A PINDARIC To Their Sacred Majesties, JAMES II. And His Royal Consort Queen MARY, On Their joint CORONATIONS At Westminster, April 23. 1685.  
By JOHN WILSON.  
— Sine vindice tuti.  
LONDON: Printed for Joseph Knight, and Francis Saunders, at the Blue Anchor in the lower Walk of the New Exchange, 1685.   

To Their Sacred MAJESTY'S The King and Queen, On Their Joint CORONATIONS, etc.  

I.  
WHile, That Firstmatter (whatsoe'er it was)  
That Fluid Infinite,  
Lay, yet inseparate,  
Nought could be said to Be, but a void Mass,  
Or indigested Lump, without a Soul:  
Only, a dull, dead, heavy Night,  
Or a worse Darkness sat  
Sat Brooding on the Whole:  
But when the Mighty Fiat passed,  
Th' unwieldy Chaos broke;  
Each ' tangled Element was winged with Hast,  
Fought out its way, and to its Centre took;  
The Sun appeared; The Earth, Shot-forth,  
An Universal Monarch bore the Sway;  
Glory on High, and Peace on Earth,  
Was the great Song; until her Gyant-brood,  
Disturbed That Heavenly Lay;  
And, Topsy-turvy'ing every thing, Imbrued,  
Their harmless Mother, with Seditious Blood.   

II.  
Such was our Case at home: This, England's, She,  
(To pass the rest) that from an Heptarchy,  
Weathered so many Centuries;  
Nor knew more Lords than One,  
Yet spread her Branches to the Ocean;  
How was She Racked, with Fears, and Jealousies?  
Her Beauty, and her Bands, how gone?  
Her Order Lost; Her Seamless Coat,  
Torn into Rags: What can't a Faction Vote!  
One might have Sought, and sought (too true)  
Her, in herself, yet missed her too,  
She was so smeared with blood:  
While all along, The stupid Crowd,  
Snarle at the Stone, but kiss the Hand, that threw:  
'Til moiled, and tired they stood; and then,  
Considering What they'd done;  
Soon as the Scales fell from their Eyes,  
Came up to the lost Paths again,  
Adored the Majesty they'd slain;  
Marked out some Heads for Sacrifice,  
And with united Echoes, Rend the Skies.   

III.  
And now, your Royal Brother once restored,  
Who was not Instrumental in't?  
One might have found, Ten honest Men,  
Before one factious Lord:  
Where was That He, that did not give the Hint?  
Treason! and Traitor! Bless us! What  
Means the harsh Phrase, to Men regenerate?  
So Smooth, and Slick, was every Face again:  
The People Shout! The Houses vie  
Who shall Do most: All all's the Cry!  
Yet He, Outdid 'em: 'twas but Ask, and Have;  
So glad He was, not to Destroy, but Save.  
Thus Basking in his Beams they lay,  
Till Fat, and Wanton with their Ease,  
They must Rise-up to Play;  
Their Nourishment, turned to Disease;  
They lift the Heel, Snuff up the Wind, and Bray:  
And as we see a Swelling Sea,  
Keep Rolling, though the Storm be spent;  
Having no more to Wish to Be,  
They must be now, Secure, or Insolent:  
Your Happy Brother Found, and Broke the Clew;  
To keep it Such, was left (Great SIR) to You.   

IV.  
You, You in whom, Your Royal Ancestors  
Tho' Dead, yet Speak, and Live anew;  
Their mighty Deeds, breakforth in You,  
And their forgotten Urns, bear Flowers.  
Nor do You raise the Dead, alone,  
But in the Living, Emulation;  
So that Who'd Speak it right, must Call  
You, Coeur de Lion, An Original,  
At least, th' united Excellence of All,  
Did not the Royal Harrys claim a Share;  
(The Seventh of England, and the Fourth of France)  
They ne'er said Go, but Let us on;  
So Caesar, past the Rubicon:  
Full well They knew, Subjects delight,  
To have a King, Will See 'em fight:  
Nor Rashly yet: Nature's advance,  
Is not by Leaps, but Steps: And such too, are,  
Yours; (Royal SIR ') Their Crowns, and Virtue's Heir.  
But I'm too blame— Who beats on Ages past,  
Hunts a foiled Chase: Be what they will,  
You have Performed so much, this Last,  
The Next, must set You ' for Example still.   

V.  
Which of 'em All, more Glorious Hazards ran?  
With greater Conduct, or with less Concern?  
Such, That the Best, might from You Learn,  
To be A Gen'ral, or A Private Man.  
Flanders did Feel, and France Confess,  
Your Early Arms, when from Your blooming Youth,  
Turein made Judgement of Your future Growth:  
Thus Hercules,  
Gave the Essay,  
What He would prove another day:  
And beardless Alexander, put to rout  
The World, ere Caesar thought, of setting-out.  
Nor has the Omen failed (Great SIR) in You:  
You returned safe, and Fraught with Laurels too:  
They Like the Soil; Root, and become,  
A Safeguard, to Your Oak at home,  
Let her between 'em grow,  
And with her humble Sprigs, adorn Your Brow,  
For, that she spreads anew, is all Your Own;  
Fortune, has nothing in it; She,  
Finds only Matter, to us; We,  
We give it Form, and Her, her Deity.   

VI  
Nor has the thrice-asserted British Main,  
Less owned You, when as oft invain,  
The Dutch disputed the Dominion,  
Your Arms o'erruled the Plea;  
They Dread your Flag, and at Your Thunder, Flee:  
Feign would The Watery God have saved his own;  
And in disorder— Thus— we'll meet alone:  
He Watched his time, and had it; Threw a Shelf,  
And sunk Your Ship; But, seeing You afloat,  
He now, feared for himself,  
And in confusion, fled Your single Boat.  
What shall I add? The Lion of the North,  
Had half brok-loose again;  
But at Your very setting-forth,  
He Trembled; and on sight, came-in;  
Came-in, and Couched; Rouse him, Who e'er he be,  
H'as led the Peaceful way, to t'other Three:  
Nor was it strange; Falcons Pursue  
The rankest Wing; The same did You;  
Whose generous Sword, did never vie  
A Triumph, but a Victory;  
Nor made more use of That, than to forgive;  
You Quelled the Stubborn, bad the Humble, Live.  
And now, Possess us All: Tho' yet,  
Do what we can, we must be still Ingrate.   

VII.  
But, I'm deceived, or We're already such;  
'Twas Rome's, and Athens Best men's Fate,  
To have deserved too much:  
Your Royal Father's, only fault:  
And if to have pursued the noblest ends;  
Firm to Your Word, and Constant to Your Friends;  
T'ave minded Other's safety, not Your Own,  
Nor to be Dazzled with A Crown,  
Be, to be Crim'nal (SIR) You're Guilty too:  
Or, if repeated Injuries, may bear  
The name of Gratitude, You, had Your Share;  
But Your Staunch Virtue, brought You through.  
Thus, as one Good, begets another Good,  
Your Resolution, gave You Fortitude,  
And made You More than Conqueror:  
You gave the Torrent way; Withdrew,  
And (Parthian-like) by wheeling, You subdue:  
At least, so Broke the Faction, Every one  
Has washed his Hands of Your Exclusion:  
weare All one Mothers Sons; All join,  
In this Great Days Solemnities:  
Not that a Coronation adds more  
To You, (in all respects, Full-King before;)  
Than to th' Intrinsic value of Your Coin,  
The Stamp, which carries, only This,  
That it declares, What, and Whose Image ' 'tis.   

VIII.  
But stay— What's here!— Another Star at Noon!  
One?— 'tis A Constellation!  
You, no less Gracious, than Royal Queen!  
The Abstract of whatever Good has been,  
Nor That, by Art, but Inclination:  
In whom, no single This, or That,  
But Every Grace, and Virtue meet;  
So fully too, that we may guests,  
What the First Woman in Perfection, was:  
To these, That Beauty, That variety,  
Multitude, Mixture, Correspondency,  
That Free, yet Awful Majesty;  
You might be taken for A Kind, alone;  
And would, but that You ' owe's A Son;  
You've One, We wait, Another James the Great;  
And Modena, famed for Heroic Men,  
Assures us, You'll not miss the Strain:  
Let him (if possible) be Greater yet:  
Let him— I go too far— The Rest, I'll guests;  
But had gone further, were my reverence less.   

IX.  
How Happy are Ye then, most Royal Pair,  
You, in A Queen; She, in Her Partner;  
And All Good Subjects, in their Humble share!  
Let Others Now, Plot; Let'em Raise  
Their Old, or New Utopias;  
Let'em Cajole, Coax, Fucus, Cant,  
Their Beldame Pus, The Covenant:  
Let'em swear On, and Off; nay, till it be,  
That Others, Yawn for company:  
Let'em Doubt, Whisper, Murmur; Form,  
Those hollow Blasts, into a Storm:  
Your Virtue is impenetrable Mail;  
And Great is Truth, and will prevail;  
When They, like Arrows, Shot against a Wall;  
Or Ruins, Break themselves, on What, they fall.  
Thus Seated, on That Rock of Truth,  
While Clouds, and Storms, gather Below,  
'Tis All Serene, Above: Lose Winds, may blow;  
Impostumated Billows, rise;  
And Hurricanes, threaten the Skies;  
But in Despite, of their spent Froth,  
Your Station is secure: You bear aloof,  
And wrapped in Your own Laurel, Thunder proof.   

X.  
Hark! Hark (Most Mighty SIR ') The Gen'ral Shout,  
Shows, the Heart's willing, And the Tongue, speaks out!  
All honest Men would have You so,  
Safe in Yourself, and in Your Subjects too;  
Dreaded Abroad; at Home, loved, and revered;  
Without a Noisy, Resty Herd,  
But such, as Represent, not Personate;  
Such, as Design You, Truly Great;  
And studying to Salve, not Move Debate,  
Shall still Assert You (What You are)  
The single Arbiter, of Peace, and War:  
And make Your Foes Confess, Tho' the Sun Warms  
At Liberty, Contract it once, it Burns.   
FINIS.