THE
WONDERFUL TRANCE;
OR,
The French King in a DREAM.
ON
The Happy Arrival of King WILLIAM into ENGLAND.
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GIVE Ear, give Ear, to what I do relate,
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With dreadful Sighs; O sad and dreadful Fate!
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That I so long have liv'd in Honour great,
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And now at last with Shame forc'd to retreat;
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Who made no thought (by War) but out of hand,
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To Conquer all the Habitable Land;
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Enlarge my Borders, yea, and King to be
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O're the whole World, to all Eternity:
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What rage, what madness, now I undergo,
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That I should prove Frances final overthrow?
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O how the thoughts of that suppress my Heart
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With tortur'd grief, yea, with a darting smart!
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My warlike Men, they lay their Honours down,
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Which forces me to be of no Renown;
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My Captains love the Runegado's Race,
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And durst not look King WILLIAM in the Face;
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My Centinels are drove from place to place,
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Alas! I am quite ruin'd with disgrace;
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Whatere I do, or take in hand, or see,
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It still falls cross unto my Majesty;
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My Foes turn'd Friends, my Friends turn'd Foes again,
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Till I was quite forsaken on the Main:
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With England great, a Peace I would fain make,
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Which makes my Crown and Sceptre sore to shake;
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My Subjects dread Men born in English Land,
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For when they come, we cannot them withstand;
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Who with Prosperiry do still abound,
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My Royal Robes to level with the Ground;
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Myself to Death commit: I plainly see,
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Appear the day of my Mortality:
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Yea, lest my Sorrows may example need,
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They will the Trojan Miseries exceed;
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For my Birth-day, lest Comfort I should see,
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Was black with Clouds, and foul as foul may be:
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I now am tortur'd with a Conscious Guilt,
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For Blood by me too often hath been spilt,
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That now for Vengeance cries; yea, Innocent,
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By which God's Wrath to punish me is bent:
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To many Souls have I an Object been
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To leave this World, ere half their days were seen,
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Which me disturbs; yea, in the silent Night,
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With Ghostly Shades, they do my Sleep affright;
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Do what I can, before my Face they flee
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And shreek; in no place can I quiet be.
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Smart Stripes do sound before me, Hell-brands smoak,
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Twisted with Snakes, my wicked Soul to choak;
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They witness unto me, yea, day by day,
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When dead, I shall be snatched quite away
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To Parts far distant, from th' Elyzian Coast,
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With damned Shades, shall dwell my horrid Ghost:
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I am Deceit, Deceitful is my Name;
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When Bears their Natures change, then I my frame;
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When Paris shall in England planted be,
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When Fish build Nests on every Bough and Tree,
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When raging Seas without a rowling Wave,
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Then I'll enjoy what I shall never have:
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Ere this will be, ere Ethiops to white turn,
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My Body must resort toth' silent Urn,
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My Bones shall rest nowhere, but secret Cries
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Shall me torment, in endless Miseries;
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Whilst Great King William triumphs here on Earth,
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Will Crowned be with everlasting Mirth;
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His Soul to Heaven, Angels safe will bring
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To God; there Hallelujahs for to sing,
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To him who was, who is, and 'ere will be,
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The King of Kings to all Eternity.
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