England's Genius PLEADING FOR KING CHARLES To the Right honourable the LORDS and COMMONS in PARLIAMENT, &c. And to the Lord MONCK general of all the forces in England, Scotland and Ireland, &c.  
GReat Worthies!  
Who (I hope) were Born to be  
The Restaurators of my liberty:  

† House of Lords  You who Rich Scarlet, faced with ermines wear,  
And both high Titles and true virtues bear:  

* House of Com.  You, who have always been, and now will be  
The perfect Type of true Democracy,  
My careful Patriots of Plebe an Power,  
My never-stormed fortress my strong Tower,  
Resisting still Usurped MONARCHY,  
Or too much ●ording Aristocracy;  

General.  And you (Great Sir) who draw your splendid Line  
From York's White-Rose, whose Noble Blood doth shine  
With an untainted Loyal tincture, you  
May give me Peace, and CHARLES his Empire too.  
At your auspicious Feet the Genius of  
Distracted Albion's Isle doth lie, (the scoff  
New justly of her foes) this Face you see  
This squalid Face is mine, I, I am she  
Whem twice ten bloody and tempestuous years  
Have vexed with Soul-tormenting fears;  
Torn by the rage of my unnatural Sons,  
Whose fury racked me with uncessant wrongs,  
(Oh viprous brood! ingrateful Whelps that dare,  
Your kindest Mothers panting Bowels tear!)  
My once vast Treasures are exhausted, all  
Consumed, and I to a Prodigious fall,  
And utter ruin posting down amain,  
If your heroic Hands me not sustain;  
But my decayed Treasures likely are  
Ne'er to recruit till th' Trade obstructing War  
With his great Catholic Majesty of Spain  
Doth find a Period; till I be again,  
(I say) till my three Royal Crowns and I,  
Be given to CHARLES his sacred Majesty.  
Even as a Ship upon the boisterous Seas,  
When the blue Billows mount to troubled Skies,  
When tempest-breathing Boreas does roar,  
Driving the Waves against th' assaulted shore,  
When 
† N. W. Wind.  Corus from the great Atlantic Maine  
Thunders, and other Winds retort again,  
His raging blasts and Ship-encountring Waves,  
When, not without just cause, the Pilot raves,  
But th'shaken Vessel (be what will his mind)  
Is rapt away by the prevailing Wind;  
Just like this tempest-tossed Ship I've been  
Long time abused and cheated, racked between  
Pale fear and hope; then by the longest Sword  
Commanded, daring not to speak a word.  
Be you [my supreme Court] (Illustrious Sirs,)  
The Olive-Crowned, welcome Harbingers,  
Be you the happy Phospherus, who may  
With your resplendent, truly happy Ray  
The wished re-establishment forerun  
Of my so long in vain-desired SUN!  
But (GEORGE!) to your renowned worth and you,  
How much doth England's grateful Genius Owe?  
Nor Changes, nor this series of time,  
Nor yet to Faith that inauspicious Clime  
Scotland, (long never to one Interest true)  
Had power t'extinguish those true Sparks in you,  
(Sparks, which black Embers many years did Cloud  
And in eternal silence seem to shroud)  
Of Love to me, who in a pensive tone  
Wish my just Master, and his juster THRONE.  
Sir, you and your peace-bringing-Troops did come  
Not as Great Caesar to distracted Rome,  
Did once advance, trophies bringing along  
From the fierce Galls, and fiercer Germans won,  
With raging Mars in his war-threatening-look,  
Which could no equal or superior brook.  
No angry frowns your milder looks did show,  
But Peace sat crowned in your triumphant Brow;  
Your Scotish mist (Oh strange!) down did not pour  
In a tempestuous or a bloody shower,  
But did impending rage and tempests chase,  
From the sad surface of my mourning Face,  
And by it's active breath, did dissipate  
The feared effects of my resolved Fate.  
With King-restoring 
* By whose means the Crown was won from R 3. & restored to H. 7. heir of the house of Lan.  Stanley shall you stand  
Ranked, when our pridigious Annals brand  
The horrid fury and nefarious Rage  
Of this bloodsucking, King-condemning age.  
The eager teeth of all-devouring Time,  
Shall never triumph o'er your high, sublime,  
Star-towring Name; and, though we daily see  
No pitch of Glory from the Grave is free;  
Yet when stern Death (Ne'er touched with least remorse)  
Shall by his fatal unrelenting force  
Storm your Life's Fort, your better part shall then  
Survive, yea gloriously revive again?  
Your Fame (I mean) and lasting Name shall be  
Preserved in brass to all eternity.  

† Parlia.  My hopes mount high (Grave Senate!) when I see  
The Regal Crown and Royal Ca●opie,  
With that Rich Laurel, which fanatics hate  
To see upheld by Cherubims in State;  
I trust that Halcyon days may once again,  
Return and I in my old Glory shine.  
I hope your happy and Resplendent Light  
The bloody shades of my long gloomy night  
Will still dispel and drive away, and now  
My Native foes proud fury tame, if you  
If You my KING and ancient laws restore,  
If you take care I be abused no more,  
If you the Church and Clergy countenance,  
If you my now-decayed Trade advance,  
While Radiant Stars shall run their usual race,  
While Neptune's Arms these fruitful Isles embrace,  
While Luna shall her Horns together close:  
While the daystar the rosy morn foreshows,  
England's good Genius shall your praises sound  
And your blessed Heads with Laurels shall be crowned.   

London, Printed for J. Jones, 1660.