Seasonable Advice
TO
DOCTOR OATES,
And his Friends.
Since Loyalty it is a blessed thing,
True Subjects all obey your Sovereign King,
Lest you like Oates at last in Prison lye,
And may lament your hapless destiny.
Tune of, London's Loyalty.
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OH Doctor! now repent, since at the last
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For thy gross crimes thou art in Prison cast:
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Thy Whigish friends are now faln off from thee,
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And left thee to bewaile thy misery.
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Then call to mind thy wickednesses done,
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Who thought thereby much honour to have won:
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But if in Riches thou dost now abound,
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O Doctor pay thy Hundred Thousand pound.
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Thou greatly in thy Language didst asperse
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One of the Heros of the Universe;
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Whose great discent made him a Prince by birth,
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And had few equals living on the Earth:
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But for the same thou justly art confin'd,
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Which doubtless is a trouble to thy mind;
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Great YORKs malignant foe now thou art found:
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Then Doctor pay thy hundred thousand pound.
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It is not good to meddle with such things;
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To raile at Dukes, or flout at potent Kings:
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A time will come such persons to requite,
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That in such villanies do take delight.
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Let Subjects their great Princes still obey,
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Left in the end they work their own decy.
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If in thy Breast had Loyalty been found,
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thou mightst have sav'd thy hundred thousand pound
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But, ah! too late thy fate thou dost lament,
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And of thy folly now thou maist repent:
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Tho' for a time thou wert both brisk and brave,
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Thy friends have left thee now, themselves to save.
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Long live Great YORK in spight of Enemies,
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Who to asperse thee do strange things devise;
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But in the end Justice will them confound:
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then Doctor pay thy hundred thousand pound.
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Thy Courage great by Sea, and eke by Land,
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Thine Enemies themselves do understand;
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And yet too late it seems to be no news
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That Male-contents thy Highness would abuse:
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But Heavens great Power hath thee preserved still
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And for the future I do hope it will,
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That thou mayst not one Enemy have found:
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And Doctor pay thy hundred thousand pound.
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Great Charles the Firsts dear Son, the 2 ds. Brother
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The World cannot afford us such another;
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Sprung from the loyns of that most Princely Race
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To whom all Kings in Europe do give place:
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Then why shouldst thou by Fools aspersed be,
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That came from that Renowned Family?
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But let thy Praises through all Europe sound:
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And Doctor pay thy hundred thousand pound.
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Thy babling tongue hath brought thee in a snare
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Poor Doctor Oates, pray henceforth have a care;
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And let thy punishment a warning be
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To all thy Friends of high or low degree:
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Your lawfull Magistrates be sure obey,
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And for their happiness ever pray;
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Then at the last some favour may be found;
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but Doctor pay thy hundred thousand pound.
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Long live Great Charles, Englands triumphant K.
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Whose mercy through the Universe doth ring;
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And let thy Foes, who basely are inclin'd,
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Dispersed be like Chaff before the Wind,
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That thou mayst Raign in happiness and peace,
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And Subjects Loyalty may still increase:
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Let Heavens mercies thee incompass round,
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now Oates is fin'd an hundred thousand pound.
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