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The Works of the Rev. Jonathan Swift/Volume 7/Merlin's Prophecy


SEVEN and ten, addyd to nine,
Of Fraunce her woe this is the sygne,
Tamys rivere twys y-frozen,
Walke sans wetyng shoes ne hozen.
Then comyth foorthe, ich understonde,
From towne of stoffe to fattyn londe,
An hardie chyftan[1], woe the morne,
To Fraunce that evere he was born.
Then shall the fyshe[2] beweyle his bosse:
Nor shall grin berrys[3] make up the losse.
Yonge Symnele[4] shall again miscarrye:
And Norway's pryd[5] again shall marrye.
And from the tree where blosums feele,
Ripe fruit shall come, and all is wele.
Reaums shall daunce honde in honde[6],
And it shall be merrye in olde Inglonde,
Then old Inglonde shall be no more,
And no man shall be sorie therefore.
Geryon[7] shall have three hedes agayne,
Till Hapsburge[8] makyth them but twayne.