On Mr. Fleetwood Shephard's Killing the French K.

THE joyful Slaves, whom your report set free
From Taxes, wooden Shoes, and Slavery;
Their Neighbours too, who by the Bully scar'd,
His Warlike Bombs and Politic Rats bane fear'd;
All that have trembling shook at his Alarms,
Dutch-Men and Protestants that felt his Arms,
And wisely hop'd, his less Religious Son
Wou'd tolerate the Mass or Alcoran:
Last, German Bishops, who began to think.
They now might see less Fighting, and more drink :
All these their humblest Thanks to S send,
France's Deliv'erer, and the Muses Friend.
S the glory of whose lasting Name
Shal crack Timers Iron Teeth and swel the cheeks of fame
S whose mighty Monarch-murthering word
Rivals the force of S' Raviliac's Sword
Say, (for Thou knowest,) thou hero-heartening Muse !
What wou'd his presence, what his Arms produce ?
Whose bare Report has nobler Mischiefs done.
Then Oates's Mustard Balls, or Pickerin's gun:
That at more distance kills, and Ecchoes louder.
Than Aurum fulminans or German Powder?
Say, how at Paris, free from zealous fear,
S and Reformation shal appear:
Brutus at Rome less honor'd than he there !
How the swift Bumpers shal with joy go round.
Whilst every Bowl with S 's Name is crown'd;
And to his health the Mawdlin Protestants
Shal first drink Bourdeaux dry, then beggar Nantz.