A Canto upon the Miraculous Cure of the Kings-Evil, performed by His Grace the D. of M.
AS Popish Farriers use t'imploy,
In their own Trade the good St. Loy,
The Saint to whom they have Recourse,
As to Heavens Master of the Horse:
To Him They loudly cry for Mercy,
On Ragged Colts that have the Farcy;
For Hackneys Ga••••'d to Him They Pray,
And Drink dead Drunk upon his Day.
So to his Grace of Monm. Trots,
A Filly Fole that had the Bots;
For still she knew, (and twas no News,)
He keeps the Mares though not the Mews.
But had you seen the Skittish Jade,
You would have thought her Drunk or Mad;
For at first dash His Hand she Seiz'd,
Much was the th' Ambitious Heroe pleas'd.
So sweetly did Don Quixot Grin;
When the Maid Marrian of the Inne,
He thought was some Enchanted Queen.
Askt his Dead-doing-Hand to Kiss;
But what white Devil Danc't in This?
Some Fly, some Rat, or Great Old Pus,
Or Spirit Mephostophilus;
Or Pug, that Paracelsus wore
In th' Pomel of his Sword before;
Or Healing Virtue, that as Rare-is,
Is sent His Grace by's Aunt of Fayries,
Who aids him thus in Hugger mugger,
So did Doll Common, Abel Drugger.
Some Sweaty Devil in his Palm,
Transfuses Brine instead of Balm;
And Brine You know is good for th' Itch,
In any mangy Dog or Bitch:
Long in his Fist the Leprous Drab,
Paddles and Pores familiar Scab.
The witch her Dam had set her Fancy
Agog upon this Chyromancy;
To view each Line the Hag Importunes,
And thus Young Gipsie reads his Fortunes.
The men of Westminster shall pass,
High Votes in Honour of your Grace;
No Prayers for fear of the Black Rod,
They'l Vote (I fear,) No King, No God.
Great stickling there shall be for Two,
Pillory'd Benjamin and You.
What will You give me this next Spring,
If then You are not Crown'd a King
By Oats before we reap next Crop,
Oats in a Tub will Preach You up.
So Sybil ended her vile Guessing,
And each to other gave their Blessing.
But O the Green-sick Girls may boast,
This Duke hath Cur'd Them to his Cost;
Though now he cuts his Capers high,
He may with Falstaff one day cry,
(When Age hath set him in the Stocks,)
A Pox on my Gout, a Gout on my Pox.
Yet that Fat Knight with all his Guts,
That were not then so sweet as Nuts,
Tho oft He boldly sought and winkt,
Led Harry Monmouth by Instinct;
Reveres a Buckram Prince of Wales,
His Great Heart quops, his Courage qua••ls.
The Lyon Rampant is too wise,
To touch a Prince, though in Disguise:
Much less a Prince, so Kind and Civil,
To Touch a Kingdom for Kings-Evil.
He means to make it (for its Health,)
A Common Whore, a Common-wealth.
The stroaker Graitrix was a sot,
And all his Feat-Tricks are forgot;
But Duke Trinculo, and Tom Dory,
VVill be a Famous Quack in Story.
Let every Scabby City Cuckow,
Fly into Your Hedge-lane to look You.
If Seven Sons do Things so Rare,
In You Seven-fathers have a share.
Shew us some more of these fine Mocks,
Shew your Black Art, shew your Black Box.
'Tis thought you've there some pure Receipt.
Great Mountebank of our sick State.
Your Zany, who this Cure reveals,
Tells us in March your Highness heals.