A panegyric TO HIS EXCELLENCY, The Lord general MONCK.  By Sir William Davenant. 

OUr fiery Sects scorned your Triumphant night,  
When only Bonfires lent the City light.  
More proudly they like Nero did design  
The City's flame should make the Country shine:  
And all those Bells which rung in your applause  
They would have melted to maintain the Cause.  
Alas! How little you in Action seem,  
When by their great intent we measure them?  
You the fanatic party would correct;  
The rifle all rich Christians as a Sect.  
To Bonfires, you their rolling Pulpits turn;  
But they, instead of Tubs, would Churches burn.   

How weak are you, who to advance your Cause,  
Call in the firm support of Church and laws?  
Their Independent strength boldly upbraids  
The old discretion of such formal aids.  
You court the City, and the Nation too,  
They bravely meant to ravish whom you woo.  
Their daring Chiefs, a war did undertake,  
Followed by those who still their Chiefs forsake.  
By such as only would consult and sway,  
But you chose those who fight and can obey.  
By their advantages you gained the field,  
And what they judged your weakness made them yield.   

As in destructive war, so you no less,  
Transc●nd them in the growing Arts of Peace.  
You can converse, and in a dialect  
Where no strange dress makes us the truth suspect;  
Where plainness graceful is, and free from blame,  
As truths fair nakedness is free from shame.  
They write the style of spirits, you of men;  
Yet are their Swords less powerful than your Pen.   

Auspicious Leader! None shall equal thee,  
Who mak'st our Nation and our Language free.  
The first they fetter, not with public laws,  
But with their Wills, peculiar as their Cause.  
Our Language with such Scripture-phrase restrain,  
As makes the borrowed holiness profane.  
And such strange crimes attempt that whilst they lack  
All precedents for Plea, they wrest and rack  
The good old Prophets, till they falsely draw,  
From ill translated Hebrew English Law.   

How soon, how boldly, and how safely too,  
Have you dispatched what not an age could do?  
Yet greater work ensues, such as will try  
How far three Realms may on your strength rely.  
Nor can our Hope need Anchors where we find  
A sudden Courage and delib'rate mind.  
In doubtful battles we may trust your Sword,  
And in suspected Factions take your Word.   
FINIS.   

London, Printed for Henry Herringman, 1659.