To his Royal Highness the Duke.  

THey who oppose your Right unto the Crown,  
Would, had they power, pull Monarchy quite down:  
'Tis not, so qualified they would have one  
Of this, or that Religion, on the Throne;  
No, no, we know their minds, they would have none.  
The men that lately kept from Charles his due,  
Now promise fair to disinherit you;  
They who explode your Right, to make us slaves,  
Are not Presumptive, but Apparent Knaves:  
By our Dissensions they would smooth their way,  
And from Contenders hope to snatch the Prey.  
But such men seldom in the end can boast,  
They threaten loud, but still their Cause is lost  
In such affairs, they'll find it to their cost.  
Still the old Cheat, Religion is the cry,  
And made the Ram to batter Monarchy;  
'Cause they deserve, they fear the smarting Rod,  
And most Religiously distrust their God.  
Envy at Regal Sway, (Ah it is sad)  
And Zeal misguided made those Billmen mad:  
These took rash measures, and did ill advise;  
But without jealousy or wrong surmise,  
The future will prove Loyal, Calm, and Wise.  
To us it cannot but assurance bring,  
That a good Man can make as good a King.  
Factious design, and damned Plebeian rage,  
Does to no mean degree distract the Age,  
And watch the tottering of our settled State.  
But can we be such Sheep, such careless Elves,  
Not to beware the Wolves among ourselves?  
Those Beasts of Prey, that lurk in a disguise,  
That wear our skins; 'tis there our danger lies:  
Against their Brother-Wolves they raise the cry,  
'Cause their Addresses are not half so sly.  
A Papist seems a Papist to our sight,  
But our Fanatic, 'cause he would not fright,  
Daubs o'er the Devil like a Child of Light.  
But Ah! great Sir, where you should still Command,  
You, like a Stranger, visit your own Land;  
You for a moment Tantalise our sight,  
Then, like the absent Sun, you give us night:  
But 'tis the ready way, we must confess,  
To make us know and prise our happiness;  
Whilst all do suffer, for the faulty few,  
England must lose itself in losing you.   

But to Great Britain come—  
May you in highest splendour live, and be  
Happy and safe, Great Sir, in One of Three.  
Sir, may your Right no otherwise prove vain,  
Than by the length of our Great CHARLES his Reign.  
We cannot, Sir, but prove a happy Nation;  
One bliss enjoyed, another in expectation.  
There but remains this great Truth in the close,  
Your Virtue ' and Courage, Sir, the whole World knows,  
And ye are born, for Conquest o'er your Foes.   
FINIS.