A POEM On the Long Expected AUSPICIOUS BIRTH OF THE PRINCE, June the 10th. MDCLXXXVIII. BEING TRINITY SUNDAY.  

A Prince of Wales! Where? Oh where? Bless your Eyes,  
'tis one of Englands choicest Rarities.  
Reach me a Phoenix Quill, that I May writ,  
Yea, put it on ●ecord, in rubric bright.  
Some Winged Angel writ it in the Air,  
That with Great Constantine we may red it there:  
And, In hoc signo vince, may agree  
To JAMES the seconds Vigorous Monarchy.   

How came this Known before? Who gave the Sign?  
A Birth Foretold is something of Divine.  
Royalists strangely agreed in the same Note;  
A PRINCE, the Subject of prophetic Vote.   

Where is the good Lord Shaftsbury to be found?  
That politic MOLE works not still under ground.  
avaunt, foul Fiend! with thy Distinction;  
W'have now an Heir APPARENT to the Crown.   

Who's that who Hangs the Head? fanatic Vile;  
No Gentleman doth Frown, when Heaven doth Smile.  
God Blesseth, and the Wretch doth Curse. Oh see!  
The Ba●eful Bent of Nonconformity.   

Saint Paul expressly bids for Princes Pray;  
That snells too Rank of Liturgy, say they.   

Dread Sir! the World rejoiced at Thy Throne;  
Now heaven itself doth sand to Greet Thy Crown.  
For True Devotion never Lives by Loss;  
The Crown will Fix there, where they own the across.   

Poor Miscreant! Why dost thou Labour thus,  
Whisper the BIRTH Suppositious?  
Maugre your Wagers, Shams, and Stories wild,  
The CUSHION's Transubstantiate to a Child.   

And thou Fair Off-Set, that I may Divine,  
Assisted with Heavens Suffrage, mayst Thou Shine  
To future Ages, whilst Thou dost Inherit  
Thy Royal Sires trees Grand Undaunted Spirit:  
To Advance this British Isle, that It may see  
It owes Its grandeur to Saint George, and Thee.  
To Chequeth' Encroaching lion, make him know  
His Station is, as is his Country, Low.  
To make our English Ships in the Worlds Eyes,  
Vessels of famed, as well as Merchandise.  
That th' Scot may cease at last in public prayer,  
Canting Extempore, to beat the Air.  
But for Religions Credit, He may come,  
Unite to England and to Christendom.   

Less, we cannot suppose, the very Day  
When Thou Salutedst us doth loudly say  
Such Lessons.— The Eastern Sages Th' hast Out-done,  
They came to Pay their Duties to the SON,  
Thou comest to Worship th' Undivided Three,  
The ever blessed Mysterious TRINITY.   

And now most August Sovereign! Own Thy Son,  
Prepare Him Title and Dominion.  
The Loyal Britains are in hast we see,  
To Pay this Infant Homage on their Knee,  
The very Mountains Dance in Jolly Mirth,  
Transported with their Cousin Prince His Birth.   

The Irish Harp hath heard, and doth desire,  
A gladsome Consort with the British Lyre.   

The frolic Wav●s are Mad, and Wanton All,  
Fancying the Next will be their Admiral.   

What says the Royal Mother? Let Her come  
To Greet Her Fruit of Prayers, and Her Womb;  
When in Her blessed Employ, She hath adored  
Th' Author of Fruitfulness, Her Gracious Lord,  
She finds Her Innocent Diversion,  
With the same Lip to Bless, and Kiss Her Son.   

Oh may It grow, and like the English Air  
Perk up Its Head, and spread Its Root so Fair,  
That henceforth Britains Crown, if heaven so please,  
May'nt Straggle into foreign Families.  
And crossing Natures First and Great Intent,  
Make us to be half Isle, half Continent.   

Italy likes the English-Man, they say,  
When thus obliged, let's Study to Repay;  
But this a Present is so near Immense,  
That Albion can never Recompense.  
No, though She turns that All which Guards Her Shore,  
Rocks into Gems, and Quicksands into Ore.  
The Garden of the World Italy is,  
It must be So, which sends such Fruit as This!   

What do I further Strive? all Verse is Dry,  
There is a Nobler, Juicyer Poetry!   

Reach me a Flask from you pure Florence Vine:  
After such Fruit, 'tis fit we should have Wine,  
To Drink a Florid Health to the Great Sire,  
His Royal Consort, and Their Hopeful Heir!  
Drink with a Heart wherein the King may see,  
If opened, Writ Long Live His majesty.    

Printed by Mary Thompson at the Entrance into Old-Spring-Garden near Charing-Cross, Anno Dom. MDCLXXXVIII.