THE King's Majesty's Love TO LONDON.  

MY dearest City, and my native place,  
To see sad tears run down thy beauteous face,  
Makes Me and mine, to mourn, lament, and weep,  
Doth cause me wake, when I should fall asleep;  
As I am King, my Love to thee is more  
Than Seas have Water, and the Earth hath Shore:  
My love shall never fail to thee or thine,  
But for thy sake, as far as Sun doth shine  
My Navy and my Forces shall seek out  
Thy foreign Foes, and seek the World about;  
I'll scour the Main, I'll make the Ocean dry,  
And thy proud foes shall at thy Footstool lie:  
In this distress, O London! thou shalt see,  
Great Britain's King thy only Friend to be;  
Trust to it London, for as I am King,  
I will thy Foes unto subjection bring;  
And cause them at thy Footstool for to lie,  
Because they wrong thee in thy misery:  
O London, London, if thou wilt obey  
My just command, I never shall say nay  
To any thing that's right, or thou'lt require,  
Thou'st have thy will, thy grant, or thy desire;  
My Cordial love is more than thou dost know,  
If thou'lt obey, if thou'lt subjection owe  
To me thy King, I'll make the World to see,  
Thou shalt lose nothing by obeying me;  
Though on my Foes I usually do frown,  
And with my might I tumble them all down;  
And will all those who commonly arise  
In open Arms; and those who do despise  
My Government: will not subjection yield,  
But seeks to fight me in the open Field;  
Or by false treachery do me annoy,  
If they seek my life, I shall those destroy:  
My chiefest City, I do much lament,  
Thy grief, thy sorrow, and thy discontent,  
Thy tears, thy mournings, and thy sad condition,  
And for thy cause I daily do Petition  
My Gracious God, to take his hand away,  
And suffer not his Angel for to slay,  
Or thee or thine, or suffer thee to stand,  
Within the reach of his destroying hand;  
But to remove his judgements, and to spare  
My only City, for which I so care:  
My Royal City, and my Native place,  
My Metropolitan hath spoiled her face;  
Her eyes with weeping are sunk in her head,  
And she lies now, much like to one that's dead:  
What good thy King, O London! can thee do,  
He will do't for thee, yea, and that soon too;  
The daily prayers of great Britain's King,  
Will cause a Heavenly Dove, to London bring  
An Olive leaf; whereby to signify,  
That thou and thine shall live, ye shall not die.    

LONDON'S MODEST ANSWER.  
Rejoice O London! in thy King,  
Who to thy City doth such comfort bring:  
His Purse, his Prayers, and his Princely Deeds,  
He doth the send, to staunch thy Wound that bleeds.  

MOST Sovereign Lord, my good and gracious Kings,  
What Joy, what Comfort, doth your sweet words  
bring?  
How they revive my soul, and do me cheer,  
Expels my sorrows and drive back my fear;  
But what am I, poor London, what am I?  
That Britain's King, the flour of Majesty,  
Should look upon me with such care and pity,  
A poor distressed and unworthy City?  
'Tis his free grace, and heavenly disposition,  
That at God's Throne he daily doth Petition  
For me and mine, that God would us restore,  
To perfect health, and drive death from my door;  
O gracious Prince, how am I bound to pray,  
For your good Grace, and how bound to obey  
Your sacred Person, and your just command,  
Your Acts, your Statutes, and not to withstand  
Your Will and Pleasure; but whilst I do live,  
I will subjection to your Highness give?  
If God be pleased to lengthen out my days,  
I will not only Speak, but Writ your praise;  
And all the Nations this day under Sun,  
Shall fully know what England's King hath done  
To London's City; when God's hand did lie  
Most heavy on her in her misery:  
How Wine and Oil he pours in her wound,  
How with his prayers he seeks to set her sound,  
How he doth comfort her amidst her grief,  
How to the poor he sendeth great relief;  
What comfortable words from him proceeds,  
What Royal virtue, grace, and goodly deeds.  
O happy London, in so good a King,  
That in thy miseries such comfort bring,  
In thy afflictions he should look upon  
Thy wants, and woes when all thy friends are gone:  
Whilst London stands, her King she will obey,  
And for his Majesty will daily pray;  
She never more will heave a single hand,  
His sacred pleasure she will not withstand;  
But will obedience and subjection give,  
Unto Authority while she doth live;  
Live, live, O London, live, and do not die,  
Thy King's thy friend now in thy misery:  
The King, the King, of Kings doth daily pray,  
That God would turn his heavy hand away  
From me and mine, and in my great distress  
Would comfort send, and with his graces bless:  
What City in the World hath such a Prince?  
Not one example can be shown e'er since  
The World's creation; who did so provide  
For his poor Subjects, who must needs have died:  
Yea, thousands at this day had been in grave,  
Who are alive in health whom he did save:  
And under God by his rich means did cure,  
In health amongst us Lord let him endure.    

London, Printed by John Best, at the sign of the Three Crowns in Giltspur-street. 1665.