A NEW SONG
OF THE
French KING'S Fear
OF AN
ORANGE.
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OF a Hectoring Bully
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Dear Muse, let us sing,
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(Or to speak one's mind fully)
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O'th' Most Christian King;
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Who subdues Men by Huffing,
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And converts Men by Cuffing,
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Yet he fears if an Orange approaches too nigh,
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The gay Flower-de-luces will wither and dye.
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He's Son to a Chast Queen,
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(if Authors don't lye,)
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The devout Mazerine
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Had a Finger i'th'Pye,
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To mould a Church Hero
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More fierce than a Nero,
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Who yet fears if an Orange approaches too nigh,
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His gay Flower-de-luces will wither and dye.
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While he's scareing his Neighbours
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With swelling Bravadoes,
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We but laugh at his Vapours
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And Rhodomantadoes,
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Tho' Monsieur le Dauphin
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Do's New Conquests begin,
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Yet they dread if an Orange approaches too nigh,
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The gay Flower-de-luces will wither and dye.
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The Prodigious Advance
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That the Prince here has made,
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Makes an Earth-quake in France
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And great Lewis afraid;
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La Chaise his Address
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And the Jesuites Finesse
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Can't hinder an Orange from approaching so nigh,
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That the gay Flower-de-luces will wither and dye.
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If a Fury Poetick
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Foreknows things to come,
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I may dare be Prophetick,
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And foretell his just doom,
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Besides old Nostredame
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Has Predicted the same,
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That if once the brave Orange approaches too nigh,
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The gay Flower-de-luces will wither and dye.
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The Second Part.
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'Tis a sport to our Prince
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To bridle up a King,
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Tho' the Beast kick and wince
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His firm Rider to fling,
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He'l make him Curvet,
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And so steadily sit,
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That an Orange once planted upon the French shor[e]
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The gay Flower-de-luces shall flourish no more.
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Help, Help, some kind Saint,
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Holy Churches Two Sons;
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Help, thou Church Militant
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Of Converting Dragoons;
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Shall Lewis Victorious,
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Shall Lewis the Glorious
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See an Orange transplanted upon the French shore
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And the gay Flower-de-luces now flourish no more
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Good Caesar compound,
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Do but Trust me once more;
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If I'm Treacherous found,
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I'm a Son of Whore;
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Let us En Bonne foy
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Our Joyn'd Forces employ,
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To stave of an Orange quite from the French shore,
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Lest the gay Flowr-de-luces should flourish no more.
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a Cursed ill thing,
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Makes me rave and run mad;
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If I were not a King
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I'd myself fight I-gad;
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Besides riding will Pain o
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My Bag-pige in ano;
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Must an Orange be planted then on the French shore,
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And my gay Flower-de-luces now flourish no more?
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The wild Worm in my Tail
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My Vigour all drains,
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Through its winding Canale
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I've voyded my Brains;
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And these damn'd Heretiques
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Have fool'd my Politiques,
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For an Orange once planted upon the French shore,
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My gay Flower-de-luces will flourish no more.
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