Satire on Old Rowley
1.
How our good king does Papists hate
At ev'ry coming sessions!
Then of his laws he'll nothing bate,
But make perhaps some fresh ones.
At other times he's ruled by's brother,
As was his father by his mother.
2.
Silly and sauntering he goes
From French whore to Italian;
Unlucky in whate'er he does,
An old ill-favored stallion.
Fain the good man would live at ease,
And ev'ry punk and party please.
3.
How he by Hyde, then Clifford rules,
Osborne and upstart fellows;
When the whores want they're knaves and fools,
vAs he himself can tell us.
Till then, though Parliament complain,
He says they're rude and hate his reign.
4.
A pretty set he has at hand
Of slimy Portsmouth's creatures:
Godolphin, Lory, Sunderland,
French gamesters and deep bettors,
Who would reform this brutal nation,
And bring French slavery in fashion.
5.
King of three mighty kingdoms he
Thinks beggars only loyal
Knaves wise, French true, and popery
Quite cleared at Wakeman's trial.
Nay, what seemed never to be done,
The Chits have made him hate his son.
6.
Rise, drowsy prince, like Samson shake
These green withes from about thee;
Banish their Delilah, and make
Thy people no more doubt thee.
In vain they fright thee with a war;
Thou art not hated, though they are.
7.
Rogue, knave, and bigot all love thee,
Because they fear thy brother;
Queen Mary's days they would not see,
And can expect no other.
No misery a land can want,
Ruled by a fool, goat, tyrant, saint.
8.
Men say we act like Forty-two,
Yet none tells thee the reason:
Yet when the same diseases grow,
Like medicines come in season.
Twice we thy armies have o'erthrown,
And without blood voted them down.
9.
Dukes thou creat'st, yet want'st an heir
Thy Portuguese is barren;
Marry again and ne'er despair:
In this lewd age we are in
Some Harry Jermyn will be found
To get an heir fit to be crowned.
10.
Thy brother York would come to blows
While thou art yet in being;
He shall not rule, as now he does,
While thou art yet foreseeing.
But if thou'rt wise deceive his hope,
Leave him to Irish, French, and pope.
11.
Thou dost not use the pow'r in hand —
Yet for the ills that are done,
When rogues pretend thy own command,
Thou'rt ready with a pardon;
As if 'twere thy prerogative
That murd'rers, knaves, and traitors live.
12.
For shame give o'er — new councils choose
If with the eyes of others
Thou needst must see thy nation's use,
And not thy popish brother's.
Brother to brother should be kind,
Yet bear the Littletons in mind.
How our good king does Papists hate
At ev'ry coming sessions!
Then of his laws he'll nothing bate,
But make perhaps some fresh ones.
At other times he's ruled by's brother,
As was his father by his mother.
2.
Silly and sauntering he goes
From French whore to Italian;
Unlucky in whate'er he does,
An old ill-favored stallion.
Fain the good man would live at ease,
And ev'ry punk and party please.
3.
How he by Hyde, then Clifford rules,
Osborne and upstart fellows;
When the whores want they're knaves and fools,
vAs he himself can tell us.
Till then, though Parliament complain,
He says they're rude and hate his reign.
4.
A pretty set he has at hand
Of slimy Portsmouth's creatures:
Godolphin, Lory, Sunderland,
French gamesters and deep bettors,
Who would reform this brutal nation,
And bring French slavery in fashion.
5.
King of three mighty kingdoms he
Thinks beggars only loyal
Knaves wise, French true, and popery
Quite cleared at Wakeman's trial.
Nay, what seemed never to be done,
The Chits have made him hate his son.
6.
Rise, drowsy prince, like Samson shake
These green withes from about thee;
Banish their Delilah, and make
Thy people no more doubt thee.
In vain they fright thee with a war;
Thou art not hated, though they are.
7.
Rogue, knave, and bigot all love thee,
Because they fear thy brother;
Queen Mary's days they would not see,
And can expect no other.
No misery a land can want,
Ruled by a fool, goat, tyrant, saint.
8.
Men say we act like Forty-two,
Yet none tells thee the reason:
Yet when the same diseases grow,
Like medicines come in season.
Twice we thy armies have o'erthrown,
And without blood voted them down.
9.
Dukes thou creat'st, yet want'st an heir
Thy Portuguese is barren;
Marry again and ne'er despair:
In this lewd age we are in
Some Harry Jermyn will be found
To get an heir fit to be crowned.
10.
Thy brother York would come to blows
While thou art yet in being;
He shall not rule, as now he does,
While thou art yet foreseeing.
But if thou'rt wise deceive his hope,
Leave him to Irish, French, and pope.
11.
Thou dost not use the pow'r in hand —
Yet for the ills that are done,
When rogues pretend thy own command,
Thou'rt ready with a pardon;
As if 'twere thy prerogative
That murd'rers, knaves, and traitors live.
12.
For shame give o'er — new councils choose
If with the eyes of others
Thou needst must see thy nation's use,
And not thy popish brother's.
Brother to brother should be kind,
Yet bear the Littletons in mind.
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