An Injured Prince Vindicated, OR, A Scurrilous and Detracting Pamphlet answered.  By Mrs. E. J. in Hartfordshire 
WHat none, that dare in hand to take a Pen;  
And vindicate the most abused of Men!  
My once Dread Lord and Sovereign, Royal James,  
So oft by Whigs reduced to hard Extremes.  
First pluck the Beam from thy most Cursed Eye,  
And meddle not with Principality:  
The mote in his but small, yet big by vogue,  
As Mountain Alps; cries every Rebel Rogue.  
Valour and Conduct his Companions were,  
Nor did he Foreign Enemies e'er fear.  
But when Domestics leaves their Lord forelorn,  
And throws him to a Mob's Contempt and Scorn,  
Who robbed and stripped Him from his very clothes,  
As far from all Remorse, as some break Oaths.  
Then finds an Injured Prince the greatest Woe,  
That ever Rightful Monarch e'er can know.  
A King he was, and from a King he came,  
A Slaughtered King, to Whigs Eternal Shame.  
Nor can the Poison of their Lying Lips,  
His Sacred Name and Harmless Life eclipse.  
His Pious Memory will Fame outlive;  
Justice and Truth his Character shall give.  
Down Cursing Shimei and Rude Rabshakey,  
With False Ahitophel, who would betray  
So well as Him, even his and Future all;  
Where Whigs in Council fit, there Princes fall.  
But O you Damned Rebels, who is't dare,  
Assault one single and anointed Hair?  
The Sacred Unction by Heaven's Vicar shed,  
Preserves each Royal Consecrated Head.  
Long strove ye Vipers, as ye once have done,  
So well as Father, to destroy the Son.  
Mistaken Monsters, Heaven did only try,  
Whether a King could a Good Martyr die;  
Else had He never come within your Claws;  
Ye Breakers of Divine and Humane Laws.  
Since such a Thing permitted was to be,  
'Twas left to a Tribe composed of Infamy.  
The Almighty their Great Wickedness fore-knew,  
Had they the King of Heaven, the same they'd do:  
Him if they could, they would re-crucifie;  
And Impiously dethrone the Deity.  
These are the Cursed Destroying Fiends of Woe,  
These are those Thorns, on whom no Grapes can grow;  
These are those Choking Thistles bears no Figgs;  
These are Cain's Cursed Seed, Furies and whigs.  
These are the Murderers of our Tranquil Reft,  
These even are Those, we all aught to Detest.