A NEW SONG OF THE French KING'S Fear OF AN ORANGE.  


OF a Hectoring Bully  
Dear Muse, let us sing,  
( Or to speak one's mind fully)  
O'th' Most Christian King;  
Who subdues Men by Huffing,  
And converts Men by Cuffing.  
Yet he fears if an Orange approaches too nigh,  
The gay Flower-de-luces wiil whither and die.   

He's Son to a Chast Queen,  
' Tho( if Authors don't lie,)  
The devout Mazerine  
Had a Finger i'th' pie,  
To mould a Church Hero  
More fierce than a Nero,  
Who yet fears if an Orange approaches too nigh,  
His gay Flower-de-luces will whither and die.   

While he's scareing his Neighbours  
With swelling Bravadoes,  
We but laugh at his Vapours  
And Rhodomantadoes,  
Tho' Monsieur le Dauphin  
does New Conquests begin,  
Yet they dread if an Orange approaches too nigh,  
The gay Flower-de luces will whither and die.   

The Prodigious Advance  
That the Prince here has made,  
Makes an Earth-quake in France  
And great Lewis afraid;  
La Chaise his Address  
And the jesuits Finesse  
Can't hinder an Orange from approaching so nigh,  
That the gay Flower-de-luces will whither and die.   

If a Fury Poëtick  
Foreknows things to come,  
I may dare be prophetic,  
And foretell his just doom,  
Besides old notre dame  
Has Predicted the same,  
That if once the brave Orange approaches too nigh,  
The gay Flower-de-luces will whither and die.    

The Second Part.  

'tis a sport to our Prince  
To bridle up a King,  
Tho' the Beast kick and wince  
His firm Rider to fling,  
He'l make him Curvet,  
And so steadily sit,  
That an Orange once planted upon the French shor.  
The gay Flower-de-luces shall flourish no more.   

Help, Help, some kind Saint,  
Holy Churches Two Sons;  
Help, thou Church Militant  
Of Converting Dragoons;  
Shall Lewis Victorious,  
Shall Lewis the Glorious  
See an Orange transplanted upon the French shore  
And the gay Flower-de-luces now flourish no more   

Good Caesar compound,  
Do but Trust me once more;  
If I'm Treacherous sound,  
I'm a Son of Whore;  
Let us En Bonne foy  
Our joined Forces employ,  
To stave of an Orange quiter from the French shore,  
Lest the gay Flowr-de-luces should flourish no more.   

'tis a Cursed ill thing,  
Makes me rave and run mad;  
If I were not a King  
I'd myself fight I-gad;  
Besides riding will Pain o  
My Bag-pige in ano;  
Must an Orange be planted then on the French shore,  
And my gay Flower-de-luces now flourish no more?   

The wild Worm in my Tail  
My Vigour all drains,  
through its winding canal  
●●e voided my Brains;  
An● these damned heretics  
H●●e fooled my Politiques,  
For an● ●●ange once planted upon the French shore,  
My gay ower-de-luces will flourish no more.    
FINIS