Congratulatory POEM TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Sir WILLIAM PRITCHARD, Lord Mayor of the City of London.  

IN that great Train which loudly does rehearse  
Your just Encomiums in Lofty Verse;  
Whose every Line the Laureate does shake,  
And of a Faculty a trade would make:  
'Mongst these my Lord, that for such treasures hope  
Give your poor Scribbler leave to Interlope:  
Admit that Humble Muse, that never knew  
To couple Verse, till now Inspired by you.  
To say, my Lord, that you, if Fate should frown  
Must be the Genius to Preserve this Town;  
And none so fit to Bless the City Throne,  
Except brave Loyal Moor, might still Reign on.  
Had then, thou City Monarch! may thy Reign  
With Peace and Plenty, all the Land maintain.  
Observe how all along the Streets the Crowd  
With Joyful Sounds, does Welcome in their Lord;  
When o● the Thames, how all along the Shore,  
'Twas hard to say, who did express it more,  
Or whether Men or Cannons that did Roar.  
Caesar Himself and Royal York are come,  
And all the Court, to bid you Welcome Home:  
Your Pageants, Whisslers, and Oxilaries,  
They come on Course, and your Artillery,  
But Caesar came to Grace your Loyalty.  
The Giddy Rabble that Illiterate Beast,  
Who Factious Traitors had with fear possessed;  
Convincing Time in spite of Whining Zeal,  
Has shown the Blessing of a Common-Weal;  
That they're designs tho' ne'er so Meekly dressed,  
Was only Mutiny for Interest;  
That Long-eared Rout, and their Achittophel,  
That think it Sin to Live and not Rebel:  
Those Pious Elders, that Jenaeva Rabble,  
That hope, once more, to make old Paul's a Stable;  
Or rather see her in her Ashes lie,  
Then hear in Her the true Episcopie:  
Besides, she is too Great, the Charge Profuse,  
They could Convert her into better Use.  
These, my good Lord, your Predecessor found,  
To be the Incects Barrened all the Ground;  
And with that Sword which now is in your Hand,  
He strove to Weed out from our Fertile Land:  
But Old Achittophel, that Reverend Bard,  
Whom Heaven intended Man and Nature Marred  
With Treats, and something else, I dare not say,  
I think 'twas Treason; bore a part away.  
But he has set his House in Order now,  
And is gone down in Order thereunto—  
Assist you Powers, and tie the Damon's up,  
For should they find him they would cut the Rope:  
He's for their work on Earth, they understand,  
And what can signify one Fire-Brand?   

My Lord, I Blush at my Impertinence,  
Yet thus far I dare plead my own Defence;  
That did you know, the Man that Fate has spent  
In Tragic Scenes, that little Fortune lent;  
You would not have him praise the Instrument.  
I wish your Lordship many Years of Bliss,  
A Jubilee of Days, and all like this;  
That each Propitious Star may be your Guide,  
That Fair-eyed Truth may never be denied;  
That when you quit your trust, you'll find a Brother,  
To King, to Church, and State, just such another.   
FINIS.   

Printed for P. Brooksby, at the Golden-Ball, near the Hospital-gate, in West-Smithfield. 168●.