TO THE KING'S MOST Excellent Majesty.  
The Humble Petitionary Poem of EDMOND DILLON, Esq;  
Temporibus laetis tristamur Maxim Caesar.  Corn. Gallus ad Aug. Caesar. 
LONDON, Printed in the Year, 1664.   

TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY.  
The humble Petitionary Poem of EDMOND DILLON, Esq;  

PArdon (Dread Sir) your Suppliants bold Essay,  
That he Petitions not the formal way  
Of Prose; or that his pressing grievance he  
Dressed in the Rags of simple Poetry:  
Numbers, though never of so faint a stream,  
Are thought the best ingredients to a Throne:  
The grovelling Muse that durst not tower so high,  
(Lest singed by the Sun of Majesty)  
As strive to prove the Trumpet of your praise,  
(Such levets sound best from Maeonian lays:)  
Presumes, in a low Eleglack stile,  
That sits the Genius of her native Isle,  
To give those plaints, some kind of Mourning close,  
Her prostrate Master, thus most humbly shows:  
Great Sir, whilst you fair Halcyon days restore,  
Transmuting the late Age of Churlish Ore,  
By a blessed Chemistry to golden times,  
Such, as that suckling world, the Poet chimes;  
When undeflowred Astraea at the Helm  
Of every peaceful Commonwealth and Realm  
Presided; and the streams of Justice ran  
Clear and unthwarted, when frail mortal man,  
With heavenly Nectar had sublimed his blood;  
For then the Womb of every common flood  
Went pregnant with that sacred drink; no pride  
Or lux gave sources to that Scarlet tide  
Of blood, and strife, which since the Earth hath stained;  
A native innocence as Empress reigned,  
And wise simplicity made States secure;  
No Politics or mischief were in Ure.  
Much of these blessings now (like Manna) showers  
On Albion, from Jehovah's azure towers  
Dispensed by You; since that auspicious time,  
God made his Type, and lawful Steward climb  
The Widowed Throne; and in this Orphan-land,  
Restored the Father's Sovereign Command:  
A land that panted underneath the weight  
Of Tyranny, swollen to a lasting height:  
No Joys, nor lucid intervals, were seen,  
No truce to ills, nor holy days between.  
O were the teeming Fates e'er brought to bed  
Of happier wonders, in no story read!  
Then met in you; Who couldst at once set free  
Your people's Necks, without Phlebotomy,  
From slavish yokes; and so resume in peace  
Your Sceptre, on which Traitors Swords did seize:  
Christ came in peace; You in that Juncture come  
When Janus' Fane was shut; and Christendom  
Charmed down her feudes, to Usher in our King  
With a calm Sunshine: This mysterious thing,  
Or rather Miracle of Providence,  
None fathomed with the line of humane sense.  
But stay; 
* Veni, vidi, vici.  You came, and saw, and overcame  
All hearts on sight, outstripping Caesar's fame,  
And winged exploits; his Triumphs sanguined were,  
Your Trophies richer; love and filial fear:  
On this Foundation a kind Conquest laid,  
You in short time stupendious Works displayed;  
Struck out of Chaos that over spread this place,  
A light, that gave all things a smiling face;  
As Titan doth, emergent from the Sea,  
Shoulder the night, and gild the sacred day;  
That Babel razed, proud ●●●●rous would have reared  
Here, God's anointed, and the heavens to beard;  
And out of dark confusion didst create,  
New luminaries in the spheres of State:  
Witness your Council; Men so sage, so grave  
And Argus-eyed, ●s dangers well may stave  
Off, from your Crown: And old Rome's Senate might,  
Have hugged their Maxims, for a Ruling light;  
Intrigues of State, to your chief 
* The Lord Chancellor of England.  Praetor are,  
As obvious and familiar as the Air.  
That he can solve the most abstruse with ease,  
Not Cato himself could Rival him in these.  
Your Parliaments so well affected stand,  
(Ah that your Sire had that high Court so man'd)  
As, to your Service, brisk, to consecrate  
More, than your Moderation may sat.  
The wholesome Law now vigorously returns  
Unto the pristine Channel; and their turns  
Justice and Mercy, in your Godlike Soul  
Have, but your Meroys the ascendant hold;  
Those bright endowments radicate and plant  
The Throne, upon a Base of Adamant.  
Your Naval, and Land-forces, may give work,  
Nay, Plough up the invading numerous Turk,  
With all those Barbarous Troops; should they but lie  
Contiguous, for our Hero's Chivalry.  
Yorks Royal Duke, Your Neptune of the Seas,  
May give our little world a Writ of ease  
From Foreign Wars; Who, as with Brazen walls,  
With Canon, Men and Oak our Isles impales.  
Nor may Your Kingdoms dread, henceforth, those scars  
Of civil, yet the most 
* Bella— plus quam civilia— Lucan.  uncivil, Jars;  
Whilst the RESTORING Albermarle, doth stand,  
Your tutelar 
* Plutarch. in the life of Camillus.  Camillus of the Land.  
That Hydra'of Plots, too often hatched in Hell  
'Gainst You, (I hope) is now crushed in the shell.  
No corner of the Earth, but spews forth those  
To Tyburn, or the like, Your Traitorous foes.  
Great Princes in their spousals, less consult  
Their private fancies, then what may result  
To public good; both interests of weight,  
You in your Royal Bride did complicate;  
Whose All-divine accomplishments do lie,  
Almost transparent to each vulgar eye;  
As they create all Reverence and Love,  
Which that diffusive grief, last year, might prove,  
In her great sickness, whose sad bruit expressed  
Even real sobs, from the Fanatique breast.  
Clotilde, Eudoxia, and Pulcheria,  
Queens, only Angels quills, may well portray,  
Are copied out in her; their virtues there  
Meet, and constellate all, on that bright sphere;  
And what doth solace much a pious Son,  
Your Mother Queens rich benediction  
And heavenly converse, add to your delight;  
Her venerable Glories feast Your sight.  
Not Cybele the Goddess-dame of all  
The spangled dwellers, of high heavens Whitehall,  
More lustre gave t'Her deathless progeny,  
Or they to Her (famed in old Poesy)  
Than you do both, by mutual reflex,  
The best of Men, best of the female Sex.  
What would the Caledonian Nation crave,  
Or England wish? They by your influence have  
Peace, Liberty, and Amalthea's horn;  
Their collapsed Honours raised from the Urn.  

* Nihil deinde optare a Diis homines, nihil Dii hominibus prastare possent, Nihil voto concipi, nihil felicitate con ●mma●i, quod non Augustus post reditum in urbem, Beib. populoque Romano, terrarumque orbi representavit. Vel. Pa●ere. in Hist. Rem. lib. 2  The people's full content, in Roman story,  
Makes the corollary of Augustus' Glory;  
Which he indulged, at his return to Rome,  
As You have done, since You arrived at home.  
Whilst these things speak you happy, good, and great;  
All in Superlatives, and to complete  
Her Joys, great Britain nought can want,  
If with due sense, She on her bliss descant:  
Shall your poor Irish vassals solely be,  
Excluded still from the grand Jubilee?  
And we are Excommunicated all,  
From mixing in the public Festival?  
By what Caprich of fortune doth our clime  
Wear blacks, whilst rays of Grace so near us shine?  
How comes our Nation to sing Lachrimae,  
On Jovial Christmas and the Paschal day?  
Our Seniors, who longed (Simeon-like) to hear  
Or see their King, Christ's figure, in his sphere  
Of Regal power to move; though they retrieved  
Their drooping spirits, soon as you arrived;  
And seemed (like Eagles) to resume their youth,  
Thinking, that day should terminate their Ruth;  
Yet, now court deaths Post-haste, because they see,  
Nought else alleviates their Misery.  
Our youth seem 
* Et doloraetatem jussit in esse suam. Boet. de Consol. Phi.  superannuated, with grief;  
There's such cunctation used in their relief;  
And maids wear squalid looks; their sprightly airs  
Changed, to the pallid symptoms of despairs.  
Our Matrons spent their tears, that liquid stock  
In them, is drained by sorrows constant shock;  
Their ills, that crusted Niobies, outvi'd,  
And so 
* Curae leves loquntur, ingentes stupent Sen. Trag.  t'amazement they are petrified.  
Who, but a Jeremy, with Enthean quill,  
Our Woes in Tragic lines could well distil?  
No Age or Sex but is disconsolate,  
Such is our Country's lamentable State:  
As if Nolls ghost should from the Stygian Strand,  
Raise Magic Vapours still t'enchant our Land  
Under old bondage, which his Laws imposed;  
For our Estates lie (a great part) transposed,  
As he assigned them, 'twixt his Creatures shared  
And Independent host, whose fat doth lard  
Numbers of them: And thus did he divide  
Our spoils and Fortunes; and so gratified  
His Armies active Zeal t'exterminate  
This Monarchy, and buoy him up in State.  
Rich 
* Et pro crimine omni aut opes, aut opimi agri. Lip. de con.  Fields and Loyalty were our chief Crimes,  
The last was Virtue, in serener times;  
For which shall we make constant Penance thus,  
The only Plea that should ingratiate us?  
Who of three shattered Nations, were the last,  
Fought out your Cause, and in your Quarrel cast,  
The final Ruins of your Party; You  
May with your Fiat, build us up a new;  
Who suffered crushing, ere we'd violate,  
By yielding soon, that Peace of Forty Eight:   

Solemn Peice; I hope 'tis not forgot,  
Your Ermines will not sully with that blot.  
He's scarce your Friend, would seek to conjure down  
Those public condescensions, You did own;  
Would Sacrifice, to private ends, or spleen,  
A Glorious Monarch's hallowed esteem:  
What need I hint the confluence of our men  
From all those Foreign parts, they served in,  
About your Sacred Person, than abroad;  
Those timely duties You do not explode,  
But mind; so to their Sovereign, the Sea,  
Rivers flow far, and Crystal tributes pay:  
Nor was't by land alone, in that Exile,  
The Touchstone of true Faith; as we may style  
All such disasters, They espoused Your Cause;  
But on the Ocean too, steered by your Laws;  
Their loyal Palinures sought to support  
Your Admiralty-Court, from Port to Port:  
Then (as we should) our hopes we anchored, sure,  
On Your glad Restauration, for our cure;  
Yet still our Country-business, panting lies,  
And with slow Hectiques languishing, it dies.  
The Irish Ordeil, was the Court of Claims,  
Few through that fire, with slender venial stains  
Could pass unsinged; Yet were the Judges free  
From the least byaz of Partiality:  
But by their Rules, such as were strictly chalked  
Out, for our Trials, they exactly walked;  
Whilst heinous Crimes are blauncht, forgot, or drowned  
In that vast Sea of Mercy, most have found,  
Flowing in Your Amnestia; only we  
Are left obnoxious to all scrutiny:  
Our lives are sifted, and set on the Rack,  
False evidence suborned to make us black.  
Of heavens straight ingress, what the Gospel says,  
On Earth is typified in our days:  
Our Innocence (which to the test was put)  
Must shine like that of Infants, ere they shoot  
Up, to their dangerous years; or else no man  
Of our poor Israel enters Canaan;  
None are restored; Yet through those narrow straits  
Some have got in, unto their old Estates;  
And hundreds more, on this preciser score  
To Innocence have title; but the door  
(They say) is shut, the time effluxed for those,  
As though men would your long-lived justice close;  
Or bounty stint t'a few months space; who can  
So circumscribe it, shackles th'Ocean,  
The Law defines; An droit ne poit mourir,  
An ancient Right, is like the Vestal fire,  
Never extinct, though darkened 'tis, sometime,  
When gold or favour will not make it shine;  
Nay some restorable by Acts of Grace  
And Parliament, a shadow yet embrace;  
Whilst the effects of your intendments are  
Wanting; they're only Landlords titular.  
Bill after Bill, we see transmitted o'er  
One clashing with the other, though before  
An Act; like that 
* Penelope.  chaste Princess' endless web  
Wrought with great pains, yet soon unravelled;  
Our Souls were night-mared by these Ambages,  
These Circuits did our vital bloods oppress;  
And after all, a rueful murmur was  
Of late, there should a fatal sentence pass  
On Irish Interests; oh! a public grief,  
Nothing can cozen me to the belief;  
We should be in a righteous Prince's sense,  
Made victim to alleged convenience:  
Angels defend, That, that anointed hand,  
Should sign the desolation of a Land,  
Or people, whose hands, hearts, and all they have,  
(As bound) are Yours devoted, to the grave:  

* Ex ungue leonem.  And if we know the Lion by his paws,  
Those three late Noble Irish Scaevolaes',  
Who in Losanna did such miracles  
For You, do by that recent feat express  
The loyal Genius of our Nation still,  
To live or die at their great Sovereign's will.  
But with this Subject I no more shall grate  
Upon Your Royal patience; They could state  
With greater Emphasis our sad distress,  
Who long in steady Prose made our address;  
We have this comfort, that Your Wisdoms choice  
Was such a Viceroy, as by general voice,  
Of us and all true Subjects; none could be  
More fit to play that Arduous game, than he;  
Brave Ormond your 
* Cui fidus Achates it comes, & paribus curis vestigia figit. Vir. lib. 6. Aeneid  Achates, went a share  
In all your Foreign strayings, all your cares,  
None 
* Plutarch, in the life of Alex.  loved the KING, with more entireness, since  
Craterus did the Macedonian Prince;  
The Spirit of his Government we found  
ere now, so sagely tempered, and so sound,  
As we may hope a future Plenilune  
Of blessings by't; and that his Grace will tune  
For you the Irish Harp, long speechless grown,  
In the sad solstice of Her Sovereign's Throne;  
And with the Music of his Ruling hand,  
Compose the jarring Interests of that Land;  
As once Amphion by the rise and fall  
Of his sweet notes, had built the Theban wall;  
Charmed the materials thither; stones, that be  
Of different forms, danced to a Symmetry.  
But public matters, and affairs of State,  
Th'officious Muse doth Supererogate  
To touch upon; for those are things beyond  
Her flagging fancies humble Horizon:  
It were presumption in a puny wit,  
A kind of Sacrilege it may commit,  
Handling of those absconded Mysteries,  
Not penetrable by thick-sighted eyes:  
An honest Subject must revere, not fret  
At the Results of's Prince's Cabinet.  
Now give me leave, most Gracious Liege, to say  
Somewhat expressed in a doleful key  
Concerning my own case; 'tis singular;  
As, I, with all submission, will declare:  
When Cromwell, that prodigious Tyrant was  
Raised to the height, on Colosses of brass  
His greatness built, above the shock of fate,  
As many thought, who did not meditate  
That so excentrique and unjust a Rise,  
Preluded to a signal precipice:  
When he had trampled on the necks of all,  
His terror became Ecumenical;  
That Bird of prey, whose sanguinary beak  
Quarried on us, and did his fury wreak;  
Who made each Fault, a Capital offence,  
And moulded Laws of bloody Elements,  

* Tacitus de domit.  Domitian-like; when thinking of our King,  
Were no less than a Treasonable thing;  
If thoughts had a material substance been,  
Or could be felt, heard, understood, or seen:  
Much more to Speak, or Write against the State,  
Nought but th'offenders death could expiate:  
Even in those slavish, touchy times, have I  
(It is a Truth, and no thrasonick lie)  
Declared in Ireland, for the Royal Cause,  
And the Usurpers Parricide did blaze,  
Th'Injustice of that Regicidal Court,  
Veiled under Justice's pageantry and port  
Decried; 'gainst those, that would all Law subvert,  
Did to my power Just Monarchy assert:  
This, after the reduction of that Isle,  
When an iniquous Peace did seem to smile  
In servitude; and none could roll one stone  
In your behalf, all Armless, overthrown;  
I made my best, though impotent Essay,  
Some Lectures of Allegiance to display;  
And so revive the thoughts of Majesty  
In some, which by long dissuetude might die:  
Timists were posed, each (O imprudence) cried,  
To duel thus a violent stream or tide.  
But old experience, as a truth, defines,  
That 
* Difficile est sapere, & amare.  Love and Wisdom are not always Twins;  
A loyal passion, and my bleeding sense  
Of Injured Sovereignty and Innocence,  
Transported then my Soul, so to discharge  
Her just resentments; and foretell at large  
A Change; the hanging of some Demagogues, 
* Bradshaw and Cook.   
Giving them genuine Characters of Rogues;  
Which, since fulfilled, Your Majesty, I see,  
Dubbed that gross speech, a kind of Prophecy.  
My charge, and censure may in part appear  
By the annexed, which thousands can aver:  
The Crime (forsooth) was public, and looked on  
Unpresidented there, a monstrous one,  
Which, Jealous Rebels, whom their Conscience racked,  
Thought, sure, was, with a Belgic Army backed,  
Or rather Irish waiting on their King;  
From Flanders straight all dangers hover:  
My person was secured, a perilous wight,  
In labour with deep Kingish plots, to light  
Now brought; so did they word it, then, of me;  
Would I could merit that proud Elegy.  
I wanted power, but evidenced my will  
Th'effects of their ombrages to fulfil.  
And, as I fought by female dint of Tongue  
Or Pen, to vindicate that horrid wrong:  
The unexampled Murder of my Prince;  
When other Arms, we had not for offence;  
Had I Brydreus' hundred hands to boot,  
A Gyant-stature of a hundred foot  
In each dimension, and Alcides' Club,  
And strength; I would, in short, those Monster's grub,  
Those poisons quell, whose Luciferean pride  
Murdered one King, the other did proscribe.  
But all I could, I did, not what I would;  
God takes the hearts pure Incense, more than Gold,  
Or Hecatombs; a richer Sacrifice  
Than that, or what most precious, men do prize;  
Life, fortune, goods, I could not offer you;  
All which I staked, and fairly ventured too;  
Nay Shipwrackt all almost upon one shelf,  
By loyal gusts, I scarce survive myself:  
From Prison, unto Prison, guards did hale  
Me, as a holocauste, prejudged by all  
To their Protectors Shambles (such have been,  
Where Cavallier-flesh did feast their spleen.)  
Now the dire Pageants, all the 
* Plus terret pompa mortis, quam mors ipsa.  pomp of death,  
More dreadful than Death'self (our vital breath  
Is oft exhaled with ease) before me dwell,  
And every Tongue became my Passing-bell:  
At length they hurried me unto the Bar,  
And strange Tribunal mixed of Peace and War;  
I was Arraigned, Convicted, and with sound  
Of a Fanatic Verdict, guilty found;  
Yet with vast charges, and what Friends could do,  
In those extremes, my tendered life, to woo  
With all the Charms, that to some mercy'encline  
Obdured hearts; I, with a ponderous fine  
And heavier mulcts, was formally reprieved  
Beyond all hopes; yet malice so contrived  
The sentence past; as men might call that doom  
A dying life, or living Martyrdom:  
For I have languished, sans mainprise or bail,  
Whole years, a constant tenant to the Jail;  
(Such was my censure) to the huge decay  
Of health and wealth, which melted all away;  
Exhausted what I had, and what had not,  
Signed bonds for sums, which yet I could not blot,  
And pawned the Rubbish of my fortunes; down  
Tumbled, before, in th' Ruins of the Crown.  
My solace was the Justice of my Cause,  
For King, and Kings Prerogatives and Laws;  
When some that well remarked; and took the height  
Of my great Persecutions, cause, and weight  
Of circumstances, that attended these,  
So signalised in those Neronian days,  
Made sure account, some guerdon lay in store  
For this; when God should our great Charl's restore.  
But I digress, such was my passive state,  
Till Oliver dropped hence b' a slugish fate;  
And Richard from Usurping, like his fire,  
A Meteor fallen, scarce dwindled to a squire;  
Since have I changed the Scene, but not my woes;  
London, a kind of splendid durance grows  
To me; where more than thousand days did pass,  
Whilst I these banks of Silver Thames do trace;  
Wore out almost the pavements of White-Hall,  
Dancing attendance, gazing on the Wall;  
My waiting, oft was paid with empty air,  
Though my pretensions, I thought, just and fair.  
Papers on Papers, long since I have piled,  
Petitions of my Tragic stories filled;  
Yet, most times, that elaborat Address,  
Was soon blown over, and but cold success;  
Arachne's subtle textures in a Room,  
Are thus confounded by the careless broom.  
Due Reverence, long from your Princely ears  
Staved off my plaints, the subject of my tears;  
Whilst here a Rumper, there, Fanatic Elves  
Did all the while, par tort, possess themselves  
Of my true Birth right; cultivate that clay,  
My loyal Sires acquired a fairer way,  
And whose fruition they designed for me:  
The Posthume shadow of their Family.  
Twelve tedious years with leaden wings are flown,  
Since I, (
* En queis conscevimus agros. Virg. Ec.  That house, This soil was once my own)  
Could make the burden of my Song, 'tis time  
I change that note, and say, These now are mine;  
If your poor Sufferers narrative, you rate,  
As, to indulge that happiness, 
* Libertas, quae sera tamen, respexit inertem. ibid.  though late;  
It's true, long since, I got an Antipast  
Of Grace; my name put on the Act that's passed  
For Ireland's Settlement; but tantalised  
My hopes were still, by those words; till Reprized;  
Remove from me (dread Sovereign) this spell,  
Which your few Gracious lines can soon unspel;  
For though my Fortunes deeply wounded lie,  
Your hand hath balm, and healing faculty;  
Which in some measure will effect their cure  
If you vouchsafe subscribing, to secure  
My Title; and what should result of that,  
Possession, in the now bill; (which like fate  
To me's uncertain) if you please to say  
The word, Your Sage Committee will obey.  
O sacred breath, that with one sound can heave  
My Fortune's Resurrection from the Grave!  
My suit's not great; the Giver dignifies,  
What, otherwise, men slenderly might prise.  
Stories relate, how, in that ancient time,  
When Mantuan Virgil in a Matachine  
Of fate, was hurried from Estate, and Land;  
(Like ours, that Transplantation, Author's brand)  
Octavius gave his orders to restore  
This Titirus, with many favours more;  
Sir, Y'are Augustus like; but (ah) where's now  
The Magic of great Marot's lines to move;  
Caesar! look on the samness of our case,  
Not on the different close, my homespun phrase,  
Which through the limbecks not distilled, or terse,  
Like that refined, late modish flux of verse;  
My Muse hath peccant humours; wants a leech,  
Whose Mother-tongue's the quainter English speech,  
As 'tis not hers, who with cross fortune still  
Wrestling; never clammered up Parnassus' hill.  
Titus, the darling of mankind, their grace;  

* Neminem oportet a Principis vultu tristem discedere. Sueton.  Thought, none should from before the Prince's face  
In sadness turn; O Titus of our world,  
Now that the Irish Seas are to be curled  
By my slow Oars; I hope, I shall not part  
This awful presence with a downcast heart;  
My debts contracted here, are great; those things  
That most oppress, next to the weight of sins;  
Debts by three years' attendance, were incurred,  
Since I, for right, to this Fount-head recurred;  
Which, if your bounty deigns, are soon defrayed;  
To beg of Kings, is no ignoble trade,  
Yet when 'tis practised least; a modest man,  
Before he craves, his wants will strictly scan;  
All I implore, tautologizing thus,  
Is, but my old Estate, to pay those deuce.  
My sufferings signal were, so may they be  
The objects of your Princely clemency;  
And if with some compassion they affect  
Your Royal breast; be pleased, of your elect  
Restorable, among the Nominees  
I may be one; (so Jove, I hope, decrees;)  
And your Petitioner will acquiesce  
In Praying God, Your Majesty to bless.   
FINIS.