A panegyric To His renowned majesty, Charles the Second, King of Great Britain, &c.  

REturn, return, strange prodigy of Fate!  
Gird on thy Beams, and reassume thy State.  
Miraculous Prince, beyond the reach of Verse,  
The Fame and Wonder of the Universe!  
Preserved by an Almighty hand, when Rome,  
And raging Oliver had read thy doom!  
Delivered from a bloody Junto (men,  
That gladly would be murderers again!)  
Thy valiant Arms have struggled with the Tide,  
Encountered all the Winds, and scorned their Pride:  
Guarded with Angels; yet preserved to be  
Distracted, heartsick England's remedy!  
Come, Royal Exile! We submit, we fall,  
We bend before thy Throne, and give thee all:  
Accept Eternal Honour, and that Crown,  
Which virtue, and rare Actions make thine own.  
Thou shalt Eclipse the petty Courts, where Thou,  
Too long a Noble Sojourner, didst bow.  
The Monsieur's bravery shall veil to Thee,  
And the grave Don adore thy majesty,  
While thine increasing Glories shall outshine  
The Plumes o'th' One, and t'other's Golden Mine.  
The German Eagle, when thy Lions roar,  
Shall flag her wing, and tower above no more;  
Shall gaze upon Thy Lustre crouch down lower,  
And bask within the sunshine of thy Power:  
As for those Potentates that lesser be,  
They shall be Greater if they stoop to Thee:  
Subjects to such a King, are better far,  
And happier, than other Monarchs are.  
Heaven, and brave Monk, conspire to make thy reign  
Transcend the Diadems of Charlemagne.   
T. F.   

LONDON, Printed for HENRY MARSH at the Prince's Arms in Chancery Lane near Fleetstreet, MDCLX.