Poem for August 7, 2024

Whether the Turkish new moon minded be

To fill his horns this year on Christian coast;

How Poles' right king means, with 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 shade of pleasing Orange tree;

How Ulster likes of that same golden bit

Wherewith my father once made it half tame;

If in the Scotch court be no welt'ring yet:

These questions busy wits to me do frame.

I, cumber'd with good manners, answer do,

But know not how, for still I think of you.