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And with that wicked lye,
A letter they came by
From our king's majesty.

But fate
Brought the letter too late,
'Twas of too old a date
To relieve their damn'd state,

The letter's to be seen,
With seal of wax so green,
At Dantzige, where 't has been
Turn’d into good Latin.
But he that gave the hint
This letter for to print,
Must also pay his stint.

That trick,
Had it come in the nick,
Had touch'd us to the quick;
But the messenger fell sick.
Had it later been wrote,
And sooner been brought,
They had got what they fought,
But now it serves for nought.
On Sandys they ran aground,
And our return was crown'd
With full ten thousand pound.

On On Mr. Tho. KILLIGRE W's Return from

Venice, and Mr. WILLIAM MURR E Y's from Scotland.


UR resident Tom,

From Venice is come,
And hath left the statesman behind him :

Talks at the same pitch,

Is as wise, is as rich;
And just where you left him, you find him.

But who says he was not

A man of much plot,
May repent that false accusation;

Having plotted and penn'd

Six plays, to attend
The farce of his negotiation.



were told How Satan * the old Came here with a beard to his middle;

Though he chang’d face and name,

Old Will was the fame,
At the noise of a can and a fiddle.

These statesmen, you believe,
Send straight for the shrieve,

* Mr. W. Murrey.

For For he is one too, or would be ;

But he drinks no wine,

Which is a shrewd fign
That all's not so well as it should be.

These three, when they drink,

How little do they think
Of banishment, debts, or dying :

Not old with their years,

Nor cold with their fears ; But their angry stars ftill defying.

Mirth makes them not mad,

Nor sobriety sad;
But of that they are seldom in danger ;

At Paris, at Rome,

At the Hague they 're at home ; The good fellow is no where a stranger.

TO SIR JOHN MENNIS, Being invited from Calais to Bologne, to eat a Pig.

ALL on a weeping Monday,

With a fat Bulgarian Noven,
Little admiral John

To Bologne is gone,
Whom I think they call old Loven.
Hadft thou not thy fill of carting,
Will Aubrey, count of Oxon.

When When nose lay in breech,

And breech made a speech,
So often cry'd a pox on?
A knight by land and water
Efteem'd at such a high rate,

When 'tis told in Kent,

In a cart that he went,
They'll say now, hang him pirate.
Thou might'st have ta’en example,
From what thou read'st in story;

Being as worthy to sit

On an ambling tit
As thy predecessor Dory.
But oh! the roof of linen,
Intended for a shelter !

But the rain made an ass

Of tilt and canvas;
And the snow which you know is a melter.
But with thee to inveigle
That tender stripling Astcot,

Who was soak'd to the skin,

Through drugget fo thin,
Having neither coat nor waistcoat.
He being proudly mounted,
Clad in cloak of Plymouth,

Defy'd cart so base,

For thief without grace,
That goes to make a wry mouth.


Nor did he like the omen,
For fear it might be his doom

One day for to sing,

With gullet in string,
---A hymn of Robert Wisdom.
But what was all this business ?
For sure it was important :

For who rides i'th' wet

When affairs are not great,
The neighbours make but a sport on't.
To a goodly fat fow's baby,
O John, thou hadít a malice,

The old driver of swine

That day sure was thine,
Or thou hadft not quitted Calais.


WHAT gives us that fantastic fit,

That all our judgment and our wit To vulgar custom we fubmit?

Treason, theft, murder, and all the rest
Of that foul legion we fo detest,
Are in their proper names exprest.

Why is it then thought sin or shame,
Those necessary parts to name,
From whence we went, and whence we came ?


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