A POEM TO Her Royal Highness, UPON THE Birth of her Daughter.  
MADAM!  

BY all our Thunder-thumping Lies, by Jove,  
By all the Gods, that Rule the spheres above;  
We are all Lost; kind Heaven have Mercy on us,  
Your Lying down has quiter and clean undone us.  
Who e'er did think the Angry Planets would  
Turn Bonny Blue-Cap to a Silken Hoood?  
Alas! alas! to what an Ebb wee're brought?  
Are all our Vows and Prayers come to nought?  
How basely false is Thompsons prophesy?  
Now be believes his Father De'el can lye.  
While all the Grinning Whiggs do burst with Laughter  
To see the Monarch Son should prove a Daughter.  
We had designed in Racy Gossips Bowls  
And christening Caudles to refresh our Souls,  
When the majestic Boy should once appear  
weed Swim in Wine, and would Carouze in Beer,  
And Feast our Bellys with the Richest cheer.  
Proving a Girl, alas it proves our Woe!  
Our Feast is spoiled, and all our Cakes are doughty.  
We did design to Revel in the Street,  
And highest Skies with Fire-works to Greet;  
With Shouts your Labouring Self to Entertain,  
As Neighbour Heathens do the Moon in Pain;  
Each Loyal Tory with his Gloating Mate  
The Lads Nativity would Celebrate.  
Tantivy Boys to Dance, their Clerks to Sing,  
Had all designed within a Holy Ring,  
And witty Females were to be Spectators,  
Towzer had made a Crown of Observators  
For the brisk Boy to wear, but now the Elf  
May bravely take it up and wear't himself.  
Nay 'tother day, when Lords and Taylors met,  
And Loyal Prentices in Rank were set,  
To Hans-en-kelder they did quaff each Glass,  
And who e're did Refuse, was dubbed an Ass.  
Grandees would find Coralls to rub his Gums,  
And Prentices would find him Sugar Plums,  
And this they did Confirm with Loyal Oaths,  
But Whip-stich he did Hope to make him clothes.  
But we're deceived; for Madam in your Arms  
Is held a Girl, that is all over Charms.  
A Girl, though fair, yet is the bane of Bliss,  
'Tis Gloomy Woman Darkens paradise;  
Women, though fair, yet ugly are their Wills,  
Born to do Mischief, and Triumph in ills.  
Madam, how many longing Hearts did Groan  
With Tedious Sighs to see your wisht-for Son?  
But if it be a Maid, we'll cheer our Hearts,  
And once again Rely upon our Arts:  
Nature shall never our fledged Hopes destroy;  
I'll swear if it be a Maid, we'll make't a Boy.  
But 'twas a Boy, the Fault is only this,  
The Midwife circumcised the Babe amiss.  
And if it be cut off, we won't Complain  
The Child is young and it may grow again.  
But if it be a Maid, what need we Care?  
We make no use of the Porphyry Chair.  
Then rouse up all you Tories of our Isle!  
Fortune on us can never choose but Smile;  
We have the best of all her Pleasant Gifts,  
Her Lucky hand doth Help us at dead Lifts;  
And if untimely Death by Chance destroy  
The happy Infant, either Maid or Boy;  
Yet will we Revel at a well set Board,  
And drink a Loyal Health, to Royal Charles the Third.    

London, Printed for J. Sweetman. 1682.