Whether the Turkish new moon minded be To fill his horns this year on Christian coast; How Pole's right king means, without leave of host, To warm with ill-made fire cold Muscovy; If French can yet three parts in one agree; What now the Dutch in their full diets boast; How Holland hearts, now so good towns be lost, Trust in the pleasing shade of Orange tree; How Ulster likes of that same golden bit Wherewith my father once made it half tame; If in the Scottish court be welt'ring yet; These questions busy wits to me do frame. I, cumbered with good manners, answer do, But know not how, for still I think of you. |