THE Poets Address To His Most Sacred MAJESTY.  

THough scribbling Factions are so Saucy grown,  
To dare cursed Libels at Your Sacred Throne:  
To strive to Prae-depose Your royal Heirs,  
And seek Your Life who frankly gave them theirs.  
Yet Mighty SIR, the Poets are your own,  
Their Lives and Pens,( for Fortunes they have none)  
Reason and Wit are faithful to their Prince,  
Nay, he that Writes against You can't writ Sense:  
The Sacred Nine Elected you supreme,  
And swore Allegiance to Your Diadem;  
And all the jobbers of the saddening Crew  
Are Rebels even to them, when so to You.   

Th'old Loyal Blood when Your kind Beams withdrew,  
Unmurmuring slept till they return'd anew:  
Then( like the Lust of Plants) its Atoms throng  
To deck th' Old Branches, and to shoot forth Young.  
Westminster was an Autumn to our Lays,  
But th' Oxford nipping Spring had killed our Bays,  
Had not Your Mercy and Dissolving Skill  
stopped both their doing, and our suffering Ill:  
Had we th' Hesperean Fruit, You should not pull  
Wee'd freely drop You a whole Chequer full,  
( But Equal Heaven has given it to the dull)  
Wit by Chamelian Nourishment conceives,  
And was decreed only to put forth leaves.   

Hail Sacred SIR, although we have no Banks,  
Yet we can pay( what none cane give you) Thanks;  
Thanks for the Numerous Blessings which you  shed  
Like the imperial Sun, on every head;  
Thanks for the Factions, deluge You put by,  
And Thanks for the Humble stop, to tell us Why:  
But Thanks above all thinking for Your Care  
To stop that TAP, that would have drowned Your Heir.   

Illustrious JAMES thou couldst not bear such things,  
We't thou not Son and Brother to such Kings:  
How could we think from Justice thou shouldst fly  
A Land, which does it to their King deny.   

The Sheriffs of late such Natu●alists are grown,  
They'l turn no Streams back to the Fountain thrown:  
And those Grand Jews that Ignoramus bring  
For barrabas would Cru●●fie their King.   

The Polish Prince is charmed, he scorns weak Buff,  
Consciences of Impenetrable Stuff  
Arms the small Patriat, Plot and Witness proof;  
'Tis such a Knot as wants the Gordian Knife,  
For some Conspire his Death, and some his Life:  
And nineteen Un●e●ievers Damn to Save  
That Head that ne're was destined to a Grave.   

Once more hail Secred MONARCH, may kind Stars  
Prosper your Pea●e, and Guard you in Your Wars;  
Let God Arise( who Your Avenger is)  
And scatter both Your Enem●es and His.  
May Heaven Attend Your Councils, and Dispose  
Success to all that's Yours, except Your Foes:  
Long may You Rule this iceland with Your Nod,  
And let the Stubborn feel Your Angry Rod:  
Exceed Your Father, and be like Your God.   
WHYTHAL July the 4. 1682. Imprimatur Will: Paterson.   

EDINBURGH, Re-printed in the year, 1682.