A POEM TO His Sacred Majesty, ON THE PLOT.  Written by a Gentlewoman. 
HAil Mighty Prince! whom Providence designed  
To be the chief delight of Humane Kind:  
So many Virtues crowd Your Breast, that we  
Do almost question Your Humanity:  
Sure every Planet that o'er Virtue Reigns,  
Shed its best Influence in Your Royal Veins.  
You are the Glory of Monarchal Powers,  
In Bounties free, as are descending Showers;  
Fierce as a Tempest, when engaged in War,  
In Peace more mild than tender Virgins are;  
In Mercy, You not only Imitate  
The Heavenly Powers, but also Emulate.  
None but Yourself, Your Sufferings could have born  
With so much Greatness, such Heroic Scorn:  
When hated Traitors do Your Life pursue,  
And all the world is filled with Cares for You,  
When every Loyal Heart is sunk with fear,  
Yourself alone, does unconcerned, appear,  
Your Soul within still keeps its awful state,  
Contemns, and Dares, the worst effects of Fate;  
The Majesty that shoots from Your bright Eye,  
Commands Your Fate, and awes Your Destiny.  
And yet though Your brave Soul bear You thus high,  
Your solid Judgement sees there's Danger nigh,  
Which with such Care and Prudence You prevent,  
As if You feared not, but would cross th' Event:  
Your Care so Nobly looks, it doth appear,  
'Tis for Your Subjects, not Yourself You fear:  
Heavens, make this Prince's Life Your nearest Care,  
That does so many heavenly Virtues share.  
If Kings may be allowed to Copy You,  
CHARLES is the likest, Nature ever drew:  
Blast every hand, that dares to be so bold  
An impious weapon against His Life to hold;  
Burst every heart, that dares but think Him ill,  
Their guilty Souls with so much Terror fill,  
That of themselves they may their PLOT unfold,  
And live no longer, when the Tale is told:  
Safe in your Care all else would needless prove,  
Yet keep Him safe too in His Subject's Love;  
Your Subjects view You with such Loyal Eyes,  
They know not how they may their Treasure prize.  
Were You defenceless, they would round You fall,  
And pile their Bodies to build up a wall.  
Were You oppressed, 'twould move a generous strife  
Who first should lose his own, to save Your Life:  
But since kind Heaven these Dangers doth remove,  
We'll find out other ways to express our Love.  
We'll force the Traitors all, their Souls resign  
To herd with them, that taught them their Design.  
FINIS.   

Lcensed  
Nou. 23. 1678. Roger L' Estrange.   

LONDON: Printed for Henry Brome at the Gun in St. Paul's Churchyard.