The OXFORD Alarman's Speech to the D. of M. when hi● Grace made his Entrance into that Ci●●, about Sept. 1680.  

STout HANNIBAL before He came to Age,  
Perpetual Wars with Rome was sworn to wage!  
You lead Us to such Wars; & Happy We!  
Great Prince▪ You are a Solder good as He;  
Tho some will say (to give the Devil his due,)  
He was as good a Protestant as You.  
You to that whore of whores, the whore of Rome,  
Devoted from your own fair Mother's womb,  
Tho in the Schools of Jesuits th●e bred,  
You scorned to learn of them to ●rite or Read:  
A PROTESTANT the more to be admired,  
That never were instructed, but inspired.  
So unconcerned from Popery You pass,  
No use of Understanding in the Case.  
True Interest, that all other things o'er powers,  
And Generous Indignation made You Ours:  
Even so in Spain to Mass come trading Jews,  
Cast Drabs turn Quakers but to spite the Jews.  
But Fears and Jealousies of You we scorn,  
That were so true a Son of Honour born;  
And since have made both Gog and Magog bleed,  
Act but the Demagogue, you'll do the Deed:  
You'll Damn and Ram proud Antichrist to Hell;  
But force him first to work one Miracle.  
He that with four hard words, and one grave Nod,  
Turns an insipid Wafer into God;  
Were You a Dough-baked DUKE, with less ado,  
To Prince of Wales may Transubstantiate You.  
Do You but say't, we'll swear that You are so,  
And rather kiss your Hand than kiss his Toe:  
Resolved, resolved it must not be gainsaid;  
Faith we'll believe your Mother was a Maid.   

Why should you think Ambition any Crime?  
We'll make you Duke of Venice in good time:  
Or, if You scruple to Usurp the Crown,  
Having once raised Us, You may then sit down:  
You or your Friends shall have the foremost place;  
Perhaps we'll join Sir A—st— ng with your Grace:  
Whether You Reign or He, 'tis much at one,  
Great Alexander's dear Hephestion.   

But when you come to reap these goodly Fruits,  
Sweet Sir, Remember these our humble suits.   

First, Let these Lordly Bishops go to pot;  
'Tis plain their Lordships all are in the PLOT;  
They hold none Lawful Heirs, but Lawfully begot.   

Our Commonwealth's a Castle in the Air,  
If we still Pray for KING in Common-Prayer.   

These Paltry Scholars, blast them with one Breath,  
Or they'll Rhyme Your Grace and Us to Death.   

Then O Brave We! then Hei for our good Town!  
Then up go We when Wit and Sense go down.   
FINIS.   

A Canto on the new Miracle wrought by the D. of M. curing a young Wench of the King's Evil, as it is related at large by B. Harris in his Prot. Intelligence, published Friday Jan. 7th, 1681. to prevent false Reports.  

AS Popish Farriers use t'imploy  
In their own Trade the good St. Loy;  
The Saint to whom they have recourse,  
As to heavens Master of the Horse;  
To Him they loudly cry for Mercy  
On ragged Colts that have the Farcy:  
For Hackneys galled to Him they pray,  
And drink dead drunk upon his Day:  
So to His Grace of M— trots  
A Folly Fole that had the Bots;  
For still she knew, and 'twas no News,  
He keeps the Mares, though not the Mews.   

But had you seen the skittish Jade,  
You would have thought her Drunk or Mad;  
For at first dash his Hand she seized,  
Much was th'ambitious Hero pleased.  
So sweetly did Don Quixot grinn,  
When the Maid Marrian of the Inn,  
He thought was some Enchanted Queen.  
Asked his dead-doing Hand to kiss;  
But what White Devil danced in this?  
Some Fly, some Rat, or great old Puss,  
Or Spirit Mephistopheles;  
Or Pug, that Paracelsus wore  
In th'pommel of his Sword before;  
Or Healing Virtue that as rare is,  
Is sent His Grace by's Aunt of Fairies,  
Who aids him thus in hugger mugger;  
So did Doll Common Abel Drugger.  
Some sweaty Devil in his Palm,  
Transfuses Brine instead of Balm;  
And Brine you know is good for th'Itch,  
In any Mangy Dog or Bitch;  
Long in his Fist the Leprous Drab,  
Paddles and pores familiar Scab!  
The Witch her Dam had set her Fancy  
Agog upon this Chyromancy;  
To view each Line the Hag importunes,  
And thus young Gipsy reads his Fortunes,   

The Men of Westminster shall pass  
High Votes in Honour of your Grace;  
No Prayers for fear of the Black Rod,  
They'll Vote (I fear) no King, no God.  
Great stickling there shall be for Two,  
Pillory'd Benjamin, and You.  
What will You give Me this next Spring,  
If then You are not Crowned a King?  
By Oats before we reap next Crop,  
Oats in a Tub shall Preach You up.   

So Sibyl ended her vile guessing,  
And each to other gave their Blessing.  
But O the Greensick Girls may boast,  
This Duke hath cured Them to His Cost;  
Tho now he cuts his Capers high,  
He may with Falstaff one day cry;  
When Age hath set him in the Stocks,  
A Pox of my Gout, a Gout on my Pox.   

The Lion Rampant is too wise,  
To touch a Prince though in disguise;  
Much less a Prince so Kind and Civil,  
To touch a Kingdom for Kings-Evil.  
He means to make it for its health,  
A Common-Whore, a Commonwealth.   

The Stroaker Graitrix was a Sot,  
And all his Feat-tricks are forgot;  
But Duke Trinculo, and Tom Dory,  
Will be a Famous Quack in Story.  
Let every scabby City-Cuckow,  
Fly into your Hedge-lane to look you.  
If seventh Sons do things so rare,  
In You seven Fathers have a share;  
Show us some more of these fine mocks,  
Show your Black Art, show your Black Box;  
'Tis thought you've there some pure Receipt,  
Great Mountibank of our sick State.  
Your Zany, who this Cure reveals,  
Tells us in March your Highness heals.   
FINIS.