THE
King of Polands
LAST SPEECH
To His COUNTRY-MEN.
|
I Know, you hope all once to be
|
Great Men of Note and Majesty;
|
For this our now Supremacy
|
Is Nonsence.
|
Why should one Man for ever sway
|
A Scepter, (whos but made of Clay?)
|
Why may not we our selves obey
|
In Conscience?
|
But now tis come, Alas, we see,
|
That all our Fame turns Infamy:
|
Ah! such a thing is Policy
|
With Tories
|
The buzzing Jealousies and Fears,
|
Into the Peoples listning Ears,
|
For all those many busie years,
|
Are Stories.
|
Since in late Plots w have gone astray,
|
Tis time to look another way,
|
And not in such a Case delay;
|
Twill harm us.
|
No doubt, yhave heard of Forty-One,
|
Of all the Prancks that then were done,
|
And of the happy Conquest won:
|
Lets arm us;
|
And play those very Cards agen,
|
For all those Antients were but Men;
|
Five Israelites may well beat Ten
|
Philistins.
|
Lets cry Oppression through the Town,
|
Oppression of the Court and Gown,
|
And raise in Tumult every Clown,
|
to Listings.
|
Well first expose the Laws to Shame,
|
And next the Loyal Part defame;
|
If Good or Bad, theyre all the same,
|
No odds make.
|
Yet let Religion be the Word,
|
To shade Rebellion and the Sword;
|
Then play the Divel under board,
|
For Gods-sake.
|
Then be not wanting in your Lies;
|
In Plots and Shams, and Forgeries;
|
To blind the weak and gazing Eyes,
|
With Fables.
|
But if you would enjoy the Land,
|
Let the dark Roman joyn his Hand,
|
He Force and Councell can command
|
In Caballs.
|
Which though it seem as strange as Nile,
|
Tis Lawfull to unite in Guile;
|
Our Intrests nere the worse that while,
|
But further.
|
For all their Principles are mine;
|
Their Tricks to guild a black Designe;
|
Their Warrants to unite and joyne
|
In Murther.
|
What if you were not born to Land,
|
Or to be Persons in Command;
|
Tis ner the worse at second Hand,
|
But Fashion.
|
Is it not base (a Curse) to see,
|
When we should all live equally,
|
Such odds and such Majority
|
Ith Nation.
|
And though we find no fault in State,
|
Or any other Potentate;
|
Yet those great Names will raise debate,
|
And wroth, Sirs.
|
Since then twill be so good a Feate.
|
Lets once (for all) the Work compleate:
|
For nothing else can make us Great,
|
In troth, Sirs.
|
My Opticks (Friends) almost can see
|
A new formd Lump of Anarchy;
|
Whilst under foot lies Monarchy,
|
And hated.
|
Methinks I see those very Men,
|
I hate and envy, once agen,
|
From many Thousands unto Ten,
|
Abated.
|
Ah! sweet Revenge, and bold Ambition,
|
Infects both Us, and half the Nation;
|
The cause of Wise Association
|
So lately:
|
And wellt may plague us all, to see
|
Some, though no better Men than We,
|
To live in Pomp for Loyalty,
|
So stately.
|
I knew when once the Good Old Cause
|
Was namd aloud with great Applaue:
|
Blest Times for Liberty! No Laws,
|
To fright all:
|
Therfore, if once it come to Test,
|
And we again with Lawrel blest,
|
The Stronger Side must be the best,
|
At Whitehall.
|
And if all Lords you chance to be,
|
Who knows what Hell designs for me?
|
Wel make our Lives one Jubile,
|
And Wonder.
|
So being out of Breath, and spent;
|
Alas, (sayd he) much more is meant.
|
At last (with Pox) he hurrying went;
|
Like Thunder.
|
|
|
|
|
|