Nor affift our affairs With their monies nor their wares, Thus they did perfift, For when It was mov'd there and then And because they are loth Thus the conftitution Condemns them every one, But John (Our friend) Molleffon Thought us to have out-gone Like the prophets of yore, 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, But he that gave the hint Muft alfo pay his ftint. That trick, Had it come in the nick, Had it later been wrote, On Sandys they ran aground, 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 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; 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, Not old with their years, Nor cold with their fears; But their angry stars ftill defying. Mirth makes them not mad, But of that they are feldom in danger;' At the Hague they're at home; TO SIR JOHN MENNIS, Being invited from Calais to Bologne, to eat a Pig. ALL on a weeping Monday, With a fat Bulgarian sloven, To Bologne is gone, Whom I think they call old Loven. Hadft thou not thy fill of carting, When When nofe lay in breech, And breech made a speech, A knight by land and water When 'tis told in Kent, In a cart that he went, Thou might'st have ta'en example, 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, For thief without grace, That goes to make a wry mouth. Nor |