THE French King's Lamentation FOR THE Loss of His FLEET. 1. June .1692.  

HEnce, hence, ye Slaves, do not my Wrath provoke,  
And of my Loss at Sea no longer Croak;  
If one of you I hear such nonsense Preaching,  
By Heaven on Trees I'll Hang you all a Bleaching;  
Did ever a Crowned Head, like me before;  
Send such a Fleet upon the English Shore?  
And dare the Herringbusses of the Dutch,  
Or English Mackrel Boats my Navy Touch?  
They dare as well, with their Sails spreading full,  
Attempt to Land on Shore of Great Mogul.   

But ah! Too soon I find the News is True,  
My Fleet, I thought invincible, Morbleiu,  
Burnt, Sunk, Blown up, Disabled, Tattered, Lost,  
And all my Great Designs on English, crossed:  
What Cursed Monsters, Oh ye Gods! are these,  
That durst with me Dispute the Narrow Seas?  
Beer Drinking Rogues, Tarpaulins, English, Dutch;  
And could the Fates allow Success to such?  
Had they been Men, they would have been more civil;  
They were not Mortals, no, they were the Devil.   

My Royal Sun, the best of all my Ships,  
Has now endured a Fatal sad Eclipse;  
My Conquerant, and Admirable too,  
By English Cannon Shot quite Through and Through,  
And afterwards by saucy Fireships Aid,  
To grinning Slaves, two great Sea-Bonfires made;  
Then Fifteen more Burnt in the Cape la Hogue,  
To please the Humour of an English Rogue;  
Tho that a King was Mad I ne'er did know,  
These Losses are enough to make me so.   

Oh! thou great Contradiction to my Will,  
Thou Cowardly poor Spirited Tourville,  
Couldst thou not better for Advantage Turn?  
But idly stand and see thy Vessel Burn;  
Had I been there, I had not been afraid  
T'ave called the very Devils to my Aid,  
Nor would a thousand of those Gloomy Spirits,  
Have failed to wait upon my Justest Merits;  
I've served them all my Life, which very true is,  
And would they at a pinch Desert great Lewis?   

Cursed be the time, and doubly cursed the hour,  
When J●●●s took Shelter underneath my Power;  
His Cause has been as fatal to my Throne,  
As my Advice to His, was too well known;  
Cruel is Fate to Me and to My Brother,  
Who have, like Gamesters, ruin'd one another,  
We both of us are now in Doleful Dumps,  
He Won no Game, and I have lost my Trumpets.   

What shall I do, or whether shall I turn?  
My Mind with rage does like my Vessels burn;  
I must, I will another Fleet Equip,  
Yet where's my Timber for to build a Ship?  
The English Oak so plenteous on my Shores,  
Is all Destroyed by English Sons of Whores;  
Yet had I now a Fleet both large and stout,  
Where shall I Sailors find to Man it out?  
My Treasure's all Exhausted by the War;  
And if the Money's gone, you lose the Tar;  
What shall I do, since now my Fleet is Banged,  
I'll Drown myself, for fear of being Hanged.    

LONDON, Printed for R. Stafford, 1692.