THE King of Poland's LAST SPEECH To His COUNTRYMEN  

I Know, you hope all once to be  
Great Men of Note and Majesty;  
For this our now Supremacy  
Is Nonsense.   

Why should one Man for ever sway  
A Sceptre, (who's but made of Clay?)  
Why may not we ourselves obey  
In Conscience?   

But now 'tis come, Alas, we see,  
That all our Fame turns Infamy:  
Ah! such a thing is Policy  
With Tories   

The buzzing Jealousies and Fears, Into the People's listening Ears,  
For all those many busy years,  
Are Stories.   

Since in late Plots w' have gone astray,  
'Tis time to look another way,  
And not in such a Case delay;  
'Twill harm us.   

No doubt, y'have heard of Forty-One,  
Of all the Pranks that then were done,  
And of the happy Conquest won:  
Let's arm us;   

And play those very Cards again,  
For all those Ancients were but Men;  
Five Israelites may well beat Ten  
Philistines.   

Let's cry Oppression through the Town,  
Oppression of the Court and Gown,  
And raise in Tumult every Clown,  
to Listing.   

We'll first expose the Laws to Shame,  
And next the Loyal Part defame;  
If Good or Bad, they're all the same,  
No odds make.   

Yet let Religion be the Word,  
To shade Rebellion and the Sword;  
Then play the Devil under board,  
For God's-sake.   

Then be not wanting in your Lies;  
In Plots and sham's, and Forgeries;  
To blind the weak and gazing Eyes,  
With Fables.   

But if you would enjoy the Land,  
Let the dark Roman join his Hand,  
He Force and Council can command  
In Cabals.   

Which though it seem as strange as Nile,  
'tis Lawful to unite in Guile;  
Our Intrest's ne'er the worse that while,  
But further.   

For all their Principles are mine;  
Their Tricks to gild a black Design;  
Their Warrants to unite and join  
In Murder.   

What if you were not born to Land,  
Or to be Persons in Command;  
'tis ne'er the worse at second Hand,  
But Fashion.   

Is it not base (a Curse) to see,  
When we should all live equally,  
Such odds and such Majority  
I'th' Nation.   

And though we find no fault in State,  
Or any other Potentate;  
Yet those great Names will raise debate,  
And wroth, Sirs.   

Since then 'twill be so good a Feat.  
Let's once (for all) the Work complete  
For nothing else can make us Great,  
In troth, Sirs.   

My Optics (Friends) almost can see  
A new formed Lump of Anarchy;  
Whilst under foot lies Monarchy,  
And hated.   

Methinks I see those very Men,  
I hate and envy, once again,  
From many Thousands unto Ten,  
Abated.   

Ah! sweet Revenge, and bold Ambition,  
Infects both Us, and half the Nation;  
The cause of Wife Association  
So lately:   

And welled may plague us all, to see  
Some, though no better Men than We,  
To live in Pomp for Loyalty,  
So stately.   

I knew when once the Good Old Cause  
Was named aloud with great Applave:  
Blessed Times for Liberty! No Laws,  
To fright all:   

Therefore, if once it come to Test,  
And we again with Laurel blest,  
The Stronger Side must be the best,  
At Whitehall.   

And if all Lords you chance to be,  
Who knows what Hell designs for me?  
We'll make our Lives one Jubilee,  
And Wonder.   

So being out of Breath, and spent;  
Alas, (said he) much more is meant.  
At last (with Pox) he hurrying went;  
Like Thunder. 
LONDON, Printed for J. P. in the Year 1682.