muse has chose a Theme too high:
The Eagle's not a
Quarry for the Fly,
LONDON, Printed for E [...] Whitlock, near Station [...]dly 1697.