THE ROYAL ANAGRAM. Carolus Secundus Rex Angliae,  
Ana—— LUX ELUCESCO REGNIS sand' ARDUA.—— gram.  

THat human Names from the Omniscient Club  
Of Providence receive their fatal Dub,  
Significative, and Ominous to be  
Of th' Owners good or evil Destiny,  
The Holy Volumes clearly do make out,  
'tis Infidelity there of to doubt.  
My bashful Muse is conscious, that too high  
She hath aspired, this Truth t' exemplifie●:  
She's no Enthusiast, nor dares pretend  
To Inspiration; Loyalty's her End.  
T'evidence this, the Heavens did conspire  
To dub You CHARLES; Behold, a celestial Fire;  
A Noon●ay Star appeared, to vouch the truth  
Of th' Ominous Name 〈…〉 he new-Christen'd Youth:  
In its An●●●mizing it i 〈…〉  
That i● great 〈…〉  
let 〈…〉 into Order 〈…〉  
LUX ELUCESCO RE 〈…〉 S sand' ARDUA;  
Into our Native Language( if you please)  
'tis thus convertible with truth and ease,  
I DO MY KINGDOMS ALL ILLUMINATE,  
I salue THE DIFFICULTIES OF THE STATE.  
O great prophetic Truth! this Bonum Nomen  
Hath by experience proved our Bonum Omen.  
Vir tui Nominis, Dread Sir, You are,  
Nothing more man'fest, if we may compare  
The Salutiferous Events, issues plain  
Of your transcendent Wisdom, glorious Reign:  
It is the Lustre of your Royal Rays  
Clears our Horizon, gives us Halcyon-days:  
'tis your Illustrious presence keeps these Nations  
From Northern Fogs, and Southern Exhalations,  
And from th'effects of damned Associations.  
'tis your discerning Wisdom, profound Reach,  
That hath so seasonably stopped the breach  
Of ripe Rebellion, and so calmly laid  
The Devil of Confusion, who assayed  
By's Machiavillian COOPER to unstave  
The Vessel of the State. Oh Sovereign salue!  
'tis You that stopped its Leaks, and made it tite,  
Not only fit for Service, but Delight:  
'tis You, Terrestrial God, who is th' encloser  
Of Him that is the Worlds alwise Disposer.  
Noli me tangere, by a Divine Right,  
Is your just Motto, maugre all the spite  
Of Acherontick Miscreants; All their Plots  
Serve but to render them the Devil's Sots.  
Their great Achit'phel's Shaft was( as they thought)  
Always Fatiferous never winged for nought;  
He from his Quiver it no sooner took,  
But your discerning Eye espied the Hook  
Under that specious White of Babels Whore  
( Their trite old Bawd) your Royal side to gore.  
The deepest Strat'gems of that Hellish Crew  
Could not stand undiscovered before You;  
But, Dagon-like, must fall before the Light  
Of th'irresistable lustre of your spirit:  
You've baffled Hell, and put Him to a stop  
That of all the pack of Hell-hounds ran the top;  
Your Favours have th'effects of Judas's Sop:  
And may they always have that just Reward,  
That deal so falsely with their Gracious Lord.   J.P.  

Printed by Nath. Thompson, at the Entrance into the Old-Spring-Garden near Charing-Cross, 1683.