Mifts, ftorms, fhort victuals, adverfe winds, And once the navy's wife divifion, Defeated Charles's beft defigns,
"Till he became his foes derifion : But he had fwing'd the Dutch at Chatham, Had he had fhips but to come at 'em.
Our Black-Heath hoft, without difpute, (Rais'd, put on board, why? no man knows) Muft Charles have render'd abfolute
Over his fubjects, or his foes;
Has not the French king made us fools,
By taking Maestricht with our tools?
But, Charles, what could thy policy be,
To run fo many fad difafters
To join thy fleet with falfe d'Eftrees
To make the French of Holland mafters → Was't Carewell, brother James, or Teague, That made thee break the Triple League?
Could Robin Viner have foreseen
The glorius triumphs of his mafter, The Wool-church ftatue gold had been, Which now is made of alabaster :
But wife men think, had it been wood, "Twere for a bankrupt king too good.
Thofe that the fabric well confider,
Do of it diverfly discourse;
Some pass their cenfure on the rider,
Others their judgment on the horse;
Moft fay, the feed's a goodly thing,
But all agree, 'tis a lewd king.
By the lord-mayor and his grave coxcombs,
Freeman of London Charles is made;
Then to Whitehall a rich gold box comes;
Which was bestow'd on the French jade*
But wonder not it fhould be fo, firs,
When monarchs rank themfelves with Grocers.
Cringe, fcrape no more, ye city-fops,
Leave off your feafting and fine fpeeches;
Beat up your drums, fhut up your fhops,
The courtiers then will kifs your breeches.
Arm'd, tell the popish duke that rules,
You're free-born fubjects, not French mules.
The duchefs of Portsmouth.
New upftarts, baftards, pimps, and whores,
That, locuft-like, devour the land,
By fhutting up th' Exchequer-doors,
When there our money was trapann'd,
Have render'd Charles's refstoration
But a small bleffing to the nation.
Then, Charles, beware thy brother York,
Who to thy government gives law;
If once we fall to the old fport,
You must again both to Breda;
Where, fpite of all that would restore you, Grown wife by wrongs, we should abhor you,
If, of all Chriftian blood the guilt
Cries loud of vengeance unto Heav'n,
That fea by treach'rous Lewis fpilt,
Can never be by God forgiv'n:
Whofe fcourge unto his fubjects, lord!
Than peft'lence, famine, fire, or fword.
That falfe rapacious wolf of France,
The fcourge of Europe, and its curfe,
Who at his fubjects cries does dance,
And ftudies how to make them worfe;
But wife men think, had it been wood, "Twere for a bankrupt king too good.
Those that the fabric well confider,
Do of it diverfly difcourfe;
Some pafs their cenfure on the rider,
Others their judgment on the horse;
Moft fay, the feed's a goodly thing,
But all agree, 'tis a lewd king.
By the lord-mayor and his grave coxcombs,
Freeman of London Charles is made;
Then to Whitehall a rich gold box comes;
Which was bestow'd on the French jade
But wonder not it should be fo, firs,
When monarchs rank themselves with Grocers.
Cringe, fcrape no more, ye city-fops,
Leave off your feafting and fine fpeeches;
Beat up your drums, fhut up your fhops,
The courtiers then will kifs your breeches.
Arm'd, tell the popifh duke that rules,
You're free-born fubjects, not French mules.
*The duchefs of Portsmouth.
New upftarts, baftards, pimps, and whores,
That, locuft-like, devour the land,
By fhutting up th' Exchequer-doors,
When there our money was trapann'd,
Have render'd Charles's restoration
But a small bleffing to the nation.
Then, Charles, beware thy brother York,
Who to thy government gives law
If once we fall to the old fport,
You must again both to Breda;
Where, fpite of all that would restore you, Grown wife by wrongs, we should abhor you,
If, of all Christian blood the guilt
Cries loud of vengeance unto Heav'n,
That fea by treach'rous Lewis fpilt,
Can never be by God forgiv❜n:
Whofe fcourge unto his fubjects, lord!
Than peft'lence, famine, fire, or sword.
That falfe rapacious wolf of France,
The fcourge of Europe, and its curfe,
Who at his fubjects cries does dance,
And ftudies how to make them worfe;
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