On the Lord Mayor and Court of Aldermen presenting the King and Duke of York each with a Copy of his Freedom, Anno Dom. 1674. A Ballad.

The Londoners gent
To the King do present,
In a box, the City maggot ;
'Tis a thing full of weight,
That requires all the might
Of the whole Guildhall team to drag it.

Whilst their churches unbuilt,
And their houses undwelt,
And their orphans want bread to feed 'em ;
Themselves they've bereft
Of the little wealth they had left,
To make an offering of the freedom.

O ye addle-brained cits !
Who, henceforth, in their wits,
Would entrust their youth to your heeding ?
When in diamonds and gold
You have him thus enrolled,
Ye know both his friends and his breeding !

Beyond the sea he began
Where such a riot he ran,
That every one there did leave him ;
And now he's come o'er
Ten times worse than before,
When none but such fools would receive him.

He ne'er knew, not he,
How to serve or be free,
Though he has passed through so many adventures ;
But e'er since he was bound,
(That is, he was crowned)
He has every day broke his indentures.

He spends all his days
In running to plays,
When he ought in his shop to be poring ;
And he wastes all his nights
In his constant delights,
Of revelling, drinking, and whoring.

Throughout Lombard Street,
Each man did he meet,
He would run on the score with and borrow ;
When they asked for their own,
He was broke and was gone,
And his creditors all left to sorrow.

Though oft bound to the peace,
Yet he never would cease
To vex his poor neighbours with quarrels ;
And when he was beat,
He still made his retreat
To his Clevelands, his Nells, and his Carwells.

Nay, his company lewd
Were twice grown so rude,
That had not fear taught him sobriety,
And the house being well barred,
With guard upon guard,
They'd robbed us of all our propriety.

Such a plot was laid,
Had not Ashley betrayed,
As had cancelled all former disasters ;
And your wives had been strumpets
To his highness's trumpets,
And footboys had all been your masters.

So many are the debts,
And the bastards he gets,
Which must all be defrayed by London ;
That notwithstanding the care
Of Sir Thomas Player,
The chamber must needs be undone.

His words nor his oath
Cannot bind him to troth,
And he values not credit or history ;
And though he has served through
Two 'prenticeships now,
He knows not his trade nor his mystery.

Then, London, rejoice
In thy fortunate choice,
To have him made free of thy spices ;
And do not mistrust,
He may once grow more just,
When he 's worn off his follies and vices.

And what little thing
Is that which you bring
To the Duke, the kingdom's darling ?
Ye hug it, and draw
Like ants at a straw,
Though too small for the gristle of starling.

Is it a box of pills
To cure the Duke's ills ?
He is too far gone to begin it !
Or does your fine show
In processioning go,
With the pyx and the host within it ?

The very first head
Of the oath you him read,
Show you all how fit he 's to govern,
When in heart, you all knew,
He ne'er was, nor will be, true
To his country or to his sovereign.

And who, pray, could swear,
That he would forbear
To cull out the good of an alien,
Who still doth advance
The government of France
With a wife and religion Italian ?

And now, worshipful sirs,
Go, fold up your furs,
And Viners turn again, turn again ;
I see (whoe'er 's freed,)
You for slaves are decreed,
Until you burn again, burn again.