A Canto on the new Miracle wrought by the
D. of M. curing a young Wench of the Kings
Evil, as it is related at large by B. Harris
in his Prot. Intelligence, publish'd Friday
Jan. 7th. 1681. to prevent false Reports.
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AS Popish Farriers use t'imploy
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In their own Trade the good St. Loy,
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The Saint to whom they have recourse,
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As to Heav'ns Master of the Horse;
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To Him they lowdly cry for Mercy
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On ragged Colts that have the Farcy:
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For Hackneys gall'd to Him they pray,
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And drink dead drunk upon his Day:
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So to His Grace of M------ trots
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A Filly Fole that had the Botts;
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For still she knew, and 'twas no News,
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He keeps the Mares, tho not the Mews.
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But had you seen the skittish Jade,
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You would have thought her Drunk or Mad;
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For at first dash his Hand she seiz'd,
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Much was th'ambitious Heroe pleas'd.
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So sweetly did Don Quixot grinn,
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When the Maid Marrian of the Inne,
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He thought was some Enchanted Queen.
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Askt his dead-doing Hand to kiss;
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But what White Devil danc'd in this?
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Some Fly, some Rat, or great old Puss,
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Or Spirit Mephostophilus;
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Or Pug, that Paracelsus wore
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In th' Pomel of his Sword before;
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Or Healing Virtue that as rare is,
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Is sent His Grace by's Aunt of Fayries,
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Who aids him thus in hugger mugger;
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So did Doll Common Abel Drugger.
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Some sweaty Devil in his Palm,
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Transfuses Brine instead of Balm;
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And Brine you know is good for th'Itch,
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In any Mangy Dog or Bitch:
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Long in his Fist the Leprous Drab,
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Paddles and pores familiar Scab!
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The Witch her Dam had set her Fancy
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Agog upon this Chyromancy;
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To view each Line the Hag importunes,
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And thus young Gypsie reads his Fortunes.
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The Men of Westminster shall pass
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High Votes in Honour of your Grace;
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No Prayers for fear of the Black Rod,
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They'l Vote (I fear) no King, no God.
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Great stickling there shall be for Two,
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Pillory'd Benjamin, aud You.
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What will You give Me this next Spring,
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If then You are not Crown'd a King?
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By Oats before we reap next Crop,
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Oats in a Tub shall Preach You up.
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So Sybil ended her vile guessing,
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And each to other gave their Blessing.
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But O the Green-sick Girls may boast,
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This Duke hath cur'd Them to His Cost;
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Tho now he cuts his Capers high,
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He may with Falstaff one day cry;
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When Age hath set him in the Stocks,
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A Pox of my Gout, a Gout on my Pox.
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The Lyon Rampant is too wise,
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To touch a Prince though in disguise;
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Much less a Prince so Kind and Civil,
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To touch a Kingdom for Kings-Evil.
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He means to make it for its health,
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A Common-Whore, a Common-wealth.
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The Stroaker Graitrix was a Sot,
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And all his Feat-tricks are forgot;
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But Duke Trinculo, and Tom Dory,
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Will be a Famous Quack in Story.
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Let every scabby City-Cuckow,
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Fly into your Hedge-lane to look you.
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If seventh Sons do things so rare,
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In You seven Fathers have a share;
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Shew us some more of these fine mocks,
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Shew your Black Art, shew your Black Box;
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'Tis thought you've there some pure Receipt,
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Great Mountibank of our sick State
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Your Zany, who this Cure reveals,
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Tells us in March your Highness heals.
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