THE
King of Poland's
LAST SPEECH
To His COUNTRY-MEN.
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I Know, you hope all once to be
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Great Men of Note and Majesty;
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For this our now Supremacy
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Is Nonsence.
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Why should one Man forever sway
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A Scepter, (who's but made of Clay?)
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Why may not we ourselves obey
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In Conscience?
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But now 'tis come, Alas, we see,
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That all our Fame turns Infamy:
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Ah! such a thing is Policy
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With Tories
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The buzzing Jealousies and Fears,
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Into the Peoples list'ning Ears,
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For all those many busie years,
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Are Stories.
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Since in late Plots w' have gone astray,
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'Tis time to look another way,
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And not in such a Cafe delay;
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T'will harm us.
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No doubt, y'have heard of Forty-One,
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Of all the Prancks that then were done,
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And of the happy Conquest won:
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Let's arm us;
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And play those very Cards agen,
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For all those Antients were but Men;
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Five Israelites may well beat Ten
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Philistins.
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Let's cry Oppression through the Town,
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Oppression of the Court and Gown,
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And raise in Tumult every Clown,
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to Listings.
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We'll first expose the Laws to Shame,
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And next the Loyal Part defame;
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If Good or Bad, they're all the same,
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No odds make.
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Yet let Religion be the Word,
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To shade Rebellion and the Sword;
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Then play the Divel under board,
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For God's-sake.
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Then be not wanting in your Lies;
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In Plots and Shams, and Forgeries;
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To blind the weak and gazing Eyes,
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With Fables.
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But if you would enjoy the Land,
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Let the dark Roman joyn his Hand,
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He Force and Councell can command
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In Caballs.
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Which though it seem as strange as Nile,
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T'is Lawfull to unite in Guile;
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Our Intrest's ne're the worse that while,
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But further.
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For all their Principles are mine;
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Their Tricks to guild a black Designe;
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Their Warrants to unite and joyne
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In Murther.
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What if you were not born to Land,
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Or to be Persons in Command;
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T'is ne'r the worse at second Hand,
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But Fashion.
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Is it not base (a Curse) to see,
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When we should all live equally,
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Such odds and such Majority
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I'th' Nation.
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And though we find no fault in State,
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Or any other Potentate;
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Yet those great Names will raise debate,
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And wroth, Sirs.
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Since then t'will be so good a Feate.
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Let's once (for all) the Work compleate:
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For nothing else can make us Great,
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In troth, Sirs.
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My Opticks (Friends) almost can see
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A new form'd Lump of Anarchy;
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Whilst under foot lies Monarchy,
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And hated.
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Methinks I see those very Men,
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I hate and envy, once agen,
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From many Thousands unto Ten,
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Abated.
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Ah! sweet Revenge, and bold Ambition,
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Infects both Us, and half the Nation;
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The cause of Wife Association
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So lately:
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And well't may plague us all, to see
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Some, though no better Men than We,
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To live in Pomp for Loyalty,
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So stately.
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I knew when once the Good Old Cause
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Was nam'd aloud with great Applaue:
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Blest Times for Liberty! No Laws,
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To fright all:
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Therefore, if once it come to Test,
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And we again with Lawrel blest,
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The Stronger Side must be the best,
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At Whitehall.
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And if all Lords you chance to be,
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Who knows what Hell designs for me?
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We'l make our Lives one Jubile,
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And Wonder.
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So being out of Breath, and spent;
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Alas, (sayd he) much more is meant.
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At last (with Pox) he hurrying went,
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Like Thunder.
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LONDON, Printed for J.P. in the Year 1682.
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