AN ANSWER TO THE satire Upon the French KING.  

WHY all this Rage, Jack? Whence this sad disaster?  
What makes thee thus abuse thy Royal Master!  
Why all this Passion for Italian Molly,  
That thou couldst wish to Firk a Bum with Holly?  
Hadst thou no other way to show thy Folly?  
And is't not monstrous thus to shift thy Sails,  
And Ridicule the virtuous Prince of Wales?  
The feeble Prop of Abdicated Right;  
The Hope of each expiring Jacobite.   

But why the Devil, must the Turks and Tartars,  
Lamented be as Confessors, and Martyrs?  
Is it to let us understand your mind,  
And know, to what Religion you're inclined?  
If so, I'll Swear You are the fittest Man  
To write a Comment on the Alcoran;  
For if the Fable won't with Reason chime,  
You'll make Amends, and Daub it o'er in Rhyme.   

Lord! What strange Times must we expect to Come,  
When each Non-juror turns a Whipping Tom?  
Faith 'tis high time the whigs should all be jogging:  
If once the Tory Poets talk of Flogging;  
Or send their brawny Buttocks to the Tanners,  
Since Oates' Penance can't Reform their Manners.   

Forsake thy Muse, Jack; take a School; 'tis better  
To Flogg Boys Arses, than pay Scores with Meeter.  
As once you in a merry Frolic told one,  
A young Bum-fiddle's better than an old one.  
Then, stead of Tythe-Piggs, Quarter Pay comes in,  
To furnish out your now dismantled Chin.  
By help of this you may Restore your Nose,  
Retrieve your Pimples, and Repair your clothes,  
Know where to Dine when your Intestines croak,  
And not be forced to Stuff your Guts with Smoke;  
Constrained no more, by Nodding and by Beckening,  
To Intimate the Bar must Score the Reckoning;  
Have always ready Coin your Club to pay:  
And Sheppard will Rejoice to fee the day,  
When he no more shall count his Sums on Tick,  
Nor you complain that Public Faith is sick.  
Then, take a Friend's Advice, and Change betimes  
To Penitential Prose your Mongrel Rhimes.   

WILLIAM and LEWIS mount a nobler Pitch,  
Than your enfeebled Malice e'er can reach.  
The glorious Beams of their concentring Light,  
Contracts your Power, and Disdains your Spite.  
Your Haggard Muse has chose a Theme too high:  
The Eagles' not a Quarry for the Fly.    

LONDON, Printed for John Harris, 1697.