The OXFORD Alarman's Speech to the D. of M. when hi [...] Grace made his Entrance into that Ci [...], about Sept. 1680.
STout HANIBAL before He came to Age,
Perpetual Wars with
Rome was sworn to wage!
You lead Us to such Wars; & Happy We!
Great Prince▪ You are a Solder good as He;
Tho some will say (to give the Devil his due,)
He was as good a Protestant as You.
You to that whore of whores, the whore of
Rome,
Devoted from your own fair Mothers womb,
Tho in the Schools of Jesuits th
[...]e bred,
You scorn'd to learn of them to
[...]rite or Read:
A PROTESTANT the more to be admir'd,
That never were instructed, but inspir'd.
So unconcern'd from
Popery You pass,
No use of Understanding in the Case.
True Interest, that all other things or'e powers,
And Gen'rous Indignation made You Ours:
Even so in
Spain to Mass come trading Jews,
Cast Drabs turn
Quakers but to spite the Jews.
But Fears and Jealousies of You we scorn,
That were so true a Son of Honour born;
And since have made both
Gog and
Magog bleed,
Act but the
Demagogue, you'l do the Deed:
You'l
Dam and
Ram proud
Antichrist to Hell;
But force him first to work one
Miracle.
He that with four hard words, and one grave Nod,
Turns an insipid
Wafer into
God;
Were You a Dough-bak'd DUKE, with less ado,
To Prince of
Wales may Transubstantiate You.
Do You but say't, we'll swear that You are so,
And rather kiss your Hand than kiss his Toe:
Resolv'd, resolv'd it must not be gainsaid;
Faith we'll believe your Mother was a Maid.
Why should you think Ambition any Crime?
We'll make you Duke of
Venice in good time:
Or, if You scruple to Usurp the Crown,
Having once rais'd Us, You may then sit down:
You or your Friends shall have the foremost place;
Perhaps we'll joyn Sir
A—st—ng with your Grace:
Whether
You Reign or
He, 'tis much at one,
Great
Alexander's dear
Hephestion.
But when you come to reap these goodly Fruits,
Sweet Sir, Remember these our humble suits.
First,
Let these Lordly Bishops go to pot;
'Tis plain their Lordships all are in the PLOT;
They hold none Lawful Heirs, but Lawfully begot.
Our
Commonwealth's a Castle in the Air,
If we still Pray for
KING in
Common-Prayer.
These Paltry Schollars, blast them with one Breath,
Or they'l Rhime Your Grace and Us to Death.
Then O Brave We! then Hei for our good Town!
Then up go We when Wit and Sense go down.
FINIS.
A Canto on the new Miracle wrought by the D. of M. curing a young Wench of the Kings Evil, as it is related at large by B. Harris in his Prot. Intelligence, publish'd Friday Jan. 7th, 1681. to prevent false Reports.
AS Popish Farriers use t'imploy
In their own Trade the good St.
Loy;
The Saint to whom they have recourse,
As to Heav'ns
Master of the Horse;
To Him they lowdly cry for Mercy
On ragged Colts that have the Farcy:
For Hackneys gall'd to Him they pray,
And drink dead drunk upon his Day:
So to His Grace of
M— trots
A
Folly Fole that had the Botts;
For still she knew, and 'twas no News,
He keeps the Mares, tho not the
Mews.
But had you seen the skittish Jade,
You would have thought her Drunk or Mad;
For at first dash his Hand she seiz'd,
Much was th'ambitious
Heroe pleas'd.
So sweetly did
Don Quixot grinn,
When the Maid
Marrian of the Inne,
He thought was some Enchanted Queen.
Askt his dead-doing Hand to kiss;
But what
White Devil danc'd in this?
Some Fly, some Rat, or great old Puss,
Or Spirit
Mephostophilus;
Or Pug, that
Paracelsus wore
In th'Pomel of his Sword before;
Or Healing Virtue that as rare is,
Is sent His Grace by's Aunt of Fayries,
Who aids him thus in hugger mugger;
So did
Doll Common Abel Drugger.
Some sweaty Devil in his Palm,
Transfuses Brine instead of Balm;
And Brine you know is good for th'Itch,
In any Mangy Dog or Bitch;
Long in his Fist the
Leprous Drab,
Paddles and pores familiar Scab!
The Witch her
Dam had set her Fancy
Agog upon this
Chyromancy;
To view each Line the Hag importunes,
And thus young Gypsie reads his Fortunes,
The Men of
Westminster shall pass
High Votes in Honour of your Grace;
No Prayers for fear of the
Black Rod,
They'l Vote (I fear) no
King, no
God.
Great stickling there shall be for Two,
Pillory'd
Benjamin, and
You.
What will You give Me this next Spring,
If then You are not Crown'd a
King?
By
Oats before we reap next Crop,
Oats in a Tub shall Preach You up.
So
Sybil ended her vile guessing,
And each to other gave their Blessing.
But O the Green-sick Girls may boast,
This Duke hath cur'd Them to His Cost;
Tho now he cuts his Capers high,
He may with
Falstaff one day cry;
When Age hath set him in the Stocks,
A Pox of my Gout, a Gout on my Pox.
The
Lyon Rampant is too wise,
To touch a Prince though in disguise;
Much less a Prince so Kind and Civil,
To touch a Kingdom for
Kings-Evil.
He means to make it for its health,
A
Common-Whore, a
Common-wealth.
The Stroaker
Graitrix was a Sot,
And all his Feat-tricks are forgot;
But
Duke Trinculo, and
Tom Dory,
Will be a Famous Quack in Story.
Let every scabby City-Cuckow,
Fly into your
Hedge-lane to look you.
If seventh Sons do things so rare,
In You seven Fathers have a share;
Shew us some more of these fine mocks,
Shew your
Black Art, shew your
Black Box;
'Tis thought you've there some pure Receipt,
Great
Mountibank of our sick State.
Your
Zany, who this Cure reveals,
Tells us in
March your Highness heals.
FINIS.