A satire upon the French King, Written by a Non-Swearing person, and dropped out of his Pocket at Samm's Coffee-House.  Facit indignatio Versum. 

AND hast thou left Old JEMMY in the Lurch?  
A plague confounded the Doctors of ●hy Church.  
Then to abandon poor Italian Molly,  
That I' had' the sirking of thy Bumm with Holly!  
Next to discard the Virtuous Prince of Wales,  
How suits this with the Honour of Versailes?  
Fourthly, and Lastly, to renounce the Turks,  
Why, this is the Devil, the Devil, and all his Works.  
Were I thy Confessor, who am thy Martyr,  
Dost think that I'd allow thee any Quarter,  
No— thou shoudst find what 'tis to be a Starter.  
Lord! with what monstrous Lies, and senseless Shamms,  
Have we been cullied all a-long at Samms.  
Who could have e're believed, unless in Spite,  
Lewis le Grand would turn rank Williamite?  
Thou, that hast looked so fierce, and talked so bog,  
In thy Old Age to dwindle to a Whigg,  
By Heaven, I see thou'rt in thy heart a Prigg.  
I'd not be for a Million in thy Jerkin,  
before George thy Soul's no bigger than a Gerkin.  
Hast thou for this spent so much Ready Rhino?  
Now, what the Plague will become of Jure Divino?  
A Change so monstrous I could ne're have thought,  
Though Partridge all his Stars to vouch it, brought,  
S'life, I'll not take thy Honour for a Groat.  
even Oaths, with thee, are only things of Course,  
Thou' Zoons, thou art a Monarch for a House.  
Of Kings distressed thou art a fine Securer,  
' Thou make'st me Swear, that am a known Non-Jurer.  
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 out-rail Oats, and Curse both thee and Boufflers.  
For thee I've lost, if I can rightly scann 'em,  
Two Livings worth full Eightscore Pounds per Annum,  
Bonae,& legalis Angliae Monetae,  
But now I'm clearly routed by the Treaty.  
Then goose and Pigs my Table ne're 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're 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 ston 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 th' 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 Bre●ches too this morning, to my wonder,  
I found grown Schismatics, and fallen asunder.  
When first I came to Town with Houshold-Clogg.  
Rings, Watch, and so forth, fairly went for Progg.  
The Ancient F●thers next, in whom I boasted,  
Were soon exchanged for primitive boiled and Roasted.  
Since 'tis no Sin of Books to be a Glutton,  
I truck'd St. Austin for a Leg of Mutton.  
Old Jerem'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 en●rmously in Chalk.  
But long I had not quartered upon Tick,  
E're Christian Faith, I found, grew monstrous sick:  
And now, alas! when my starved Entrails 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 tyrannized in Birch:  
Tho' thus the Spark was taken a pegg 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 then thou' hast spoiled my Prayers, now hear my Curses.  
May thy Affairs( for so I wish by Heavens)  
All the World o'er at Sixes ly and Sevens.  
May Conti be imposs'd on by the Primate,  
And forced, in hast, to leave the Northern Climate:  
May he rely upon their Faith, and try it,  
And have his Bellyfull of the Polish diet.  
May Maintenon, tho' thou so long hast kept her,  
With Brand-Venereal sing thy Royal sceptre.  
May all the Poets, that thy famed have scattered,  
Un-god thee now, and Damn what once they flattered.  
The Pope, and Thou, be never Cater Cosins,  
And fistulas thy Arse-hole seize by Dozens.   

Thus far in Jest; but now, to pin the basket,  
Mayst thou to England come, of Jove I ask 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 attorneys, and such Vermin,  
Be forced to Trimm( for such I'm sure thy Fate is,)  
Thy own Hugonots, and Us Non-Jurors, gratis.  
May Savoy likewise with thee hither pack,  
And carry a Raree-Show upon his back.  
May all this happen, as I've put my Pen to 't,  
And may all Christian People say Amen to 't.    

London, Printed for Will. Jac-about, in the Year of Peace.