A CONGRATULARY POEM, ON HIS MAJESTY'S Happy Return.  
Phosphore red diem, quid Gaudia nostra moraris  
Caesare Venturo? Phosphore red diem.  

WELCOME Thou Mightiest of the Warlike Race,  
Whose nimble Conquests time wants speed to Trace,  
Nor with thy Swifter Glory's Fame keep Pace.   
The Third Historian, while he does pursue,  
Thy Victories, is overwhelmed with new!  
Thy Conduct, even our Hopes does Antedate,  
It Works as Silent, and as Sure as Fate.  

Let now the  Tyrant Beast no more  
A Stolen Bravado on the British Shoar,  
While He a Village burnt, Thou didst a Realm restore.   
In joyful Chorus let the Muses join  
To Sing thy Triumph on the Wondering Boyne:  
Tell how the frighted Shannon Sunk her Flood  
To be recruited soon with streams of Blood.  

Grieve not to leave the Stubborn Town behind,  
Your Arms no where can long Resistance find,  
And this Coy Mistress will at last be kind.   
The Season but prevented your Alarms,  
To bring her by consent into your Arms.  
Mean while let Fame thy Wondrous Deeds Repeat,  
And shake the  Tyrant on his Seat.  
Where like some Dire Magician, in his Cell,  
He sits contriving some new Impious Spell,  
Which he sends forth his Daemons to Perform,  
Well knowing how to raise, but dares not meet the Storm.  
Like wretched Nero, now he does appear,  
Oppressed with Nero's Gild, and Nero's Fear.  
The Time comes on, when Britain shall Advance  
With Courage, taught long since, to Conquer France.  
Nor has the Tide of many Reuling Years,  
Washed the stained Fields of Gossey and Poitiers.  
A Conscious Horror strikes their Bosoms Still,  
When they survey that Famous Fatal Hill,  
Where our Third Edward's Host Spectators stood,  
And left the Prince to make the Conquest good.  
Where will they Sculk when they the Banners view,  
Of a Third Edward, and a Black Prince too.  
WILLIAM alone in Honour's List shall Stand,  
And Lewis shall no longer be le Grand.  

Fame shall no longer Caesar's Deeds Repeat,  
Nor Alexander more be styled the Great,  
WILLIAM the Third shall hold alone that Glorious Epithet.   
Then shall the British, and the Belgic Fleet,  
No Rival in their common Mistress Meet,  
But uncontrolled in WILLIAM's Service Roam,  
Dreaded Abroad, because beloved at Home.  
Who only Arms to make our Dangers Cease,  
His Wars are Glorious, for his End is Peace.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed by H. Hills. 1690.