⟨CAESAREM & FORTUNAM Vehis PARAPhRASEd.⟩
⟨OR A
Poem on the Kings ResoluTiON of going foR IReLAND⟩
Caesarem & Fortunam Vehis, PARAPHRAS'D: OR A POEM on the Kings Resolution of going for Ireland.
GO Stately
Argonaute! may prosperous Gales
All from above conspire to fill thy Sails;
Thy Cargo is Three Crowns,
Caesar to boot;
And he alone worth more, from Head to Foot:
Let
Neptune waft thee! and his Trident sway
St.
George's Channel, to make smooth his way,
Until thou dost arrive unto that Land,
Where
Teagues inhabit, which he should command.
No sooner put a Shore, there mayest thou be
As soon a Conquest, as we late did see
England subdu'd; where thou didst only Land
And we were sav'd, with Heav'n in every Hand.
Great! is thy Character;
Success, thy Name,
To add to
William-Henry's greater Fame.
Thou needst not fetch St.
Peter's Keys from
Rome,
No, nor St.
Patrick's Cloak out of the Loom,
To bless thy Enterprize. Victorious Youth,
Thou dost not steer by Legends, but by Truth:
Thou hast a greater Influence, better Guide,
Thy Convoy both by Land and Sea beside.
Methinks I see thee drein up every Bog,
Methinks I see thee root out every Log.
And that each Man about thee in thy sight
Another
Strongbow is, to claim thy right.
And every Bullet in its place did lurk,
When sent abroad, ordain'd to do thy Work.
Methinks I see
Transub, with Irish Breeding,
With his Heart aking, and his Nose a bleeding,
Distracted with his
Teagues, all giving ground,
When
William's Drums do beat, his Trumpets sound.
Guilt is a Poltron, Innocence is stout;
And from the Jaws of Hell helps Vertue out.
Methinks I hear along the River
Shannon
Hundreds bid, for a Guide to
Balilanon;
As my Lord
Lile (of old) did to
Dunganon;
Thence to escape; giving the
Teagues the Loose,
The French King.
To his
Dear Joyes; first brought him to this Noose.
St.
Patrick purg'd the much more harmless Beast,
Of Venom, in the Men we see encreast.
[Page] Great Monarch! that is left to thy sole Pow'rs,
Peopling anew that Land, and to call it yours;
In spight of
Grumbletonians, halting Knaves,
Who fondly know not, why they would be Slaves.
But
Orange! he has fenc'd us, while we see
The
Belgick Lion with our Three ag
[...]e.
Let
Lewis Rhod'mont
[...]de, and
J
[...]mmy whine,
King
William will drink Rhenish Claret Wine
One Day in
France, for to controll the
Seine:
And when his Troops the
Macs and
O's reduces,
Le Grand or
Rhoan's Whelp, wo to thy
Flower de Luces!
He breaks thy Triple League, form'd to become
The Ruine and the Bane of Christendom.
The
Ottoman's baffled,
Jemmy's Hook's in 's Nose;
And Devil's-gift
Lewis, he too has his Throws,
No Midwifry will serve to save him blows,
No, tho the Maid of
Orleans interpose.
Until he be reduc'd by th' Empire's Lance
From all's Encroachments, to his Isle of
France:
There behold
Jemmy, Lewis drawing Cuts,
Who best Shoots Rovers, having lost their Butts;
When in comes
William-Henry, spoils their Sport,
And hits the Mark, bless'd be Providence for't.
So with
Augustus having clear'd the
Age
Of every violent Humour, wilder Rage
He seems, all Storms and Tempests being furl'd,
To settle Truth and Peace o're all our World.
London, Printed for G. Wallup. 1690.