A SATYR upon the French King,
Written by a Non-Swearing Parson, and drop'd out of
his Pocket at Samm's Coffee-House.
Facit indignatio Versum.
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AND hast thou left Old JEMMY in the Lurch?
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A plague confound the Doctors of thy Church.
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Then to abandon poor Italian Molly,
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That I' had' the firking of thy Bumm with Holly!
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Next to discard the Virtuous Prince of Wales,
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How suits this with the Honour of Versailes?
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Fourthly, and Lastly, to renounce the Turks,
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Why, this is the Devil, the Devil, and all his Works.
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Were I thy Confessor, who am thy Martyr,
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Dost think that I'de allow thee any Quarter,
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No------ thou shoudst find what 'tis to be a Starter.
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Lord! with what monstrous Lies, and senseless Shamms,
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Have we been cullied all a-long at Samms.
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Who cou'd have e're believ'd, unless in Spite,
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Lewis le Grand wou'd turn rank Williamite?
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Thou, that hast Look'd so fierce, and Talk'd so bigg,
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In thy Old Age to dwindle to a Whigg,
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By Heaven, I see thou'rt in thy heart a Prigg.
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I'de not be for a Million in thy Jerkin,
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'Fore George thy Soul's no bigger than a Gerkin.
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Hast thou for this spent so much Ready Rhino?
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Now, what the Plague will become of Jure Divino?
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A Change so monstrous I cou'd ne're have thought,
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Though Partridge all his Stars to vouch it, brought,
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S'life, I'le not take thy Honour for a Groat.
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Ev'n Oaths, with thee, are only things of Course,
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Thou 'Zoons, thou art a Monarch for a Horse.
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Of Kings distress'd thou [a]rt a fine Securer,
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Thou make'st me Swear, that am a known Non-Juror.
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But tho' I swear thus, as I said before,
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Know, King, I'le place it all upon thy Score.
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Were Job alive, and banter'd by such Shufflers,
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He'd out-rail Oats, and Curse both thee and Boufflers.
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For thee I've lost, if I can rightly scann 'em,
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Two Livings worth full Eightscore Pounds per Annum,
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Bonae, & legalis Angliae Monetae,
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But now I'm clearly routed by the Treaty.
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Then Geese and Pigs my Table ne're did fail,
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And Tyth-Eggs merrily flew in like hail,
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My Barns with Corn, my Cellars cramm'd with Alo.
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The Dice are chang'd, for now, as I'm a sinner,
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The Devil, for me, knows where to buy a Dinner.
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I might as soon, tho' I were ne're so willing,
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Raise a whole Troop of Horse, as one poor Shilling.
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My Spouse, Alass; must flaunt in Silks no more,
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Pray Heaven, for Sustenance, she turn not Whore;
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And Daughter Peggy too, in time, I fear,
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Will learn to take a Stone up in her Ear.
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My Friends have basely left me with my place,
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What's worse, my very Pimples bilk my face.
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And frankly my Condition to disclose,
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I most resent th' ungratitude of my Nose,
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On which tho' I have spent of Wine such store,
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It now looks paler than my Tavern score.
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My double Chin's dismantled, and my Coat is
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Past its best days, in Verbo Sacerdotis.
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My Breeches too this morning, to my wonder,
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I found grown Schismatics, and fallen assunder.
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When first I came to Town with Houshold-Clogg,
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Rings, Watch, and so forth, fairly went for Progg.
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The Ancient Fathers next, in whom I boasted,
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Were soon exchang'd for primitive Boil'd and Roasted.
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Since 'tis no Sin of Books to be a Glutton,
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I truck'd St. Austin for a Leg of Mutton.
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Old Jeroms Volumes next I made a Rape on,
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And melted down that Father for a Capon.
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When these were gone, my Bowels not to balk,
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I trespass'd most enormously in Chalk.
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But long I had not Quarter'd upon Tick,
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E're Christian Faith, I found, grew monstrous sick:
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And now, Alass! when my starv'd Entrails croke,
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At Partner How's I Dine and Sup on Smoke.
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In fine, the Government may do its Will,
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But I'm afraid my Guts will Grumble still.
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Dennis, of Sicily, as Books relate, Sir,
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When he was tumbled from the Regal State, Sir,
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(Which, by the by, I hope will be your Fate, Sir,)
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And his good Subjects left him in the lurch,
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Turn'd Pedagogue, and Tyranniz'd in Birch:
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Tho' thus the Spark was taken a pegg lower,
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Some feeble signs of his old State he bore,
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And Reign'd o're Boys, that Govern'd Men before.
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For thee I wish some Punishment that worse is,
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Since then thou 'hast spoil'd my Prayers, now hear my Curses.
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May thy Affairs (for so I wish by Heavens)
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All the World o're at Sixes ly and Sevens.
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May Conti be imposs'd on by the Primate,
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And forc'd, in hast, to leave the Northern Climate:
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May he rely upon their Faith, and try it,
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And have his Bellyfull of the Polish Dyet.
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May Maintenon, tho' thou so long hast kept her,
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With Brand-Venereal singe thy Royal Scepter.
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May all the Poets, that thy Fame have scatter'd,
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Un-god thee now, and Damn what once they flatter'd.
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The Pope, and Thou, be never Cater Cosins,
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And Fistula's thy Arse-hole seize by Dozens.
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Thus far in Jest; but now, to pin the basket,
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Mayst thou to England come, of Jove I ask it,
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Thy wretched Fortune, Lewis, there to prop,
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I hope thou'lt in the Fryars take a shop.
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Turn Puny-Barber there, bleed lousy Carmen,
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Cut Corns for Chimney-Sweepers, and such Vermin,
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Be forc'd to Trimm (for such I'me sure thy Fate is,)
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Thy own Hugonots, and Us Non-Jurors, gratis.
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May Savoy likewise with thee hither pack,
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And carry a Raree-Show upon his back.
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May all this happen, as I've put my Pen to't,
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And may all Christian People say Amen to't.
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