NEW SONG
UPON THE
K---g of Poland,
AND THE
Prince of the Land of Promise.
To a Theater Tune: Or, Hold fast thy Crown and Scepter, Charles
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I.
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Prince.
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O Poland Monster of our Isle,
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Corruption of our Age;
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Which on my Infant Hours didst smile,
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thou inflam'd the Rage
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Of my Ambitious Soul, to sore
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its defiled Sphear;
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And, Icarus-like, I now must low'r,
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Transform'd into Despair.
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II.
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Now all my Trophies of Success,
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Are in Oblivion drown'd;
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And none for Me dare now Address,
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Where I hop't to be Crown'd.
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I by thy false blind Plots am sham'd,
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Fool'd from a Glorious Sway,
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Snatch't from a Father's Arms, and Damn'd,
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Like all that Disobey.
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III.
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Thou call'd my nearest Friends at Court,
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Soft, easie, absurd Tools;
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That Kings were but for States-Men's Sport,
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The Councel Knaves and Fools.
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But I, poor I, find now too late,
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Your Polish Grace can lye;
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None prov'd more weak at the Foyls of State,
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Than poor silly Tom, and I.
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IV.
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Now, that Imperial Crown, which thou
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For me so fit had made,
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Is Faln and broak, I know not how,
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And all our Wiles betray'd;
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Our full Caballs, and Wapping-Treats,
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Retrench't to Secret Holes:
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Treason the strength Our Greatness waits
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In these rough reared Walls.
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V.
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Poland K---g.
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Thou mighty Prince, by me Elect,
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I'th Land of Promise Sways;
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Thy timerous Soul is the Defect
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Of Our declining Days.
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What brighter Prospect Canst propose,
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To Magnifie thy Name,
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Than Hearts, and Armes, and Power of Those,
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That Rules both Laws and Fame.
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VI.
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The Rustick Swains want not the Word,
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No Magazines, nor Horse;
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'Zwounds Sixty Thousand by the Sword,
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Defies both Fate and Curse.
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They'l lay Three Kingdoms at Our Feet,
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In Blood and mangled Braines;
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Then the Traine-Bands, Cinque-Ports, and Fleet,
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At Our Command Remains.
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VII.
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Though Rouley, and His Brother Joynes,
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And Wheel's around the Park;
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Like two Yoak't Oxen, Tuggs and Twines,
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Our Designes i'th Dark,
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And wisely weighes; Their Wits has wrought
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Our Potent Parties Fall;
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That Conquest must be dearer brought,
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Else Tony Hangs for all.
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VIII.
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We have reserv'd Machines in store,
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To raise more daring Flames,
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Then Mortals 'ere Conspir'd before;
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Our Damned Furies Frames.
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If 'ere a Parliament be call'd,
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Our Representatives there
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Shall Scorn to be out box't, or bawl'd,
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In Country, Town, or Shire.
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IX.
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Then every Member of the Cause,
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Amidst the Armed Rude,
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Who shall deside the Pole with blows,
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And quash the Tory Crow'd.
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Then stick to Time, whilst Heads are hot,
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Our Force together brings;
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If this best PLOT, at last fail not,
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By Christ, we'le Both be Kings!
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