Tom. Brown's LETTER From the SHADES, to the French King in Purgatory.  Facit indignatio Versum. 

AND wilt thou leave Young Jemmy in the lurch?  
A plague confound the Doctors of thy Church.  
And so abandon poor Italian Molly,  
That had the sirking of thy Bum with Holly!  
Were I thy Confessor, who am thy Martyr,  
Dost think that I'd allow thee any Quarter,  
No— thou shouldst find what 'tis to be a Starter.  
Lord! with what monstrous Lies, and senseless sham's,  
Have we been cullied all along at sam's.  
Who could have e'er believed, unless in Spite,  
Lewis le Grand would turn rank Williamite?  
Thou, that hast looked so fierce, and talked so big,  
In thy Old Age, to dwindle to a Whig,  
By Heaven I see thou'rt in thy Heart a Prig.  
I'd not be for a Million in thy Jerkin.  
'Fore George thy Soul's no bigger than a Gerkin.  
H'ast thou for this spent so much Ready Rhino  
Now, what the plague will become of Jure Divino?  
A Change so monstrous I could ne'er have thought,  
Though Partridge all his Stars to vouch it, brought,  
'Slife I'll not take thy Honour for a Groat.  
Even Oaths with thee, are only things of Course,  
Thou, thou thou art a Monarch for a Horse.  
Of Kings distressed thou art a fine Securer,  
Thou make'st me Swear, that am a known Non-Juror.  
But tho' I swear thus, as I said before,  
Know, King, I'll place it all upon thy Score,  
Were Job alive and bantered by such Shufflers,  
He'd outrail Oats, and Curse both thee and Bouflers.  
For thee I've lost, if I can rightly scan 'em,  
Two Livings worth full Eightscore Pounds per Annum.  
Then Geese and Pigs my Table ne'er did fail,  
And Tyth-Eggs merrily flew in like hail,  
My Barns with Corn, my Cellars crammed with Ale.  
The Dice are changed, for now, as I'm a sinner,  
The Devil, for me knows where to buy a Dinner.  
I might as soon, tho' I were ne'er so willing,  
Raise a whole Troop of Horse, as one poor Shilling.  
My Spouse, alas! must flaunt in Silks no more,  
Pray Heaven for Sustenance she turn not whore;  
And Daughter Peggy too, in time I fear,  
Will learn to take a Stone up in her Ear.  
My Friends have basely left me with my place,  
What's worse, my very Pimples bilk my face.  
And frankly my Condition to disclose,  
I most resent the ungratitude of my Nose,  
On which tho' I have spent of Wine such store,  
It now looks paler than my Tavern score.  
My double Chin's dismantled, and my Coat is  
Past its best days, in Verbo Sacerdotis.  
My Breeches too this Morning, to my wonder,  
I found grown Schismatics, and fallen asunder.  
When first I came to Town with Houshold-Clog,  
Rings, Watch, and so forth, fairly went for prog,  
The Ancient Father's next in whom I boasted,  
Were soon exchanged for primitive Boiled and Roasted.  
Since 'tis no Sin of Books to be a Glutton,  
I trucked St. Austin for a Leg of Mutton.  
Old Jerom's Volumes next I made a Rape on,  
And melted down that Father for a Capon.  
When these were gone, my Bowels not to balk,  
I trespassed most enormously in Chalk.  
But long I had not quartered upon tick,  
E'er Christian Faith, I found grew monstruous sick:  
And now, alas! when my larved Entrailss croak,  
At Partner How's I Dine and Sup on Smoke.  
In fine, the Government may do its Will,  
But I'm afraid my Guts will grumble still.  
Dennis of Sicily, as Books relate Sir,  
When he was tumbled from the Regal State Sir,  
(Which by the by I hope will be your Fate Sir,)  
And his good Subjects left him in the lurch  
Turned Pedagogue, and Tyrannised in Birch:  
Tho' thus the Spark was taken a Peg lower,  
Some feeble signs of his old State he bore,  
And Reigned o'er Boys that Governed Men before.  
For thee I wish some Punishment that worse is,  
Since thou ' hast spoiled my Prayers, now that my Curses.  
May thy Affairs (for so I wish by Heavens)  
All the World over at Six lie and Seven.  
May Maintenon, tho' thou so long hast kept her;  
With Brand-Venereal sing thy Royal Sceptre.  
May all the Poets, that thy Fame have scattered,  
Un-god thee now, and Damn what once they flattered  
The Pope, and Thou, be never Cater C●●…ns,  
And Fistulas thy Arse-hole seize by Dozen.  
Thus far in jest; but now, to pin the basket,  
May'st thou to England come of Jove I a●k it.  
Thy wretched Fortune, Lewis, there to prop,  
I hope thou'lt in the Friars take a Shop.  
Turn Puny Barber there, bleed lousy Carmen,  
Cut Corns for Chimney Sweeper's, and such Vermin,  
Be forced to Trim (for such I'm sure thy Fate is,)  
Thy own Hugonots and Us Nonjurors gratis.  
May all this happen, as I've put my Pen 〈◊〉 〈◊〉,  
And may all Christian People say Amen to●.    

LONDON: Printed for Will. Jack about.