AN ANSWER TO THE SATYR Upon the French KING.

WHY all this Rage, Jack? Whence this sad disaster?
What makes thee thus abuse thy Royal Master!
Why all this Passion for Italian Molly,
That thou could'st wish to Firk a Bumm with Holly?
Had'st thou no other way to shew thy Folly?
And is't not monstrous thus to shift thy Sails,
And Ridicule the vertuous Prince of Wales?
The feeble Prop of Abdicated Right;
The Hope of each expiring Jacobite.
But why the Devil, must the Turks and Tartars,
Lamented be as Confessors, and Martyrs?
Is it to let us understand your mind,
And know, to what Religion you're inclin'd?
If so, I'll Swear You are the fittest Man
To write a Comment on the Alcoran;
For if the Fable won't with Reason chime,
You'll make Amends, and Daub it o're in Rhime.
Lord! What strange Times must we expect to Come,
When each Non-juror turns a Whipping Tom?
Faith 'tis high time the Whiggs shou'd all be jogging:
If once the Tory Poets talk of Flogging;
Or send their brawny Buttocks to the Tanners,
Since Oates's Pennance can't Reform their Manners.
Forsake thy Muse, Jack; take a School; 'tis better
To Flogg Boys Arses, than pay Scores with Meeter.
As once you in a merry Frollick told one,
A young Bum-fiddle's better than an old one.
Then, stead of Tythe-Piggs, Quarter Pay comes in,
To furnish out your now dismantled Chin.
By help of this you may Restore your Nose,
Retrieve your Pimples, and Repair your Cloaths,
Know where to Dine when your Intestines croke,
And not be forc'd to Stuff your Gutts with Smoke;
Constrained no more, by Nodding and by Beckening,
To Intimate the Bar must Score the Reckoning;
Have always ready Coin your Club to pay:
And Sheppard will Rejoice to fee the day,
When he no more shall count his Summs on Tick,
Nor you complain that Publick Faith is sick.
Then, take a Friend's Advice, and Change betimes
To Penitential Prose your Mungrel Rhimes.
WILLIAM and LEWIS mount a nobler Pitch,
Than your enfeebled Malice e're can reach.
The glorious Beams of their concentring Light,
Contracts your Power, and Disdains your Spite.
Your Haggard Muse has chose a Theme too high:
The Eagle's not a Quarry for the Fly.

LONDON, Printed for John Harris, 1697.

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