UPON THE BLESSED return OF OUR Gracious Sovereign KING CHARLES The Second.  
Presented to his sacred Majesty by a Person of Honour the next day.  

The proem.  
WHat Pen is fitting to salute a King?  
Lend me a Quill plucked from an angel's wing.  
My Muse doth tremble, and my hand doth shake,  
Whilst that my King I do my Subject make.  
So tender am I to my Sovereign's Name,  
I fear the Press, whilst that it stamps the same:  
Hold, Printers, hold, pray stop your hands again,  
Let Jove impress it in his Charles his Wain.  
Heau'n's milky path suits best for paper here,  
And golden Letters from the starry sphere.  
Yet since my knee, nor yet poetic feet  
Bowed e'er to Baal, or Times-Idol greet:  
Since mouth ne'er swore, nor yet subscribed my hand,  
A poet's feet in loyal verse may stand:  
On Pegasus now mounted will I style  
My Poem a Troop to lead in rank and file.   

The Wish.  
LET Canons speak it with their Brazen lungs,  
Let Muskets shout it with their iron tongues;  
Let towers and Steeples now instead of Knells,  
Chime with their Canons, Volleys sound with Bells.  
Let Squibs and Crackers ring their Peals of joys,  
Let old decrepit men turn skipping boys.  
Let frozen Stoics melt; our vowed Dads  
Drop off their snowy beards, turn smooth-cheek Lads.  
Let Poets toss their Laurels up, and try  
To lodge them on the blue slate-Eves of th' Sky.  
Let th' Muses fill each head, their Conduits may  
Through their quill-pipe run Hippocrene to day.  
Let th' British Island frisk a Water dance,  
Like the Nymph Isles of Lydia let them prance.  
Let now the Irish waves like th' Attic Sea,  
Sound like an Harp, and quaver harmony.  
Let both the York and the Lancastrian Rose,  
Which in War's Limbeck was distilled by foes:  
Let it so spring, that all the world may say,  
Altering the Proverb, like a Rose in May.  
Let the Scotch Thistle yield up all her down,  
To ease the Travels of the tossed Crown.  
Let the French Lily with its silver Bell,  
And jealous Clapper ring our joy, their Knell.  
Let soldiers now no more from Cromwel's Nose  
Be blazoned Red Coats, but from Charles his Rose.  
O let, that blazing Comet be accursed,  
For its predicting death to Charles the First:  
That Nabuchadnezzar's furnace and the Urn  
Where Charl's three Children were condemned to burn.  
Hadn'to our Moses God himself been seen:  
For Elohim both God and Oak doth mean.  
'Twould be no Legend sure, if I should say  
The withered Oaks grow fresh and plump to day.  
Let trees who have their mossy rugs for age  
Skip at this News upon the grassy stage.  
In fine, the Church of England let us see,  
To day not Militant, but Triumphant be.  
Let old decrepit Paul's, whose palsy head,  
Bare to the scull was even trepanned dead;  
Let it revive with joy, to think it shall  
Have a new birthday, not a Funeral.  
Let not Religion come to this, we must  
Pull down the Altar to set up a Just.  
Let Moses, Jesus, Gospel and the Law,  
Ne'er more be hid in Reeds, or laid in Straw;  
Let never such contempt in Churches reign,  
As in the Manger lay our Christ again.   

CHARLES STVART 
Ana— gramme   
A Rachel's Trust.  
ENgland thy Rachel is, thy Leah we  
May Scotland call, first married unto thee.  
Had Monk thy Laban been, we surely know,  
Th' hadst married been to Rachel long ago.  
England his love can ne'er mistrust 'tis true,  
Which twelve years waited for what first was due.   

The emblem of our English Times.  

Vivat Carolus. II. Augustissimus Magnae Britanniae REX.   
HAs not the world been round? our Times can say  
This giddy age was turned every day.  
Spare, spare such pains, of which no need at all;  
The World is round enough for fortune's ball.  
Some that did see these precious shavings lie  
Under the Lathe, straight covet with their eye.  
The parings of this golden Apple they  
With wide-mouthed bags gape after every day.  
One on his Pike a golden Pippin sets;  
Another hedgehog a Queen Apple gets.  
See how the Royal Rose was stole by such,  
Who left their Sovereign but the Thorny bush.  
It seems that fruit, which they a Crab did call,  
So sweet it was, they would devoured it all.  
But what's the Tool hath turned our British sphere?  
Not the smooth Chizel, but the Pike and spear.  
Hence drops the sceptre; there a royal gem,  
Here falls a George, and there a Diadem.  
Sweet Angel leave thy turning, and but see,  
What kind of men these shavings steal from thee.  
Well then! if that my Muse this sacred time,  
' Stead of Parnassus may Olympus climb,  
A wheel within a wheel I shall descry,  
Not Cupid turning, but the watchful eye.  
For th' hand of th' dial stands now where't begun,  
Twelve years are past, and we are come to One.  
Kingdom's are Watches, and their Native King,  
His sceptre is the Hand, himself the Spring.  
The Crown-wheel keeps the other wheels in awe,  
Justice the balance, and its string the Law.  
God grant now of our Watch it may be fain,  
Once more wound up shall ne'er go down again.   

The concluding emblem.  

JOHANNES LAWSON   
Heaven bade the Angels cry aloud to Fame  
To blow the Trumpet in our sovereign's Name.  
Just Fame obeys and sounds it in the ears  
Of England's Commons and the Noble peers.  
Both Houses meet, and Vote the Droven Bees  
With their Great King, are welcome when they please.  
White-Hall and all the Palaces do strive  
To be unto this honey-dew a Hive.  
When Neptune heard the News, he swelled with pride,  
To think our Sovereign on his back should ride:  
Forthwith he Courtier turned, to make him fine,  
Besnowed his curled Locks against the Time;  
But when he saw our Charles, no more he raves,  
But's Trident Kembeth smooth his tangled Waves.  
Now th' wilderness is passed, now Canaan found,  
Our Crown is landed, and our Land is crowned.  
With milk and honey doth white Albion flow;  
The silver and the golden Mint will go;  
This day for England's Vintage we'll allow,  
Since very Conduits turn wine-presses now.  
Sure Charles his presence can't but be Divine,  
That turns our Water thus to purest Wine.  
Charles the best Christian does Assurance gain;  
The World will witness that he's born again.  
Johan. Lawson. M. D. de Coll. Lond.    

In the first Year of England's restored Liberty and happiness.  
LONDON, Printed by Thomas Ratcliff, 1660.