THE
Loyal STATES-MAN:
OR, A
Plain Discription of these Present Times.
Tune of, The Sages of Old; or, Let the Souldiers Rejoyce.
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THe Sages of old, in Prophecy told, the cause of a Nation's undoing; But the
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true English breed, no Prophets do need, For each man here seeks his own ruin;
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By grumbling and jarrs, we promote Civil warrs, And preach up false Tenets too many;
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We snarle and we bite, we rail and we fight for Religion, yet no man has any.
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II.
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Then him let's commend,
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That's true to his friend,
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And a Miss that can wittily prattle,
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That delights not in blood,
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But draws when he shou'd,
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And bravely ne'r shrinks from a Battle;
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That rails not at Kings,
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Nor at politick things,
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Nor treason does speak when he's mellow;
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But takes a full glass.
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To King William's success,
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This this is the honest brave fellow.
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III.
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Church-scruples and jars,
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Plunge all Europe in wars,
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English Caesar espouses our quarel;
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Predestin'd to stand
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Against Lewes le Grand,
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And wear his now flowrishing lawrel:
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The cause that is best,
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Now comes to the test,
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For Heav'n will no longer stand newter,
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But pronounce the great doom,
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For old Luther or Rome,
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And prevent all our doubts for the future.
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IV.
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'Twould turn a wise brain,
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To consider what pain
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Fools take to become Polititians:
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Fobs, Bullies, and Cits,
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All set up for Wits,
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And ingeniously hatch new devisions;
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Some shew their hot zeal,
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For a new Common-weal,
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And some for a new Restoration;
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Thus cavel and braw l,
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Till the Mounsier gets all,
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And best proves the wit of the Nation.
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V.
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Tho' we med'cines apply,
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Yet the feaver swells hi[g]h,
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First caus'd by a Catholick knot,
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Which no cure can gain,
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Till the breathing a vein,
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Corrects the mad pulse into quiet:
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Yet what e'er disease,
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On our Country may seize,
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Let's drink to its healing condition;
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And rather wish William
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Were Victor in France,
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Then Lewis were England's Phisitian.
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