 | Poems on Affairs of State |  |
The Obscure Prince,
Or, The Black Box boxed.
O Heavens! the Weakness of my unkind Father!
Better some Peasant had begot me rather:
He wou'd not black himself, his Wife defame,
And after Marriage Bastard me proclaim;
Through panick Fear thus in Perillus roar,
To gratify a Brother, or a Whore,
Honour disclaim, by Fools and Knaves beguil'd,
Nay, wou'd it pass, deny me for his Child:
Destroy my Right 'gainst God and Nature's Laws,
To prop the falling of their tott'ring Cause:
Pursue a Chace more of the Goose than Fox,
Call'd the shamm'd Story of the blackned Box;
Deny the Truth long in the Ashes hid,
Disowning now what Bishop Fuller did;
How he perform'd the Marriage-Office, e'er
You cou'd enjoy my wronged Mother dear.
All other Terms she scorned with her Soul,
Tho means were us'd with her both fair and foul;
Witness your self what Mother-Queen did do,
Besides the Offers that were made by you;
When mighty Passions brought you down so ill,
Your Grief befool'd the French Physician's Skill,
And at grim Death's approaches out did cry,
O! Let me marry with her, or I die:
'Twas then she yielded and became your Wife.
Sir, this is truth, I'll prove it with my Life:
But you may save the Trouble if you please,
Speak like your self, and all the Kingdom ease.
You are my Father, Sir, I'll Duty pay
Unto your self until your dying-day.
But when that falls (which God foreslow) Sir, I
Will take the Name of Royal Majesty,
Without offence to any, as my due,
Giv'n me by God, by Nature, Sir, and You:
Then (if I live) the wronged World shall know,
In Wedlock I was got, and born in't too,
That I am Heir undoubted to the Crown,
And will enjoy it when you lay it down,
In spite of Papists, mauger all their Hate,
Their Hope shall find I am legitimate.
England stand by me with your utmost Breaths,
I'll ruin Rome, or die ten thousand Deaths;
And make France tremble also e'er I've done,
Destroy those Plagues that murder Christendom.
That true Religion in the Land may flow,
Not Forms and Int'rest which are called so:
And shou'd I ever alter what I say,
Let God forsake me on my dying-day.
Better some Peasant had begot me rather:
He wou'd not black himself, his Wife defame,
And after Marriage Bastard me proclaim;
Through panick Fear thus in Perillus roar,
To gratify a Brother, or a Whore,
Honour disclaim, by Fools and Knaves beguil'd,
Nay, wou'd it pass, deny me for his Child:
Destroy my Right 'gainst God and Nature's Laws,
To prop the falling of their tott'ring Cause:
Pursue a Chace more of the Goose than Fox,
Call'd the shamm'd Story of the blackned Box;
Deny the Truth long in the Ashes hid,
Disowning now what Bishop Fuller did;
How he perform'd the Marriage-Office, e'er
You cou'd enjoy my wronged Mother dear.
All other Terms she scorned with her Soul,
Tho means were us'd with her both fair and foul;
Witness your self what Mother-Queen did do,
Besides the Offers that were made by you;
190
Your Grief befool'd the French Physician's Skill,
And at grim Death's approaches out did cry,
O! Let me marry with her, or I die:
'Twas then she yielded and became your Wife.
Sir, this is truth, I'll prove it with my Life:
But you may save the Trouble if you please,
Speak like your self, and all the Kingdom ease.
You are my Father, Sir, I'll Duty pay
Unto your self until your dying-day.
But when that falls (which God foreslow) Sir, I
Will take the Name of Royal Majesty,
Without offence to any, as my due,
Giv'n me by God, by Nature, Sir, and You:
Then (if I live) the wronged World shall know,
In Wedlock I was got, and born in't too,
That I am Heir undoubted to the Crown,
And will enjoy it when you lay it down,
In spite of Papists, mauger all their Hate,
Their Hope shall find I am legitimate.
England stand by me with your utmost Breaths,
I'll ruin Rome, or die ten thousand Deaths;
And make France tremble also e'er I've done,
Destroy those Plagues that murder Christendom.
That true Religion in the Land may flow,
Not Forms and Int'rest which are called so:
And shou'd I ever alter what I say,
Let God forsake me on my dying-day.
Enough, brave Prince, we'll take your Royal Word,
And will defend you by the dint of Sword
'Gainst all Opposers whosoe'er they are;
We'll stand or fall, and in your Fortunes share:
And after Charles, who wrongs you of your Crown,
Shall cut a Million of true English down.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.
And will defend you by the dint of Sword
'Gainst all Opposers whosoe'er they are;
We'll stand or fall, and in your Fortunes share:
And after Charles, who wrongs you of your Crown,
Shall cut a Million of true English down.
Honi soit qui mal y pense.
| Poems on Affairs of State | |