On the most TRIUMPHANT CEREMONY Of his Most Sacred Majesty's Coronation, CHARLES II.  

AS once, in fair Minerva's shield,, the name  
Inserted, kept, loosened, dissolved the Frame.  
So under yours (Dread Sir) I stand, or fall,  
Courting your favour, or my Funeral:  
Crept near your Crown, t'avoid the Readers curse,  
Like beggar's change, wrapped in a golden purse:  
And this I dared; since he who deepest dives,  
May curse his Grammar, for superlatives:   

Great as our souls, not as your merits were,  
Were our first joys, when first you did appear;  
And like the first day's Sun, began your course  
With a bright World, and Chaos' divorce.  
Each then wished quills from Noah's dove to show  
Our blood-dround World, her Olive branch a new:  
(For Harvey's circulation had been true,  
And men had Islands been, and flouted too;)   

Each wished his Muse, like Jove's great sacred brain,  
Teeming Minerva's, then in every vein.  
The state (new Christened Kingdom, when your oars  
Landed you,) counted Indies on her shores:  
Or else (for 'twas so changed) could it have swom,  
Sure the Land travelled, and you stayed at home.  
Justly nick named by all, a Popish age,  
That sent our Kings themselves in Pilgrimage.   

And if that Infant Mirth, whose crutch and chair  
Scarce stood a high-lone, between hope and fear  
Ventured so far, that scarcely waked, they run,  
And Persians like adored their rising Sun;  
Where shall our souls find vent? or where shall we  
Be Metamorphosed to an ecstasy?  
Whose hanging sleeves of Mirth, are lately grown  
Such robes, we scarce believe, they are our own.  
Were but the great Egyptian Queen alive  
Who vowed (that should the Emperor survive)  
A rigid rape upon her tender heir,  
To solemnize her Love, as conqueror  
Her passions here, surely would not demur,  
But very joy, would turn her murderer.  
Hoop, hoop the Kingdom, or I fear 'twill burst:  
All World's strain curtsy, which shall see him first.  
The hungry City's maw, (whose throat is rammed  
As Crassus' with gold,) now so well crammed,  
Surely will fatten, and may learn from hence  
Among their pounds, to pay their Caesar's pence.  
I wonder not, in stead of painted glass,  
Each window now presents a painted face.  
For such the glory was, nature sent all  
To make this City, seem but one Guilt-Hall:  
Or else (there were so many) we might think,  
'Twas Noah's Ark, and all the World were in●,  
The streets were paved with fire, when MONCK came in,  
But when you're Crowned, (Dread Sir) with armed men.  
Your Subjects were a worthy sight, but you  
As to be seen, were to be rev'renced too:  
And one might learn, by every weeping stone  
(As Hercules by is Pillars:) you were gone.  
Here jealous juno might have kept her cow,  
Had she had half those eyes that wait on you:  
Or should your grace demand our sight as spies,  
Instead of Ermine you might wear our eyes:  
Each street so filled, that like the Trojan Horse,  
It swallowed men, but yet without a curse.  
The embroid'red gentry, well present the show,  
At each one's back, of Pater-noster-rowe.  
(Nay I may well allow that for their back,  
For each steeds tail outvyes a pedlars pack.  
About their hats, the prattling wind presumes  
To act a part, and whistles in their plumes:  
Their Horses (natures pride,) so stately grown,  
They walk, yet scorn the ground, they walk upon:  
Prance at the switches Music, and can show  
Men may sit still, and yet be dancing too:  
On either side, the streets were so well lined,  
With valiant foot, that sure the World combined  
To save you harmless, and had set them there,  
In your defence, full of Religious fear.  
Some valiant that they ' de change, had all their breaths  
Hippolytus his lives, for Martyrs' deaths:  
Some young sprung warriors, yet strut up, and down,  
Like new shelled lapwings with a feathered Crown.  
All serve, as their conditions owe, to honour you,  
Paying (great Sir) your homage, not your due.  
A Prince's Crown sits Regent over wit,  
Nor Lines, nor Language can Decipher it.  
But this is such a Text, it seems to drowned,  
Like the Samaritan in Oil, that wound  
That plunged in blood, and makes us reenjoy  
A stately Rome, from ruinated Troy:  
Here's Hercules, and Hydra, t'other neck,  
Did treason dare, once more to blaze in Smeck.  
Which providence prevent, but if my bounds  
Be to pledge destinies in blood, and wounds,  
Might I but dare to kiss my Sov'raignes' cup,  
Should death fill brimmers, I would drink 'em up.   
THO. HENSHAW. Fellow of A. S. C.