The scene of Laughter, and the common chats
Of your salt Bitches, and your other Brats;
Forc'd to a private Life, to Whore and Drink,
On my past Grandeur and my Follies Think:
Would I had been the Brat of some mean Drab,
Whom Fear or Chance had caus'd to choak or stab,
Rather than be the Issue of a King,
And by him made so wretched, scorn'd a Thing.
How little cause has mankind to be proud
Of Noble Birth, the Idol of the Crowd!
Have I abroad in Battels Honour won
To be at home dishonourably undone?
Mark'd with a Star and Garter, and made fine
With all those gaudy Trifles once call'd mine,
Your Hobby-Horses [1] and your Joys of State,
And now become the Object of your Hate;
But, d------'ee, Sir, I'll be Legitimate.
I was your Darling, but against your Will,
And know that I will be the Peoples still;
And when you're dead, I and my Friends, the Rout,
Will with my Popish Uncle try a Bout,
And to my Troubles this one Comfort bring,
Next after you, by ------, I will be King.

[Footnote 1: At the age of sixteen he was made Master of the
Horse.]