Upon the Joyful and Welcome RETURN OF HIS SACRED MAJESTY, Charles the Second, OF England, Scotland, France and Ireland KING, Defender of the Faith, etc. To his due and indubitate Right of Government, over these His majesty's Kingdoms and Dominions. A PANEGYRIC.  
Flebile Principium melior Fortuna sequunta est.  Ovid. Met. 
By THO. MAYHEW, Gent.  
London, Printed for Abel Roper, at the Sun in Fleetstreet over against St. Dunstan's Church. 1660.   

Upon the Joyful and Welcome RETURN Of his Sacred Majesty, CHARLES the Second, etc. To His Due and Indubitate Right of Government over these his majesty's Kingdoms and Dominions.  
A PANEGYRIC.  

REach me a Quill from some bright Angel's Wing,  
To write the Welcomes of our dearest King;  
Whilst Vulgar Pens, in modest silence, say,  
This lofty Work exceeds their Systema.  
And first like those, whom mighty Joys surprise,  
Let me weep dry the fountains of min● Eyes;  
Quit head and heart of Grief, that All may be  
The spacious Organ of a Jubilee:  
For difficult it is to apprehend,  
Much more t'express the Joys that thus transcend.   

If Peace be welcome to a Nation, rend  
With twenty years intestine Discord, spent  
And oppressed with armed Rapine, and unjust,  
Exactions, made a sacrifice to Lust  
And Tyranny, and deluged with a Flood  
Of Vulgar, mixed with choice and sacred Blood:  
When Persecution stains the reverend Gown,  
And Priests before insulting Rage fall down:  
When God's Anointed, and our Nostrill's Breath,  
By Treason never Paralleled, is quenched in death.  
Hence, hence those Tears: Go read Illustrious Men,  
Recorded by some Venerable Pen.  
Extract from each his Virtues, and you'll find  
Th'Elixir form in that Hero's mind.  
There was King David and his wiser Son,  
Without their great Crimes, modelled in One.  
Would you know Adam, or like what a Man  
God once in Eden walked; no likeness can  
Better inform you than the Soul he wore:  
Never was King so like to God before.  
This was that Prince, whom we did late behold  
Unto his Grave in horrid murder rolled:  
Those, Brutus-like, embrued in his gore,  
Whom he, as sons, had bred, and blest before.  
Hold, Muse, thou wilt retrieve our ancient cries,  
Thou Panegyrics meanest, not Elegies.   

If Plenty with the Poor may welcome find,  
Where welcomer, than to a Land designed  
To ruin, and the Monster, War, a prey?  
Whose greedy throat hath swallowed up, in pay,  
And pillage, quarter, plunder, and in prize,  
By force and fraud, gifts and gratuities:  
The Bounty of his Saints, the Spoils o'th' Loyal,  
The Lands o'th' Crown, and all th'Issue Royal,  
The Sacrifice from off the Altar took,  
(But Oh! the Coal that to that Morsel stook!)  
All these, with Contributions, and Excise,  
And Customs, not his Gluttony suffice,  
But fifty Subsidies he snaps, in short;  
And lest his stretched Maw shrink, there's ready for't  
Fifths, Twentieths, Tenths, All, Treason could contrive,  
To keep the ravenous Prodigy alive.  
On all our pleasant things, and every good,  
His hand he spread, like an o're-whelming flood.   

If Liberty restored may welcome have  
From freeborn men, enthralled, and made a slave  
By their own Slaves, who must not only pay  
The Lording Janizary, but obey;  
Not yield up their Revenues, but the Right  
Of their Inheritance to armed Might;  
Whose Laws and Charters, like the Gordian-knot,  
Are not disputed, but asunder cut.  
Whose Heritage by strangers are possessed,  
And in whose Habitations Aliens rest;  
Whose necks to grievious Persecution bow,  
Nor may their Labours intermission know.   

If Settlement in State may joy a Land,  
Dissolved and broken by the boisterous hand  
Of Civil Wars, from its harmonious Chime  
Of Monarchy untuned, by th●sawcy crime  
Of potent Faction; from its form and frame  
Shaken into novel Chaos, and a name  
Of State unknown, whilst its old Church and State  
Stand on their head, the feet predominate.   

If Discipline and Doctrine welcome be  
Unto a Christian Church's Hierarchy;  
A Church, late excellent for both, but now  
Confusion written on her mournful Brow;  
Whose Gold is pallid grown, whose pure, refined,  
And radiant gold, its splendour hath declined;  
Whose polished Stones, of late her Ornament,  
Are now not only cast by, with contempt,  
But Hewn in pieces, that, the Pillars thrown,  
The Catholic Building might at once fall down;  
And in its stead, as many Sects arise,  
As Jesuits and fanatics could devise.  
It's Liturgy with wicked scandal stained,  
It's reverend Orders Superstition feigned.  
The Holy place to use profane employed  
For Beasts; at best, by men unqualified,  
Ill-principled, worse taught, or not at all,  
But mocked and blowed, made even by these a Stall.  
Vain foolish Things her Junior Priests have told,  
Not touched the sins, which did her Cure withhold;  
But these cried up, for blessed Reformation,  
(The ready way to gain a Sequestration)  
False lying burdens brought, and hence extrude  
As well her Fractions as her Servitude:  
These have not waged with God spiritual force,  
Like Jacob, for a Blessing, but a Curse:  
Whose ignorance hath only made them hold,  
To censure every Principle that's old:  
Who, for pretence, can tedious prayers extend,  
And Nonsense preach, and Treason without end.  
And in one Sermon damn (would God agree)  
More souls, than that choice vessel saved in three.  
Hence our Defections, hence it is we run  
Into by-paths of Separation.  
This way's not right, and the old Standard's down,  
And each Enthusiast sets up his own;  
From which unpaled platt, more Sects have sprung,  
Then if the Dregs of Amsterdam were wrung.   

But see a glorious Sun arising, bright  
As morning Titan crowned with radiant light!  
Who long, in an injurious Cloud concealed,  
Exerted hath his Lustre, and revealed  
His all-refreshing beams, and with him brings,  
To our blessed Hemisphere, these welcome things:  
Thy King, O England, that best Name, which wears  
Thy Gloryin it, stamps the Characters  
Of Honour and Renown upon thy brow,  
Whilst foreign Nations to thy Triumphs bow;  
Thy Prince, O England, whom thy rebel Crime  
Forced into civil arms, in early time.  
And next, (to say no more) to Banishment;  
Schools too severe and strict, but that he spent  
His time so well, that he hath brought from thence,  
Th' Endowments of a most accomplished Prince;  
Which acquired Gems, set in his native Gold,  
heavens eye nought more illustrious can behold.   

Old Poets, hush, be still; your Pages swell  
With weak and poor Romances, when ye tell  
Your story's of the Grecian Traveller,  
Or Him, that wandered from the Trojan war.  
They never proved such angry Fates as he,  
Nor such Encounters met by Land or Sea;  
O'er which his Valour, like an high Tide run,  
And vanquished what so e'er it could not shun:  
Nor to their Countries, when at length they came,  
So much of virtue brought, nor so much fame:  
Witness, That for his Crown he would not foil,  
With aid of foreign arms, his native soil;  
And that he brings his old Rengion home,  
Maugre the Circean charms and arts of Rome.   

This, England, This is He, that brings thee now  
After thy flood of woes the Olive-bough.  
To make thee know, that Deluge could not cease,  
Till this thy Dove were home returned in peace:  
To let thee know, that Heaven would not agree  
To grant thy Peace, till made 'twixt Him and Thee.  
His are those Feet which welcome claim by right,  
Bringing those Tidings, which none other might;  
Tidings of peace on Earth, which the most High  
Committed only to his Embassy:  
For Heaven decreed no Mercy to dispense,  
But through the Conduct of his Influence?  
Nor any but his sacred presence should,  
Stop the long-running Issue of thy blood.   

This, England, This is He, who brings thee back  
That Amalthean-horn, thou long didst lack.  
Each now may sit beneath his Vine in peace,  
And eat the plenty of his Fields increase:  
Not labour still, and still the poorer wax,  
Nor sell his bread to pay his monthly Tax.  
This is your Oedipus, that doth explain  
The riddle of your Cheat, and Sphinx is slain:  
Your Theseus this, that hath the Monster sped,  
Who on your Noble sons so long hath fed.  
Your Hercules, that hath destroyed the Boar,  
Which did your rich Arcadian fields devour.  
Yet your Injustice thus just Heaven controlled,  
Who would enjoy your Birthrights, His withhold;  
And set Oppressors your own rights t' invade,  
Till his Prerogative and Rights were paid;  
Your Honours and Estates by vassal hands  
Usurped, whilst you usurped his Crown and Lands;  
Servants suborned over you to reign,  
Whilst you the Sceptre of your Prince disdain.   

This, This is He, that breaks those Iron-bands  
And Gyves, that fettered thy gaulled feet and hands:  
Who, like St. Peter's Angel, whilst thou sleepest  
Betwixt thy Soldiers, a true Vigil keeps.  
And takes thy fetters off, sets open thy doors,  
And thy excluded Liberty restores.  
And how doth blushing Anarchy decline,  
And droop, now Monarchy gins to shine?  
How do the Circles of false greatness fall  
Into their first simple Original?  
Those blazing Stars, which late aloft did climb,  
How feign, noug●t else appear but froth and slime?  
How do those airy Pageants melt away,  
Before the glorious beams of this bright day?  
They, who but now, with strength of Arms and Laws,  
Did fortify their greatness, and their Cause;  
And made our Lands, our Lives, our Liberties,  
At best, their Vassal, oft, their Sacrifice;  
How, like a morning mist, are they dispersed,  
Our Rights asserted, and their State reversed?  
So true it is; Earth's glories once must fall,  
But laid in blood, they cannot stand at all.   

This, This is He, that all thy Breaches bounds,  
And binds up all thy State and Churches-wounds;  
That to thy Brusses brings restoring Balm,  
And lays thy tedious Tempest in a Calm:  
That sets in Tune thy long disordered spheres,  
And with composed notes delights thine ears;  
Repairs the ruins of thy battered frame,  
And re-impresses thy old stamp and name:  
Enstyles thee Kingdom, such as Heaven thinks fit  
To be, and makes thy Government like it;  
Rears up the broken Pillars of thy Peers,  
And fixes thy secluded Commoners;  
Refines thy Temple's Gold, files off its rust,  
Elects her precious stones from heaps of Dust.  
And sets them in her Tire, discharging thence  
Those Cheats of Ignorance and Impudence.   

And now, O Land, with blushes die thy cheek,  
Sink on thy lowly knee, and humbly seek  
Thy God's and Prince's pardon: Ah! too long  
Hast thou thyself undone, in doing wrong  
Unto thy sovereign's right: thy Treason hath  
Kept off these blessings, and drawn down the wrath  
Of vengeful Justice: but Light now breaks in,  
And undeceives thee, and unmasques thy Sin.  
Great Providence, whose ways are too profound  
And intricate, for human skill to sound,  
In this its time, in Men and Devil's despite,  
Hath brought at once thy Crime and Cure to light.  
'Tis true; Thou in thy Judgements mightst have read  
Thy sin, but that, like Egypt, hardened.  
What meant the Elements? Why all emaged,  
As if in Wars against the World engaged?  
The Fire? what flames have in thy Land appeared,  
And turned to Dust the Piles thy Grandsires reared.  
What ancient Town hath scaped its rage? And hath  
Not this expressed, how fierce thy Maker's wrath?  
The Air? What Tempests have the Fabric shook,  
As if the Poles from under Heaven were took,  
And earth in pieces rending? What from hence  
But thy confusion shown, and heavens offence?  
The Earth? How sparingly of late it yields,  
Unto the Ploughman's toil; as if the fields,  
By some divine instinct were taught, that they  
Ought not the Disobedient to obey?  
The Seas besides their rude Invasions made  
Upon this Island, how have they conveyed  
Prodigious creatures to thy frighted shore,  
Such as the Nymphs of Thames ne'er saw before?  
To show, thy Continent, at that time, held  
No less a Prodigy, so paralleled?  
But these were Heaven's Hieroglyphics, since  
Interpreted to thy Intelligence;  
Revealed in season. And thy Prince's Grace  
Extends his Mercy, free as thy Embrace;  
Who, with thy other blessings, Pardon brings,  
The freest and the clementest of Kings;  
Who from advantage of his power defies  
The vengeance of his private injuries;  
Whose Sword, for want of use, may neither rust,  
Nor surfeit with the blood of the unjust;  
Who punishes the Ill, the Good rewards,  
Protecteth Peace, and Truth and Justice guards;  
Who for Obedience on his Subjects lays  
No Rules, but those by which himself obeys  
His Sovereign Lord; in Arms no less expert  
Then in the Peaceful Gown sage and disert;  
Who as a Tutor to his Church appears,  
His Country with a Father's love endears,  
What less than God inn'd in an human breast  
Is such a King, of Men and Kings the Best?   

O! with what welcome canst thou entertain  
This lost Palladium, now retrieved again?  
What Joys canst thou express, what Io's sing,  
To usher in this rare and Phoenix King?  
Unfold obedient arms, and clasp him round,  
But with your hearts more than your bodies crowned:  
Unfold those doors, and lodge him there, above  
The reach of Envy, in those Towers of Love.  
Thy Bells must cease, but let thy Tongue still ring  
That Peal of Loyalty, God bless the King.  
Thy Bonfires must in liveless dust expire,  
But let Allegiance live, like Vestal fire:  
Thy Conduits will grow dry of Healthing-wine,  
Let Duty be an unexhausted Mine:  
These Accidents of Love and Joy must end,  
But may the Substance without bounds extend:  
And by experience warned, resolve again  
No more to quarrel with thy Sovereign;  
But make it all thy Practice to obey,  
And to thy Caesar, what is Caesar's pay.   

And here, though Heaven amazed Earth may tell,  
That it hath wrought, even now, a Miracle;  
Brought mighty things to pass, to puzzle sense,  
And human reason for Intelligence;  
That the entranced world doth yet scarce know,  
Whether it be Reality, or no:  
And, when the Arm of flesh was tired and spent,  
Took up the work, and gave't accomplishment;  
To tell the Royalist, there was no need  
Of him, to bring to pass, what it decreed:  
And Rebels, they should fall without a Name,  
And not three Kingdoms have, for funeral flame:  
Yet Heaven did means and Instruments employ,  
Whose merits may not in Oblivion die.  
With Bays no more, the bloody Victor crown,  
Nor Conquests, gained with thousands slain, renown:  
Let Him, in Triumph, through the City ride,  
That conquers with his Weapon by his side;  
That can an Army, without battle, beat,  
And every Troop, without a Charge, defeat:  
That Gideon-like, with his small handful, frights  
To nothing the distracted Midianites;  
That without blows, makes angry War surcease,  
And lays his Country in the arms of peace.  
Who those advantages improves aright,  
Which others lost, ensnared by Appetite;  
From forth whose Loyal and Heroic breast,  
His country's love drives his own Interest;  
Who knows Obedience better than a Crown,  
Which Usurpation cannot make his own:  
And such is He, whose Name I need not give,  
But as a soul, to make this Poem live;  
George Monck, the truly Noble: whose great Name  
Shall ever shine ' i'th'. Firmament of Fame:  
We need not Garlands make, nor Statues raise,  
For Him, whose worth is Imagery and Bays;  
Nor do his virtues any Herald need,  
Which have their Proclamation from the deed:  
What Honour can, or Industry invent,  
Is but a perishable Monument;  
But ne'er in Ruins, shall that Name be hid,  
Who makes his Country's peace, his Pyramid.   

And next to him, there's Honour due to those,  
Who, Phoenixlike, from the old ashes risen;  
This Legal Parliament: who do not do  
Their own work only, but the Nation's too.  
To those our Peers, who sprung from high Descent  
Now shine, their King's and Kingdom's Ornament;  
And to those Loyal Commons, whose blessed Lots  
Have fall'n, to be their Country's Patriots;  
Whose words have earnest been, like Judah-men,  
To bring their Sovereign David home again:   

O! May this three-fold-Cord for ever hold,  
And in a lasting Peace these Realms enfold!   
Haec ara tuebitur omnes.  
FINIS.