A POEM on the DEPONENTS concerning the Birth of the Prince of Wales.
THE Mighty Monarch of this British Isle,
Disturb'd to hear his Subjects prate and smile,
That he is so content to own a Son,
For to inherit the imperial Crown,
To please his Queen, and put by both his own.
But finding England not so credulous,
And cleer-ey'd Orange more suspect than us;
By Instigation of the Queen and P—
He summon'd all together, as you see,
And there declares his own Sufficiency:
He says, His Subjects Minds now poysoned are,
They'll not believe God bless'd him with an Heir;
But to convince them they are in the wrong,
In come the Swearers, and Depose as long
A Narrative as perjur'd Otes could do:
What these Depose unquestionably's true;
Our King says so, who dare say other now?
There Lords, Knights, Ladies, Esquires, Quacks and all
The Papal Locust that infect Whitehall,
They swear what King wou'd have to gain their ends,
Since he's a Prince that ne'r forgets his Friends.
But witness Bishops, for your Loyalty
He makes you great, he did bestow on ye,
To keep you safe, his greatest strongest Fort;
While you were there, the Tower was the Court:
All fled from James, to you for Blessings came;
Imprisonment immortaliz'd your Name;
Bishops of England's Church are Men of Fame.
And since his dire Design in Law has fail'd,
He seems to smile, you are to council call'd,
To hear the worthy loyal Swearers swear,
That at the Birth of Wales's Prince they were.
And first begins old England's barren Queen,
That at her Sisters Labour was not seen
'Till all was past; yet for the Holy Cause
She'll do what e'er she can to blind the Laws
Of England, and doth there declare, and say,
She hasted to the Queen that very day,
And never stirr'd till this great Prince was born
For the Nation's Glory, but he proves their Scorn;
Except of those that daily on him wait,
Whose Loyal Love is only to be great.
Next comes old Powis, who a Story feigns
Of riff-raff stuff to fill the Peoples Brains
Of what she saw and knew about the thing,
And in a modest circumstance doth bring
Of something which into the World he brought,
And by the Doctors gave him, as she thought.
Now as a Governess she tends his Grace,
And wou'd not for all Heaven quit her place;
So sweet a Babe, so fine a hopeful Lad,
The forward'st Son the Father ever had.
Then Aran's Countess with her Oath comes in
That at the Prince's Birth her self had been,
And how she heard complainings from the Queen
Of little Pains, and then the Child was seen.
But oh! he did not cry, the Queen bawl'd out,
For fear 'twas dead, but Granny clear'd the doubt;
And further Honour this great Lady had,
She saw Smock spoil'd with Milk (the sign was bad.)
And Peterborough could not be beguil'd,
Knowing the Fathers strength, at thoughts she smil'd;
She saw the Smock, and swears she was with Child.
While pious Sunderland to Chapel went,
On purpose to receive the Sacrament;
Devotion was so great, she disobey'd
Her Majesty, and said, when she had pray'd
She'd wait on her; but hearing that the Prince
Was hasting to the World; this, this pretence
Soon brought our Saint-like Lady quick from thence;
And from her bended Knees slew to the Queen,
And there saw all the sight was to be seen;
The Bed was warm'd, and into it she went,
And ask't the King, if for the Guess he'd sent.
A lingring pain she had, and seem'd to fear
'Twould not be born till all the Fools were there;
But by her Midwife was assur'd one pain
Wou'd bring the Prince into the World amain;
But Faithless Queen, the Child did lie so high,
She'd not believe but Judith told a Lye;
She laid her hand upon the Queens Belly.
And such an honour to this Deponent granted,
It's hardly more by th' Pope for to be Sainted.
Roscommon swears she stood by Sunderland,
Near the Queens Bed, just by the Midwife's hand;
And saw his Highness taken out of Bed,
Fit for a Crown t' adorn his Princely Head.
Fingall Depos'd, that in the Queens distress,
She stood at the Beds feet just by Mistress,
And saw the Prince into the World did come,
And by Delababy carried from the Room.
Then painted Buckley early in the morn
Came to St. James's to see his Highness born;
With all the hast she cou'd she up did rise,
Soon dress'd, she came by Nine a Clock precise,
And found her Majesty was in the bed,
And groaning dismally, she further said;
Cry'd to the Midwife, Do not the Child part;
Old Granny crav'd her leave: With all her Heart
She granted what the Beldam did desire;
And certain 'tis, there was no danger nigh her;
Crying, O King, where are you gone, and fled!
He said, I'm, Madam, Kneeling on your Bed.
This plain Deponent bellows Bawdy forth,
To be expos'd East, West, South, and North,
Without ere fear or shame bars Modesty,
For to out-face the World with such a Lye.
Then pocky Bellassis, 'tis next comes in,
And says, She saw the Coach of Charles's Queen;
And hearing that the Queen in Labour was,
She hurried in without a Call or Pass;
With this excuse, she knew she was forgot,
Where she talks Bawdy, shews Impudence, what not?
Expose her self in Print to shew her love,
Exalted by the King, and one above,
She'll lye and swear, forswear to prop the Cause
That Baffles England's sound and wholsom Laws.
Then Lady Waldgrave, who was there before
This Royal Babe was launched from the Shore,
And heard her Majesty cry out full sore.
Then Crane and sottish Wentworth say the same,
With Sawyer, Waldgrave, Dawson, that they came,
And saw this wonder which the World won't own,
And blames their little Faith to think this Son
Espurious, and not in truth proceeding
From Majesty, when they all saw him bleeding.
Nay, gave him of his Blood squeez'd from th' string,
That Royal Babe into the World did bring.
Then Bromely, Turini, and Nan Cary too
Swear they saw all the Work that was to do,
And more by half is sworn than they'l prove true.
Then comes Delababy the great Nurse,
Who with the Queen is all in all in trust,
And swears that Danvers, Maid to Princess Ann
Was joy'd to see this little Royal man,
With former mark on Eye that us'd to be
On all Queen Mary's Royal Progeny.
James seem'd to doubt that which before he knew,
And fear'd this treacherous Nurse not told him true,
But he must peep and see the Royal Elf,
And joy'd as if he had got him his own self:
For Mrs. Wilks, who doubts but she wou'd say
She brought the Prince to Town that very day?
And told the King the trembling Queen did fear
'Twou'd be hard labour (though no Child was there)
Explains most impudently those concerns
That fellow Women when they cast their Bear
But what cares she, the Hereticks she'll blind,
And then no fear the King will prove most kind
To all those Wretches that swear to his mind.
Then comes the Washer-woman, Mrs. Pierce,
And says, that to the Queen she's Laundress,
And there declares a Story of Hot Linen,
That us'd to come from Child-bearing Women.
Richmond and Litchfield, and fine Mareschall,
Tho not at Labour, they believe it all,
And fain would be believ'd, if these Tools
By swearing falsly could make us such Fools:
They give such Demonstrations, which do lye
As much aside as they do Modesty.
Then comes great George of England's Chancellor,
Who was with expedition call'd to the Labour.
The Queen cry'd out as Women us'd to do,
And he believes the Prince is real too;
But not so certain, nor 'tis fear'd so true
As he wears Horns that were by Monford made,
Them and his noise makes all the Fools afraid;
Tongue runs at random, and Horns pushes those
That are so learn'd his Lordship to oppose.
He fears to act no wretched Villanies,
He dreads no Torments for inventing Lies,
For he of Heaven is sure when e're he dies:
Thanks to the care of fond indulgent Wife,
To make atonement for his wicked Life:
Damns her own Soul, and Whores with all she cou'd,
T' allay the impetuous Sallies of her Blood.
Lord President comes next, that's now cashier'd,
For only speaking of the Truth, 'tis fear'd;
Yet he for to be great again at Court
Wou'd be forsworn, tho he's damn'd for't.
Then Arundel of Wardour Privy-Seal
Was so concern'd, that he her pains did feel;
And 'tis believ'd this tender-hearted man
Did feel as much as Majesty did then:
He shew'd so great concern to mighty Wem,
Who knew too much to have concern for him;
But satisfy'd the Fool it would be past,
And wondred much her pains so long did last.
Then comes my Lord All-Pride with Modesty,
Lord Mulgrave, so called.
And seems unwilling to affirm a Lye;
With stately Gesture he did himself excuse,
But setting hand to Paper can't refuse.
Then foolish Craven comes, and doth depose,
A Mark he has that he the Prince well knows;
If 't be his Lordships Mark, he must ne'er rule;
For Europe knows he's mark'd out for a Fool.
Then comes Feversham that haughty Beau,
And tells a Tale of Dean, and Dat, and how,
Tho he's no more believ'd than all the rest,
Only poor man, he fain would do his best,
And be rewarded as when come from West.
Earl of Murry that Alexander Great,
He doth believe 'twas the King that did the feat,
And that this Son is true, and not a Cheat.
Then Middleton and Melford both explain'd
The business, which they from the King had gain'd,
As knowing Men, his Majesty did trust
His Consorts Secrets, hoping they'd be just
To his endeared Son, our mighty Prince,
That as he thought wou'd hide his impotence.
Godolphin too with Confidence pretends
It's true born, but 'tis for his own ends.
And Fox a Story tells of God knows what,
To fool the Nation's all he would be at:
He keeps in favour with his Princely Grace,
He fawns and flatters for to keep his place.
Then famous Scarborough and Witherly,
With Waldgrave, Brady, and Amand do lye,
And bring their Circumstances to convince
The World that 'tis a real high-born Prince.
Thus they stick out at nothing that will do
The Nations Wrong, and bring to England Woe:
Base mercenary Slaves, for a Kings smile
Would espurious Issue rear, and us beguile;
That fawn on him, and more observe a Nod,
Then fear the vengeance of an angry God;
And on the turn of Times wou'd all fly back
And let his Highness interest go to wrack.
Two Depositions more to Court were sent
Lord Peterborough and Huntington.
Asham'd t' appear to further the intent
Of Popish Principles and Perjuries.
None but the Devil could invent such Lyes.
Then after this the King himself declares
He don't design with England to make Wars.
But he such Aggravations hath of late,
That he must needs be angry with the State:
A specious Prologue to conclude withal;
But all the Protestants he vows shall fall
A Sacrifice to Rome, and his Revenge:
Then Soldiers, fear not Fools, but scorn to cringe;
Be resolute and stout, and scorn to sell
Your Souls to Rome, but send the Pope to Hell.
FINIS.