ON HIS MAJESTY'S

RETURN OUT OF SCOTLAND.

GREAT Charles! (there stop, yeTrumpeters of Fame,
For he who speaks his titles, his great name,
Must have a breathing time) our King: stay there,
Speak by degrees, let th' inquifitive ear

Be held in doubt, and ere you fay Is come,
Let every heart prepare a spacious room
For ample joys; then lö fing as loud
As thunder fhot from the divided cloud.

Let Cygnus pluck from the Arabian waves
The ruby of the rock, the pearl that paves
Great Neptune's court; let every sparrow bear
From the Three Sifters' weeping bark a tear:
Let fpotted lynxes their sharp talons fill
With crystal fetch'd from the Promethean hill:
Let Cytherea's birds fresh wreaths compofe,
Knitting the pale-fac'd lily with the rofe:
Let the self-gotten phonix rob his neft,
Spoil his own fun'ral pile, and all his best
Of myrrh, of frankincenfe, of Caffia, bring,
To ftrew the way for our returned King.
Let every poft a panegyric wear,
Each wall, each pillar, gratulations bear;
And yet let no man invocate a Mufe;
The very matter will itself infuse

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IS

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A facred fury. Let the merry bells

(For unknown joys work unknown miracles)
Ring without help of sexton, and presage
A new-made holyday for future age.
And if the Ancients us'd to dedicate
A golden temple to propitious Fate,
At the return of any noblemen,

Of heroes, or of emp'rors, we must then
Raise up a double trophy, for their fame
Was but the fhadow of our Charles his name.
Who is there where all virtues mingled flow?
Where no defects or imperfections grow?
Whose head is always crown'd with victory
Snatch'd from Bellona's hand; him Luxury
In' peace debilitates; whose tongue can win
Tully's own garland, Pride to him creeps in:
On whom, like Atlas' fhoulders, the propt state
(As he were primum mobile of Fate)

Solely relies; him blind Ambition moves,

His tyranny the bridled fubject proves.

But all those virtues which they all poffefs'd
Divided, are collected in thy breast,

Great Charles! Let Cæfar boast Pharfalia's fight,
Honorius praise the Parthians' unfeign'd flight:
Let Alexander call himself Jove's peer,
And place his image near the Thunderer;
Yet while our Charles with equal balance reigns
'Twixt Mercy and Aftrea, and maintains

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50

A noble peace, 'tis he, 'tis only he

Who is most near, most like, the Deity.

A SONG ON THE SAME.

HENCE, clouded Looks! hence, briny Tears!

Hence eye that Sorrow's liv'ry wears!

What tho' a while Apollo please

To visit the Antipodes?

Yet he returns, and with his light

Expels what he hath caus'd, the night.

What tho' the Spring vanish away,
And with it the earth's form decay?
Yet his new birth will foon restore
What its departure took before.
What tho' we miss'd our absent King
A while? great Charles is come again,
And with his prefence makes us know
The gratitude to Heav'n we owe.
So doth a cruel storm impart

And teach us Palinurus' art:

So from falt floods, wept by our eyes,
A joyful Venus doth arife.

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THE WISH.

I.

LEST the misjudging world fhould chance to say

I durst not but in fecret murmurs pray,

To whisper in Jove's ear

How much I wish that funeral,

Or gape at fuch a great one's fall,

This let all ages hear,

And future times in my foul's picture fee
What I abhor, what I desire to be.

II.

I would not be a Puritan, tho' hel

Can preach two hours, and yet his fermon be

But half a quarter long;

Tho' from his old mechanic trade

ΙΟ

By vifion he's a pastor made,

His faith was grown fo strong;

Nay, tho' he think to gain falvation

By calling the Pope the Whore of Babylon.

III.

I would not be a schoolmaster, tho' to him
His rods no less than Confuls' fafces feem;
Tho' he in many a place;

Turns Lily oft'ner than his gowns,
Till at the last he makes the nouns
Fight with the verbs apacé;

Nay, tho' he can, in a poetic heat,

Figures, born fince, out of poor Virgil beat.

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20

IV.

I would not be a Juftice of Peace, tho' he
Can with equality divide the fee,

And ftakes with his clerk draw;

Nay, tho' he sit upon the place

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And whilst he mulets enormities demurely,

Breaks Prifcian's head with sentences fecurely.

V.

I would not be a courtier, tho' he

Makes his whole life the truest comedy;

Altho' he be a man

In whom the tailor's forming art,

And nimble barber, claim more part
Than Nature herself can;

Tho', as he uses men, 'tis his intent

To put off Death, too, with a compliment."

VI.

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35

(40

From lawyers' tongues, tho' they can spin with ease

The shorteft caufe into a paraphrase,

From ufurers' confcience

(For swallowing up young heirs so fast,

"

Without all doubt they'll choke at last)

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Make me all innocence,

Good Heav'n! and from thy eyes, O Juftice! keep; For tho' they be not blind they're oft' asleep.

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