THE KING of HEARTS.  
I Sing the Man that raised a Shirtless Band  
Of Northern Rabble, when the Prince did land;  
A Snivelling Hero 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'er professed,  
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 Established Forms in Church and State.  
The Youth was trained in a Fanatic Club,  
And heard a Blockhead bellow in a Tub:  
In riper years, the great Achitophel,  
With all the Learning he received from Hell,  
Refined the hot-brained Lout, and taught him to rebel  
He studied Anarchy, and Common-weal,  
And learned to varnish Wickedness with Zeal.  
In Treason too he wondrous progress made;  
And once his secret labours were betrayed:  
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 displayed;  
Witness what since the Chit himself has said,  
Like mad St. As— wonders he foretells,  
And in the Art of Palmistry excels;  
With Frantic Gestures, and a dismal Mien,  
The Wretch discoursing to himself is seen:  
His boding looks a Mind distracted show,  
And Envy sits engraved upon his Brow;  
A restless Malcontent, even when preferred,  
He leaves the Court, and mingles with the Herd;  
Fluttering and vain, he seeks their wild applause,  
And heads them in defiance of the Laws:  
Harangues the gaping Mobile aloud,  
And plays the Merry-Andrew of the Crowd:  
He tells them his Estate is pawned 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 wondering 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 flocked to him in all parts,  
Which made his Sister name him King of Hearts.  
They kissed his proffered Hand, and Worship paid  
To that dull Calf which they an Idol made;  
Wishing the Juncto which at London sat,  
Had made him Ruler of the New-formed State,  
And cried, Aware King, if he e'er dooms thy Fate.  
How goodly was the Show! to see him train  
That Country-Rabble where himself does Reign,  
Like those that lately Ruled this plundered Town:  
Such Officers such Discipline was shown.  
Yet their great Chief, whate'er the Men endure,  
Like a wise Captain does himself secure.  
But this poor Fool did ill his life defend,  
Starved with the Javelin of Rakehell Friend.  
This part he acted on his Rural Stage,  
The great Buffoon and Harlequin o' th' Age.  
When he returned, 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 headstrong Malice, unrestrained 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 Scribbling Tribe;  
Do thou their great Tautologist transcribe.  
To show thy Judgement, let thy Work be stolen  
From the worst Books the present Age has known.  
Print lies, disproven 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 public Sport,  
Scorned by all Parties, pissed upon at Court.  
His Name what Mortal can forbear to brand,  
Who disobeyed his Princes first Command,  
And stubbornly refused his Whisk-tails to disband?  
Who with officious forwardness, unsent,  
Carries King James his final Compliment:  
To him, whom now you with regret obey,  
If e'er distressed, such Duty you will pay:  
Or if you fall into deserved disgrace,  
And on●● are kicked from dear Exchequer-place,  
You then will rise even at a French Alarm,  
And for Revenge and new Preferment Arm.  
‛ Yet doubt a Letter to thy Tenants 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, etc.  
Lest one of them should publish a Reply,  
Divulge your Nonsense, answer every lie,  
And your Weakest Calumnies untie;  
You breach of Faith to those that served you last,  
Will all your future gay pretences blast:  
You promised to solicit full as hard,  
To get for them, as for yourself, reward:  
Yet you, when Treachery had won the Day,  
Dismissed the wearied Herd without their Pay,  
And like a savage Lion bore away the Prey.  
You promised with those Men to fall or stand,  
Who lie unburied in a barren land,  
To feed wild Dogs under his Conduct gone,  
Who was a Traitor ripe in Forty One.  
In vain you'll think to rendezvous again,  
And have a fresh Supply of ready men.  
No Scrubbs ill armed, 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 Bedrid 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.   

SONDON: Printed in the Year, 1690.