The Gazet in Metre;
OR THE
RHIMING NEWSMONGER
To the Tune of,
Ever take Care of the Parson precise,
Who cants out the Way to Salvation .
With Allowance.
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I.
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SInce the whole World is so set upon News,
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And every Tom Farthing 's a Statist;
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Catching at Stories, of Turks and of Jews ;
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Of Protestant also, and of Papist ;
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Instead of a whining dull Ballad of Love,
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I'll give you a Gazet in Metre;
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And that my Design you may better approve,
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I'll begin at the Chair of Saint Peter .
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II.
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Letters from Rome say, That since the Pope's dead,
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The Conclave do keep a great pother:
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They cannot conclude upon who shall be head,
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But each one opposes his Brother:
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For my part, I care not a pin for their Fude,
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Nor who is elected Successor;
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But let 'em e'n bake as the matter they've brew'd,
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They shall have a Northern Confessor.
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III.
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Ditto , informs us, That he that succeeds,
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Must shut the Pontifical Treasure;
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The Eagle elsewhere must discover her Needs,
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His Holiness is not at leisure:
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The Sacred Exchequer is thriftily lock'd,
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No unhallow'd Petition can enter;
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Tho Caesar had formerly Freedom to knock,
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Yet no man hereafter will venture.
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IV.
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Some say, 'tis because all the Money was sent,
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To assist the Imperial Forces;
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And that the Pope's Nephews did give it a Vent,
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To maintain their extravagant Courses:
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Whether it be so, or whether't be not,
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I'm of an indifferent Temper;
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But that which afflicts me most, is a Plot,
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Now hatching to ruin the Empire.
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V.
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Now let us pass to our other Advice,
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Which we have out of Holland and Flanders ;
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The Success of the Dutch against France , has its Ris[e]
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From the Conduct of English Commanders:
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Great Sirs, I congratulate you for the same,
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Your Fortune is always surprizing;
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Your Stories exceed all the Records of Fame,
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And go beyond Poets Devising.
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VI.
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Schomberg in Ireland has landed his Men,
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And the Navy to Chester' s returned;
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And in the next News 'tis a Hundred to Ten,
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But the Irish their Cities have burned:
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Or we shall hear of Ten thousand or more,
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By the Englishmen put to the Slaughter;
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Besides the Destruction of many a Score,
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That were drowned in taking the Water.
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VII.
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Such mighty Success our brave Armies does Crown
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As cannot be matched in Story;
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If thus we go on, we shall quickly pull down,
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The French , and eclipse all their Glory:
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Monsieur in the Navy must lore his Topsaile,
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For by Sea they can never withstand us;
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And their Armies by Land, in their Conduct will fail
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Tho they are in Hopes to Disband us.
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