TO THE KING'S Most Excellent Majesty: ON HIS Happy and Miraculous RETURN To the GOVERNMENT of his Three (now) flourishing KINGDOMS. June 11 1660  
The gift of the Author, my Son▪ George's Tutor.   

TO THE KING'S Most Excellent Majesty.  

PARDON, Great King! 'Tis now the common voice  
Of Friends and Foes; of all that can Rejoice,  
Or seem to do so: Such Joy best gins  
With Deprecations for our former Sins.   

The sacred Names of KING & CHARLES do more,  
Then thousands of Reformers wrought before:  
The Blind begin to see, it has been Night,  
And all their Visions were mere Dreams of Light.  
Our Hearts and Tongues agree, and all confess  
've now a sense of our long senslesness.  
Parties and Sects closed and cemented be;  
Faction alone's the Common Enemy.   

But are these Blessings Real? May we dream  
Things are indeed in England what they seem?  
Is't possible a Glorious King should come  
Perfect, from out Confusion's Monstrous Womb?  
Can Monarches be Rewards for Sin? And can  
Provoked Heaven smile on an Englishman?  
It is Our King; O may he ever live,  
Till Heaven receive Him, what Heaven now doth give!   

PARDON, Dread sovereign! 'Tis this word must be  
The Symbol of a (too-late) Loyalty;  
Whilst with more Penitence, than Wit, we come  
To welcome Life, Laws, Liberties all home.   

Welcome Religion, and our Church, and all  
That Truth dares Honesty and Justice call.  
Welcome Great Prince, the sum of all, by whom  
England's once more made part of Christendom.  
Welcome all that with You hath banished been  
By England's Madness, and for England's Sin.  
Welcome to three glad Kingdoms, which do know  
No Life, no Soul, but what they find in You.   

We lay Eight long years sick, Twelve dead and rotten;  
Truth and Religion, King and Laws forgotten:  
Corruption reigning both in Church and State,  
All things, save Stench and Vermin, out of date.  
Those few stout Members did the rest survive,  
We tore them off, and buried them alive.   

Since England sent away in blood her Head,  
To wear that Crown for which the Great King bled,  
We have been all one Carcase, and the Prey  
Of Hellish Vultures, till this happy day.  
Strange devils of Light, false Saints more barbarous;  
No Mercy in our Foes, less Sense in Us.  
Might we speak out (Great Sir) and were it not  
High Treason not to show we have forgot  
Our numerous Deaths at Your approach, we'd tell  
The World how much Your Absence made Our Hell.   

You bring too great a light, Sir, now we see  
Nought but the present Rays of Majesty:  
We see, and cannot tell you what; 'Tis You  
Alone such Blessings as Yourself must know;  
Whom God by Miracles hath kept alive,  
Your Sorrows, Your Foes Malice to survive.  
His Providence preserved You all this while,  
To be his Mercy's Wonder to our Isle.  
We slew ourselves, alas, by Regicide,  
GOD gives that Life, which we in Blood denied.   

May we grow Wise, and Thank-ful! show again,  
Good Subjects may be made of Englishmen!  
Oh may we ne'er again rejoice to see  
Heads off, to give the Shoulders Liberty!   

May You not now fear Poison in our Breath,  
Or think an Englishman speaks nought but death  
To Laws and Kings! May You not henceforth say,  
We Bless and Welcome, as we Fast and Pray!  
May that Great Power above, which thus doth bow  
Our Head to Us, raise up our Hearts to You.  
Your sacred presence sanctifies the Land,  
The Atheist worships, and the traitor's Hand  
Is now lift up to Heaven, to draw down thence  
Blessings on's King, Pardon for his Offence.  
Our Cantings near an end; and all the Art  
Of Hypocrites, is, how to find an Heart  
For GOD and CAESAR: 'Tis our general sense,  
Tyrant's mere Bastards are of Providence.   

When Blessings keep a mean, Sir, and our Joys  
May, without Sin, be moderate; Such Toys  
As Words and Wit, may make fit Presents, and  
Gay Garlands on the Common Mercy stand.  
But when a King comes home, what is't can hold  
Proportion, but a Diadem of Gold?  
We spare Our Offerings, heavens only use  
To send Such Presents, no poor Subject Muse:  
Obedience is our Sacrifice.—   

To make our Joys run with our Blessings even,  
We will make haste, and send them up to Heaven:  
Turning our wanton Strains of Poetry  
To Hymns of Praise, and Vows of Loyalty.   

The King of Kings make Your whole Life to come,  
As Glorious as Your Father's Martyrdom!  
Live long and happy! May You still find Us  
Subjects as Loyal, as His Treacherous!  
May France perceive we have a King, and Rome  
Consider Charles the Second is come home.  
Let all that Rabble tremble, when 'tis said,  
Our Land hath found her King, our Church her Head.   

Our God and King return together; Sent  
Together hence, to suffer Banishment.  
May they together make a long abode!  
May God still keep His King, the King His God  
So prays (Dread Sovereign) one (may his Zeal show it)  
That's much a better Subject than a Poet.   
CL. ELLIS Coll. Reg. Oxon. Soc.   

LONDON: Printed by James Cottrel, for Humphrey Robinson, at the three Pigeons in St. Paul's Churchyard. MDCLX.