TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY.   

TO THE KING'S MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY.  

GREAT Prince of Cares and Us, by dark Fates hurled,  
Round each false Corner of the treacherous World;  
Our doubtful Joys and Sighs distracted be,  
Whether We first Bewail, or Welcome Thee.  
Whose wand'ring Feet can scarce that Soil disclose,  
Which hath not bred, or else increased Thy woes.  
Or Thee, or Thine, each Nation did enfold.  
So wide a Ruin not one Clime could hold.  
At Home, were drawn to most extensive length,  
The Shafts of all our Stratagems, and Strength,  
'Gainst Thy soft Bosom; when, to cruel Times,  
But to be born our Prince, was all Thy Crimes.  
When such, whose hands were stained in Sacred Gore,  
And must secure past Ills, by acting more;  
By interchanged mischiefs grasp the State:  
Not to Relieve the Pressures, but Translate.  
Our weaponed Guardians raise them, their armed hand,  
Makes each their Image, our dread Idol stand  
And though their brainsick eyes could hope to see,  
No dawn of Cure, no Hellebore but Thee.  
Thou that sole Anchor of a floating Rout,  
Art still as Anchors are, alone cast out.  
Abroad, thy Griefs do their cold Friendships prove,  
Who welcome now Thy Stay, straight Thy Remove.  
It doth more grievous to a Guest befall,  
To be Dislodged, than not Received at all.  
If once a bold Usurper do pretend,  
To thunder Menaces, or be their friend;  
Thy frail Allies, on Thy reception frown,  
And a Confederate-Rebel weighs Thee down.  
Thou must take wing afresh, a politic spite,  
Makes Thee to fly, even from Thy place of Flight.  
O where have then Thy careful days been spent,  
Whose very Exile suffered Banishment!  
But being now returned our Numerous Prince,  
By Birth, and Virtues first, by Sufferings since;  
May Peace her Olive to Thy Sceptre bring,  
And England know no Halcyon but her King.  
Thy Sacred Father in Thy memory wear  
Piously firm, but not too sadly there.  
No mean Unequal blood discount His Fate:  
Let Veins despair, Seas cannot expiate.  
May Loyal Breasts with unrevolting breath,  
Atone Thy wrongs, and His more clamorous death.  
Camillus thus his injuries broke through,  
And came at once Rome's blush, and Rescue too.   

No Crimsom-guilty Streams, nor innocent gore,  
Do tied our Sea-tossed Prince back to his Shore,  
What lingering time long wished, but could not see,  
Wrought by Thy martyred Sire, nor yet by Thee.  
What Birth, nor Brains, Treasure, nor Force could do,  
Our kind Necessity hath raised Thee to.  
And You attain your long disputed height,  
A Glorious Conqueror without a Fight.   

But though our Tears confess, and sign it true,  
That our own straits and wrongs have righted You;  
Yet do those forcing straits extort no more,  
Than what our general Groans implored before.  
For though we shiver in a thousand Rents,  
Of querulous Sects, and unappeased intents:  
Yet in this one we centre, and agree;  
We still request a King, and that King, thou.  
Come then and bind us up with tender hands,  
O Thou the Balsam of these bleeding Lands.  
O'erlook the false, by prospect on the True;  
And let the Many, expiate the Few.  
Had You by Foreign Strengths regained Your Right,  
You might at once Restore us, and Affright.  
For Spanish Aides, had scarce the credit won,  
Of Spanish Succours, but Invasion.  
Your wished Approach itself might so, amate,  
And Your Return had seemed Our Eighty Eight.  
Our hopes Restorer France did fear to be,  
And Spain though Hospitable; was not Herald  
Renowned Monck alone to Us, and You;  
Is France, and Spain, and these three Kingdoms too  
With what Amazement our lost Fancies burn,  
At this Your enigmatical Return,  
Mysterious Prince! three Kingdoms long disdain,  
And now their Jubilee; their Cure, and Pain.  
Nor could the Issue less at length appear,  
When we recount Your preservation here;  
When at a Miracles expense, You show,  
Whose Care You were, even in Your Overthrow.  
When Worc'sters hapless day proclaimed it true,  
That to Escape, was more than to Subdue.  
Success crowns Rebel-fame, Yours higher flies,  
Nor are You Fortunes minion, but the Skies.  
When Tarquin had received his exiled Fate,  
Not Porsena his Royal Advocate,  
Nor potent Arms his Restoration shape;  
Opposed by his own Pride, and Lucrece Rape.  
His Armies, are by Armies overcome.  
And Porsena's grave Legates reasoned home:  
In Fights or Parlyes still they disagree;  
He struggling to be King, Rome to be Free.  
How different are these Sames! Your exiles friend,  
Princes nor Aides, nor Intercessors send.  
You use no Advocate, but mild Delay:  
And we no Freedom find, but to Obey.  
After Your tiring Exile, we disclose,  
You do Return the Prince we did Expose:  
And in Your tempted Pilgrimage, we find,  
That You have changed your Air, but not your Mind.  
While to their Wants, or Weakness, most become  
Tame Proselytes, and to Impatience some,  
Thy breast was proof 'gainst all, & raised Thee Powers,  
To stand our Faith's Defender, when scarce Ours.  
No soft persuasive Errors bright Array,  
Nor rugged stormy Usage, could dismay  
Your fixed Resolves. You still your own sure Prince!  
Whom Wants did oft Distress, but ne'er Convince.  
And though Thy cool Revolt might soon have lead,  
Thy Ravished Crowns to thy Rejected head.  
Those beckoning Gems want Lustre to allure,  
Nor seemed it great to Reign, but to Endure.  
And now, though to be King is dignity,  
Next Heavens transcendent Charter, great and high,  
Yet some, in Foreign Empires seem Thy Peer,  
And justly challenge Kingdoms, as Thou here.  
Others Usurp, their panting Nations Lords,  
And carve out guilty Sceptres with their Swords.  
And though Injustice difference their Claim,  
Yet All are Kings, and therein are the same.  
But by a madding People chased away,  
And mad again, till they restore Thy sway.  
Wooed to a Crown, and Courted to a Throne,  
There You are Prince; there You are King alone.  
Let more Imperious Potentates rejoice,  
To be their Subjects Sovereigns, Thou their Choice.   
MARTIN LLUELYN M. D. Lond, socius.   

TO HIS HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF YORK.  

YOUR bright Return doth equal glories rear,  
To what You still return a Conqueror.  
Nor hath your Sword abroad more Terrors won,  
Then Your Renown hath purchased hearts at home.  
Hence You create like cheerful comforts here,  
As when you did with safety Disappear.  
And balance Times aright, the Bliss is one,  
To travail Home, and be securely Gon.  
This only difference we must avow,  
That what were then but Joys, are Triumphs now.  
Fear in our hearts, kept our Expressions low;  
And though we did Rejoice, we durst not Show,  
Our Joys are now no Stealths, but open clad;  
Without the Felony of being Glad.  
And what can check our Jo's? who receive  
A Prince, whose loss forsaken Nations grieve.  
Whose Vigour, now, shall Spanish Caution warm?  
And spirit grave Approach, into a Storm.  
Thy Poise, must temper French Excess no more:  
Nor form that Valour, which was Rage before.  
These Adverse Camps, had each the blessed event,  
To heal Defects, by Thee their Supplement.  
From whose divided Prowess either gains:  
The Pondering learns Career; the Giddy, Rains.  
Each thus improved, a Peace must needs ensue.  
Contest is vain, where Neither can Subdue.   
MARTIN LLUELYN M. D. Coll. Lond. socius.   

TO HIS HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF GLOUCESTER.  
Illustrious Prince,  

THough, midst Your Country's flames You fled exiled,  
Like young Telemachus, a Frighted Child.  
By soft Distinctions yet Thy flight's allayed,  
Nor wert Thou Forced an Exile, but Conveyed.  
The Courteous Tyrant will Thy harms prevent,  
And bids Thee to be safe in Banishment.  
The glozing Crocodile doth fawn, and slay,  
As he marked Thee his Pilgrim, not his Prey.  
Guides to Your youth, and Ways, are jointly lent,  
You are for Amicable Ruin meant.  
Dire Monster! thus to aggravate Thy wrongs,  
Like Sirens; by the Music of his Songs.  
This Friendship, yet, from that fierce Tiger won,  
Well may You ask; what mischief have I done?  
And rack Your crystal Innocence, to prove,  
What Crime in You, commends You to his Love.  
Dismiss that scrutiny: if he forbears,  
'Tis not his Kindness, but his Surfeit spares.   
MARTIN LLUELYN M. D. Lond. socius.  
FINIS.