The king of hearts

THE KING of HEARTS.

I Sing the Man that rais'd a Shirtless Band Of Northern Rabble, when the Prince did land; A Sniveling Heroe with a Weasel Face, And Features which an Eunuch would disgrace; Of a dark Spirit, turbulent and proud, Rude to Superiors, fawning to the Crowd; Prompt to Revenge, and treacherously base, Plotting when private, blust'ring when in place; Too weak to hurt, yet ever working ill, Harmless in Action, Mischievous in Will: Stiff for Religion, which he ne're profest, A Modish Zealot, with bad Morals blest, Lewdly profane, and wicked like the rest; Sainted i'th Womb, and born with mortal hate. To the Establish'd Forms in Church and State. The Youth was train'd in a Fanatick Club, And heard a Blockhead bellow in a Tub: In riper years, the great Achitophel, With all the Learning he receiv'd from Hell, Refin'd the hot-brain'd Lout, and taught him to rebell He studied Anarchy, and Common-weal, And learn'd to varnish Wickedness with Zeal. In Treason too he wondrous progress made; And once his secret labours were betray'd: But halting Justice came too late that time, For want of Evidence, but not of Crime: Witness the late Rehearsal that was made, When a Chief Actor the whole Scene display'd; Witness what since the Chit himself has said, Like mad St. As—wonders he foretells, And in the Art of Palmistry excells; With Frantick Gestures, and a dismal Meen, The Wretch discoursing to himself is seen: His boding looks a Mind distracted show, And Envy sits engrav'd upon his Brow; A restless Male-content, even when preferr'd, He leaves the Court, and mingles with the Herd; Flutt'ring and vain, he seeks their wild applause, And heads them in defiance of the Laws: Harrangues the gaping Mobile aloud, And plays the Merry-Andrew of the Crowd: He tells them his Estate is pawn'd and spent In waging War against the Government: In the great Council he their Cause promotes, The Patron of their perjured Darling, Oates. When Weavers with United Fury went T' affront the Court, and dare the Parliament, He their great Guardian, in the Crowded Street, That medley Tribe of Mutineers did greet. Great Tom's Leige-People thus he makes his own, And undermines that Captain's Envied Throne: His Sacred Rights this Upstart does profane, Rivals his Greatness, and disturbs his Reign. How did this Alien his strong Realm invade, When in the progress which he lately made; Disloyal City-Mobb, undue attendance paid. Methinks I see him bowing at the Head Of those that through the wondring Strand he led. With pains and charge he did that Pageant gain; Nor was the Service of his Kindred vain: Their Interest, and his Man's, made up the Scoundrel Train. Huzzaing Crowds flockt to him in all parts, Which made his Sister name him King of Hearts. They kiss'd his proffered Hand, and Worship paid To that dull Calf which they an Idol made; Wishing the Juncto which at London sate, Had made him Ruler of the New-form'd State, And cry'd, Ware King, if he e're dooms thy Fate. How goodly was the Show! to see him train That Country-Rabble where himself does Reign, Like those that lately Rul'd this plunder'd Town: Such Officers such Discipline was shown. Yet their great Chief, whate're the Men endure, Like a wise Captain does himself secure. But this poor Fool did ill his life defend, Starv'd with the Javelin of Rake-hell Friend. This part he acted on his Rural Stage, The great Buffoon and Harlequin o' th' Age. When he return'd, his Subjects did attend Their sneaking Monarch to his Journeys end: And in the Front Two Lob-cock Earls did ride, With Nobler Rabble by his meager side. Go on vain Man, and grow in Infamy, Let Crimes Immortalize thy Memory. Long live the Ballads that extol thy Fame; May unborn Mobile adore thy Name, And thee the Founder of their Kingdom claim. Still make such Speeches as you've done of late, Still set the Crowd above the Magistrate. Let head-strong Malice, unrestrain'd by Shame, Prompt thee again the Clergy to defame; Presume some other Patriots Case to draw, Write more False English to make Treason Law: The Faults of Atk••ns, and the Scribling Tribe; Do thou their great Tautologist transcribe. To show thy Judgment, let thy Work be stol'n From the worst Books the present Age has known. Print lyes, disprov'd in Malson's History, To wound the Martyrs sacred Memory: Damn all his Royal Kindred in their turns, Rake their dead Ashes, and disturb their Urns: Against your Neighbours brandish still your Tongue, And turn once more Informer to the Throng, You'll injure no man's Honour but your own; Their Deeds are blameless, and their Worth is known: But thy Exploits make thee the publick Sport, Scorn'd by all Parties, pist upon at Court. His Name what Mortal can forbear to brand, Who disobey'd his Princes first Command, And stubbornly refus'd his Whisk-tails to disband? Who with officious forwardness, unsent, Carries King James his final Complement: To him, whom now you with regret obey, If e're distrest, such Duty you will pay: Or if you fall into deserv'd disgrace, And on•••• are kickt from dear Exchequer-place, You then will rise even at a French Alarm, And for Revenge and new Preferment Arm.

'Yet dont a Letter to thy Tennants write, 'Nor urge them for thy Interest to fight. 'Mourn not past Freedom, nor lost Property, 'Nor say Religion lies in Jeopardy; 'That Providence will leave 'em in the lurch, 'Since Miracles are ceased in the Church, &c.

Lest one of them should publish a Reply, Divulge your Non-sence, answer every lye, And your Weakest Calumnies untie; You breach of Faith to those that serv'd you last, Will all your future gay pretences blast: You promised to sollicit full as hard, To get for them, as for your self, reward: Yet you, when Treachery had won the Day, Dismiss'd the weary'd Herd without their Pay, And like a savage Lyon bore away the Prey. You promis'd with those Men to fall or stand, Who lie unbury'd in a barren land, To feed wild Dogs under his Conduct gone, Who was a Traytor ripe in Forty One. In vain you'l think to rendezvouze again, And have a fresh Supply of ready men. No Scrubbs ill arm'd, will mount unsaddled Steeds, Nor back the ancient Colts their Forest breeds. Straw-Boots no more shall make a Warlike Sight, No more shall you put naked Priests to flight; No Bed-rid Zealots will Five Guineas give, No more shall you on their Collection live: 'Tis time your fatal Government should end, Each Man bewails the Death of Child or Friend, And Orphans Cur••es all your Steps attend.