Nor affift our affairs

With their monies nor their wares,
As their answer now declares,
But only with their prayers.

Thus they did perfift,
Did and faid what they lift,
Till the dyet was dismist ;
But then our breech they kift.

For when

It was mov'd there and then
They should pay one in ten,
The dyet faid, Amen.

And because they are loth
To discover the troth,
They must give word and oath,
Though they will forfeit both.

Thus the conftitution

Condemns them every one,
From the father to the fon.

But John

(Our friend) Molleffon

Thought us to have out-gone
With a quaint invention.

Like the prophets of yore,
He complain'd long before,
Of the mischiefs in ftore,
Ay, and thrice as much more.

And

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 ftate.

The letter's to be seen,
With feal of wax fo green,
At Dantzige, where 't has been
Turn'd into good Latin.

But he that gave the hint
This letter for to print,

Muft alfo pay his ftint.

That trick,

Had it come in the nick,
Had touch'd us to the quick;
But the meffenger fell fick.

Had it later been wrote,
And fooner been brought,
They had got what they fought,
But now it ferves 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 MURREY'S from Scotland.

UR refident Tom,

OUR

From Venice is come,

And hath left the statesman behind him:

Talks at the fame pitch,

Is as wife, is as rich;

And just where you left him, you find him.

But who fays 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.

Before you 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 noife of a can and a fiddle.

These statefmen, you believe,

Send straight for the fhrieve,

* Mr. W. Murrey.

For

For he is one too, or would be;

But he drinks no wine,

Which is a fhrewd fign

That all's not fo well as it fhould 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 fobriety fad ;

But of that they are feldom 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 sloven,
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 nofe lay in breech,

And breech made a speech,
So often cry'd a pox on ?

A knight by land and water
Efteem'd at fuch a high rate,

When 'tis told in Kent,

In a cart that he went,
They'll fay now, hang him pirate.

Thou might'st have ta'en example,
From what thou read'st in story;
Being as worthy to fit

On an ambling tit

As thy predeceffor Dory.

But oh! the roof of linen,

Intended for a fhelter !

But the rain made an afs

Of tilt and canvas ;

And the fnow which you know is a melter.

But with thee to inveigle

That tender ftripling Aftcot,

Who was foak'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 fo base,

For thief without grace,

That goes to make a wry mouth.

Nor