Let Charles's policy no man flout,
The wifeft Kings have all fome folly;
Nor let his piety any doubt;
Charles, like a Sov'reign, wife and holy, Makes young men judges of the bench, And bishops, those that love a wench.
His father's foes he does reward,
Preferving thofe that cut off's head;
Old cavaliers, the crown's best guard,
He lets them ftarve for want of bread.
Never was any King endow'd
With fo much grace and gratitude.
Blood, that wears treason in his face,
Villain compleat in parfon's gown,
How much is he at court in grace,
For ftealing Ormond and the crown!
Since loyalty does no man good,
Let's steal the King, and out-do Blood.
A Parliament of knaves and fots
(Members by name you must not mention) He keeps in pay, and buys their votes, Here with a place, there with a penfion:
When to give money he can't cologue 'em,
He does with fcorn prorogue, prorogue 'em.
X..
But they long fince, by too much giving,
Undid, betray'd, and fold the nation,
Making their memberships a living,
Better than e'er was fequeftration.
God give thee, Charles, a refolution
To damn the knaves by diffolution.
Fame is not grounded on fuccefs,
Tho' victories were Cæfar's glory;
Loft battles make not Pompey lefs,
But left him filed great in ftory.
Malicious fate does oft devife
To beat the brave, and fool the wife.
Charles in the firft Dutch war ftood fair
To have been Sov'reign of the deep,
When Opdam blew up in the air,
Had not his Highcefs gone to fleep:
Our fleet flack'd fails, fearing his waking,
The Dutch had elfe been in fad taking.
The Bergen bufinefs was well laid,
Tho' we paid dear for that design;
Had we not three days parling ftaid,
The Dutch fleet there, Charles, had been
Tho' the falfe Danc agreed to fell 'em,
He cheated us, and faved Skellum.
Had not Charles fweetly chous'd the States,
By Bergen-baffle grown more wife;
And made 'em fhit as fmall as rats,
By their rich Smyrna fleet's furprise:
Had haughty Holmes, but call'd in Spragg,
Hans had been put into a bag.
Mifts, ftorms, short 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 flips 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 Maeftricht with our tools?
But Charles, what could thy policy be,
To run fo many fad disasters;
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 glorious triumphs of his master
The Wool-Church ftatue Gold had been,
Which now is made of Alabafter.
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 pafs their cenfure on the rider,
Others their judgment on the horse.
Moft fay, the fteed'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-føps,
Leave off your feafting and fine speeches;
Beat up your drums, fhut up your shops,
The courtiers then will kifs your breeches.
Arm'd, tell the Popish Duke that rules,
You're free-born subjects, not French mules.
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.
The Duchefs of Portsmouth.
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:
Worfe fcourge unto his fubjects, lord!
Than peft'lence, famine, fire, or sword.
That falfe rapacious wolf of France,
The fcourge of Europe, and its curse,
Who at his fubjects cries does dance,
And studies how to make them worse;
To fay fuch Kings, Lord, rule by thee,
Were most prodigious blafphemy.
Such know no law, but their own luft;
Their fubjects fubftance, and their blood,
They count it tribute due and juft,
Still spent and fpilt for fubjects good.
If fuch Kings are by God appointed,
The devil may be the Lord's anointed.
Such Kings! curs'd be the pow'r and name,
Let all the world henceforth abhor 'em ;
Monsters, which knaves facred proclaim,
And then, like slaves, fall down before 'em.
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