The Four INDIAN KINGS.
In TWO PARTS.
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Part I.
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How a beautiful Lady conquered
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one of the Indian Kings.
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ATend unto a true relation,
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Of four Indian kings of late,
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Who came to this Christian nation,
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To report their sorrows great,
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Which by France they had sustained
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To the overthrow of trade;
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That the seas might be regained,
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Who are come to beg our aid.
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Having told their sad condition,
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To our good and gracious queen
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With a humble low submission,
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Mixt with a courteous mein.
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Noble they were all received
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In bold Britain's royal court.
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Many lords and ladies grieved,
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At these Indian king's report.
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Now their message being ended,
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To the queen's great majesty;
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They were further befriended
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Of the noble standers by.
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With a glance of Britain's glory,
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Buildings, troops, and many things,
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But now comes a pressing story,
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Love seiz'd one of these four kings.
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Thus, as it was then related,
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Walking forth to take the air,
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In St. JAMES's PARK there waited
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Troops of handsome ladies fair,
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Rich and gaudily attir'd,
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Rubies, jewels, diamond rings.
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One fair lady was admir'd
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By the youngest of those kings.
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While he did his pain discover,
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Often sighing to the rest;
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Like a broken hearted lover,
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Oft he smote upon his breast.
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Breaking forth in lamentation,
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Oh, the pains that I endure!
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The young ladies of this nation,
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They are more than mortals sure.
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In his language he related,
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How her angel beauty bright,
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His great heart had captivated,
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Ever since she appear'd in sight.
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Tho' there are some fair and pretty
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Youthfull, proper, strait, and tall,
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In this Christian land and city,
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Yet she far excells them all.
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Were I worthy of her favour,
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Which is much better then gold,
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Then I might enjoy forever,
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Charming blessings manifold.
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But I fear she cannot love me,
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I must hope for no such thing:
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That sweet saint is far above me,
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Altho' I am an Indian king.
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Let me sign but my petition,
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Unto that lady fair and clear:
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Let her know my sad condition,
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How I languish under her.
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If on me, after this trial,
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She will no eye of pity cast,
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But return a flat denial,
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Friends I can but die at last.
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If I fall by this distraction,
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Thro' a lady's cruelty;
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[I]t is some satisfaction
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That I do a martyr die
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Unto the goddess of great beauty,
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Brighter then the morning day:
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Sure no greater piece of duty
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No poor captive love can pay.
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O this fatal burning fever,
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Gives me little hopes of life,
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If so that I cannot have her
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For my love and lawful wife.
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Bear to her this royal token,
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Tell her 'tis my diamond ring;
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Pray her that it mayn't be spoken,
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She'll destroy an Indian King.
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Who is able to advance her
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In our fine America,
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Let me soon receive an answer,
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From her hand without delay.
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Every minute seems an hour,
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Every hour six, I'm sure;
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Tell her it is in her power
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At this time to kill or cure.
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Tell her that you see me ready
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To expire for her sake;
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And as she is a Christian lady,
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Sure she will some pity take.
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I shall long for your returning
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From that pure unspoted dove,
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All the while I do lie burning,
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Wrapt in scorching flames of love.
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PART II.
The Lady's Answer to the Indian
King's Request.
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I Will fly with your petition
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Unto that lady fair and clear,
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For to tell your sad condition,
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I will to her parents bear.
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Show her how you do adore her,
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And lie bleeding for her sake;
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Having laid the cause before her,
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She perhaps may pity take.
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Ladies that are apt to glory
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In their youthful birth and state,
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So here I'll rehearse the story
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Of their being truely great.
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So farewell, sir, for a season,
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I will soon return again:
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If she's but endow'd with reason,
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Labour is not spent in vain.
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Having found her habitation,
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Which with diligence he sought,
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Tho' renown'd in her station,
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She was to his presence brought.
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Where he labour'd to discover
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How his lord and master lay,
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Like a pensive wounded lover,
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By her charms the other day.
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As a token of his honour,
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He has sent this ring of gold
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Set with diamonds. Save the owner,
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For his griefs are manifold.
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Life and death are both depending
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On what answer you can give,
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Here he lies your charms commending
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Grant him love that he may live.
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You may tell your lord and master,
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Said the charming lady fair,
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Tho' I pity his disaster,
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Being catch'd in Cupid's snare
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Tis against all true discretion,
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To comply with what I scorn:
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He's a Heathen by profession,
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I a Christian bred and born.
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Was he king of many nations,
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Crowns and royal dignity,
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And I born of mean relations,
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You may tell him that from me
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As long as I have life and breathing
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My true God I will adore,
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Nor will ever wed a Heathen,
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For the richest Indian store.
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I have had my education
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From my Infant blooming youth,
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In this Christian land and nation,
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Where the blessed word and truth
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Is to be enjoy'd with pleasure,
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Amongst Christians kind and mild,
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Which is more then all the treasure
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Can be had with Heathens wild.
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Madam, let me be admitted
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Once to speak in his defence;
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If he here then may be pity'd,
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Breath not forth such violence.
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He and all the rest were telling
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How well they lik'd this place;
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And declared themselves right willing
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To receive the light of grace.
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So then, lady, be not cruel,
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His unhappy state condole;
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Q[u]ench the flame, abate the fuel,
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Spare his life, and seve his soul
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Since it lies within your power
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Either to destroy or save,
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Send him word this happy hour
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That you'll heal the wound you gave.
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While the messenger he pleaded
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With this noble virtuous maid,
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All the words then she minded
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Which his master he had said.
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Then she spoke like one concerned,
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Tell your master this from me,
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Let him, let him first be turned
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From his gross Idolatry.
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If he will become a Christian,
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Live up to the truth reveal'd,
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I will make him grant the question,
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Or before will never yield
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Altho' he was pleased to send to me,
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His fine ring and diamond stone,
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With this answer pray commend
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To your master yet unknown.
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