Sol in opposition to Saturn. OR A a short return to a late Tragedy called The Duke of Guise.  
HAil Royal Prince! our happy Morning Star;  
The Genius of our peace, the Soul of War:  
High by descent, by virtue higher yet,  
Which make the people crowd to kiss thy Feet.  
Fame blow thy Trumpet! and let the mighty sound,  
Of Monmouth, from the Antarctic Pole rebound.  
Fame blow again! until the blast be heard,  
As far as Noble james, is loved or feared.  
Blow! till the Universe doth answer give,  
Till Monmouth is the bravest Prince alive.  
Oh that I could proportionate my Rhyme,  
Unto the praise of Virtue so Sublime:  
But were I ne'er so skilful, such desert,  
Doth even Anticipate the Poets Art.  
Hyperboles in such exalted Themes,  
But low, inferior, sickly Whimsies seems.  
His Name doth higher Eulogies contain,  
Then can be reached by all Apollo's train.  
The highest Tune that ever Poet sung,  
Would such an Elevated Subject wrong.  
If so my Muse forbore, lay by thy Lyre,  
The worth thou canst not reach learn to admire.  
Brave Noble Prince! such worth can never be,  
Designed for everlasting Obloquy.  
Tho' from black Mouths, Malignant Vapours rise;  
And for the present hide thee from our Eyes.  
Yet thou shalt shine, and all those Clouds disperse:  
Thy rays again, shall glad the Universe:  
Infer no wretched thought from frowning Fate,  
Tho' Virtuous men may be Unfortunate:  
The Sun is oft Eclipsed, through little Stars,  
And As unenvied, no Misfortune Fears.  
While Envy lives, true worth will be defamed,  
She'll bark, although she be for barking damned.  
Brave Generous Prince! has Virtue learned to Sing,  
Under the lash of every Libels Sting.  
Be not offended with the silly Stage,  
Nor the Effects of a blind Horse's Rage.  
Let Pegasus alone, her Race she'll run,  
And spite of thee, attain Damnation.  
Yet let his anger thy compassion move,  
Methinks his Passion has the looks of Love.  
True Adversaries seldom warning give,  
Like that which in this Play, thou dost receive.  
Not that I'll wrong him in this Patron's sense,  
Nor spoil his Fortune, by his small pretence.  
We'll rather say, to make amends for that,  
His Plot doth Item what sport he'd be at.  
Rejoice Great Prince! and may thy wretched Foes,  
Proceed their worst intentions to disclose.  
Fear not their malice, nor their threats despise,  
But let apparent folly, make thee wise.  
Finish the Virtuous Race thou hast begun,  
And future toils, with former Vigour run  
To keep those Laurels, thou'st already won.  
'Tis true they've brought forth only Thorns as yet,  
But thereby Fate runs more and more in debt.  
Who knows what is for such desert prepared?  
Did virtue ever go without reward?  
Despair not james, for every Virtue is,  
A Pledge of Temporal, or Eternal bliss.  
Virtue is Earnest of some good to come,  
Though oft that good be bought with Martyrdom:  
Though Providence be slow it can't be rude  
It ne'er was guilty of Ingratitude.  
Thou knowst not what'by Heaven is designed,  
For the Exercise of thy heroic mind.  
Who knows but Monmouth yet may th' victory have,  
o'er Papists, who would his Native Land enslave.  
Who knows for what thou art preserved, for we  
Heavens Love perceive in thy delivery,  
From the Italians Savage cruelty.  
Who knows what Honours thou may'st yet regain?  
The Sun must in the Morning rise again,  
Who knows what Storms thy Lustre may dispel,  
What mischief stop, and what heart burnings quell,  
Amongst Romish Tory's earnest to rebel?  
Such Virtues ought not to be buried quick,  
To gratify the Catholic Shismatick.  
Such Talents ought not to be hid, but spread,  
Virtue like Faith is fruitful if not dead.  
Thy Country's Peace, and Liberty they Claim,  
Thy Lords renown, the Centre of thy Fame:  
Wert thou ambitious, thou hadst yet been high,  
But this thy fall doth prove thy Loyalty.  
Disdain those Mongrels that would run thee down,  
True Courage in adversity is shown.  
As in a Storm the Sun doth light some parts,  
So doth thy presence cheer all Loyal Hearts.  
But as for them who envy deart thy life,  
May they live cursed and die without relief.  
May they die beggars and an offspring leave,  
To whom Eternal infamy may cleave.  
May all their hopes to desperation turn,  
Live their own shame, and die the people's scorn:  
On one another, vent your swelling Gall,  
And may intestine Malice eat you all.  
May every Viper die by its own sting,  
And Tory Poets their own Dirges sing.  
But Heaven preserve great Monmouth from their rage,  
Let him live safe tho' Murdered on the Stage.  
Let Poets club their spleen, and Fops their pence,  
May Heaven patronise his innocence.   

LONDON Printed for H. jones, 1683.