Five winter days at Mannheim shall I be,
And in my lines that city shan't you see?
Shall not the Elector Palatine be praised
And to the skies his noble court be raised?
No, faith, my friend, to be exceeding plain,
Such scurvy courts deserve no tuneful strain.
Raise it? Why, faith, I'd raise it to the skies,
As the bold eagle made the tortoise rise--
That he might let it drop upon the stones,
And to a jelly bruise its flesh and bones.

Yes, be it bruised! It is a stranger's prayer;
And let th' Elector its destruction share!
Burnt be his palace to the very ground,
And let no vestige where it stood be found!
For hospitality ne'er entered there,
But studied grandeur, to make blockheads stare.
At noon his Highness with dark face appeared,
And much he wanted to be greatly feared;
His cringing courtiers played the shameful farce,
But I still seemed to bid him kiss my a------.