Gloria Britanica: OR, A PANEGYRIC, ON HIS Sacred Majesty's Passage thorough the City of London, TO HIS CORONATION. On the 23 of April, 1661.  
Likewise another on S. GEORGE'S DAY.  
LONDON: Printed by J. B. for Andrew Crook, at the Green Dragon in S. Paul's Churchyard, 1661.   

Gloria Britanica: Or a Panegyric on His Majesty's Passing thorough the City of London, and His most happy Coronation on the 23 of April, 1661.  

HEnce, hence Rebellion, seek another place,  
London is Loyal! This day a new face  
Of things doth show; Alligiance outvies  
Former Magnificence, and still further tries  
To Ecstasy herself, that she may crown  
Her faith t'her Sovereign passing through the town   

Each Subject hath erected in his Heart  
Three Triumphan Arches which, ne'er will part:  
Religion, Loyalty, and Love dwell there  
To God, the King, each other Tribute here  
Is daily paid; may these for ever stand  
In the same lustre, Graces to our Land.   

These flames of just Devotion cant' conceal  
Within such narrow breasts their sparkling zeal:  
Four stately Fabrics are set up to be  
As Hieroglyphics of what your Majesty  
May always there expect: When Pageantry  
Shall fade, we are, the City than will cry,  
Your lasting Triumphal Arch, strength I'll increase  
By weight of Duty, centring all in peace:  
Each Arch so high, to acquaint th'heaven with news  
Of what here's done; th' representation shows  
That both the Land and Sea, your Friends yet dare  
Strive which in you shall have the greatest share.   

The Tower doth first entertain the King,  
The Lion's pay homage, acknowledging  
By Nature's first Instructions, what some men  
Have vainly thus long doubted, whose souls then  
May seem to have a lower extract, who'd lie  
Inferior to Bruits in Anarchy:  
Hither crowds th' Nobility, a Court to keep,  
Whose veins here for the King did often weep:  
Most happy change, where th' Execution place  
Is by this presence turned to a Palace.   

The streets are lined with faces, th' windows eyes  
Are made, all kind of curiosities  
Are foils unto the brightness coming by,  
You'd think each Person t' be a Deity:  
The Worlds here epitomised, a whole Nation  
Shrunk to a Jewel, with a blushing passion  
To be outshined by its Neighbour: see, cloth  
Of Gold and Silver so common are, as if both  
The Indies had took voyage cross the Seas,  
Or some Projection such labour did ease.   

The streets are railed on both sides, to the end  
Both plain and safe the way may be t'defend  
Your Sacred Person from the people's love  
And joy made free, which throng the Air above:  
The Gowns on one side placed, which face the bands  
Of Soldiers, whilst peace and war shake hands:  
Thus th'people in th'passage do humbly pray,  
That moderation be this middle way.  
So factions shall not get an ince of ground,  
Nor by pretended healings 'gain us wound.   

The days are loyal too, the Sun his beams  
Gladly displays, and lends both light and gleams  
Of Fruitful heat to our Noon-star, long may  
He to our British Orb continue Day;  
No malign Meteor's influence the sky,  
Storms become Mothers of tranquillity:  
The days give Omen of your quiet reign,  
Our Settlement your Crosses did contain.   

This Noble Train in all the people's minds  
Aw, Love, Hope, and Fear lively chequered findes,  
This Day revived the Glory of our Nation,  
Doth celebrate its Resurrection:  
Each one doth keep his rank, knows his degree,  
Frantic confusions, no Divinity:  
Your Majesty comes last, quite to undo  
Your Subjects, who'd forced t' turn fanatics too:  
The Conduit stones would live, whilst that warm blood  
Creeps in their veins, unless it caused a flood:  
You pass on still, where you don't stay to dine,  
Your influence turns waters into wine.   

Your Court at length doth bid you welcome home,  
Some parts reserved are for th' morrows dooms:  
Each one hath stored so much of you, whose eye  
Widened itself, its thirst to satisfy:  
The night doth draw th' curtains, willing to make  
An interlude, loud music, this mistake  
Corrects, for bells and shouts call up the Day,  
Expectation can't endure delay.    

On the Second Day, being St. George's Day.  

ARise ye Muses, quit your beds, arise,  
The day requires a double Sacrifice:  
Two Worthies have made this an Holiday,  
Arise, Religion bids you not to stay:  
King Charles th'second, Heaven's Darling, must now  
His Crown have fixed on his Royal Brow:  
Twelve years preparing, yet not finished  
Till it shall have Perfection from his head:  
Gold and precious stones married, are too small  
To confines' thoughts: Our Atlas' crowned with all  
The World, yet shrinks not under this great weight,  
Because of Government he hath the sleight.   

The Peers put on their robes, themselves attire,  
Whose Virtue and Births have made them higher  
Than other men, their Honour is full blown,  
And yet shuts up when ere the Sun goes down:  
The Reverend Bishops have their place, whose age  
Piety and learning supply Parentage:  
Their white's unspotted, their naked innocence  
Hath conquered Armies, secures 'gainst violence  
Your good Angels, who are endeavouring  
T' crown your soul, and make y'an immortal King:  
Although the claims in waiting distinct be,  
Yet in this discord there is Harmony:  
Joys alone contentious, and knows no Law;  
So many Princes in one, who ever saw?   

All these Attendants, as it doth behoove,  
With fit Devotion to the Abbey move:  
This Ancient Cathedral, was wont to be  
The sacred place of this Solemnity,  
A fit place, where the King a God is made,  
And yet that he's but man, is taught, Here's laid  
Entombed your Ancestors, the high ascent  
To th'Throne, doth discover your Monument:  
Your Subjects pray, that you may them survive,  
And of their Glory, long the Tomb deprive.  
The Ceremonies, with the utmost care  
Are done, late Acclamations turn to Prayer:  
When th'Crown is on, Voices, the Bells out ring,  
With one consent all cry, God save the King:  
Though the most Reverend Father's hand did shake,  
This Trembling the Crown doth more settled make  
Unto His Royal Head it cleaves so fast,  
That no Divource by any envious blast,  
Can be ere made: Usurpers vainly woe  
What with such constancy hath courted you.   

The Feast was kept in the adjoining Hall,  
Fitted to receive such Guests; thither all  
The people flocks, not as Clients, to look  
For variety of Law dished up by th' Lord Cook;  
But as Spectators of the Feast this Day,  
Which to S. George's Fame you yearly pay,  
Your Champion dares challenge all the Heads  
Of those Great Traitors fixed on the leads:  
He all in Armour clad, seems to outdo  
St. George, he dares charge their Familiars too.   

How do the Canon's play, and mankind shame,  
Unboweling themselves to feed your Fame:  
Hark, hark, how do they strain their throats to sound  
To the Heavens, the joy of your being Crowned:  
The Echo improves even to a wonder,  
Eor th'Heavens second them with claps of thunder;  
And now to all it plainly doth appear,  
That you are more admired above then here.  
Greats that pomp, where th' Heavens bring up the rear,  
The fanatics poisonous breath none need fear,  
Thunder of infection the Air doth clear:  
With Lightning & Thunder showers time do keep,  
The Heavens for joy often laugh, often weep.  
Bonfires continue Day, no space between  
Their flames, th' Element of Fire on earth is seen:  
More lasting Flames are kindled in each breast,  
Aspiring which of them shall please you best.   

Pardon, Great Sir, this bold attempt to draw  
In such rude lines, what before eye ne'er saw:  
'Tis no shame to a skilful Artists hand,  
In such a Landscape to be at a stand;  
Where Nature and Art did at once combine,  
To strive for Victory, and to outshine  
Their former dawnings by these Noon▪ tide rays,  
There must shrink up and whither th'Poets bays.  
Dread Sir, Your happiness is now begun,  
You're Crowned with the perfections of the Sun:  
Imparting light and heat, you make us live,  
And unto us you do our Reasons give:  
Your Kingdoms late Chaos rarefying  
From its load of faces, owrs first You King;  
When all's so well disposed in th' Firmament,  
Disjoined particles of earth will soon cement:  
Your World's completed, though th'elements strive,  
And in their Circle, of rest themselves deprive:  
You Peace and plenty to your people bring,  
No pendant sword shall starve their joy for th'King;  
Let other Nations wear themselves away  
With envying us the glory of this Day:  
Your Subjects t' a due height at once can't raise  
Fit thoughts of you, for they will live your praise.  
Most Royal Sir, may y'r thread of life extend,  
Beyond your just Encomiums▪ which have no end.   
FINIS.