A congratulatory poem on His Majesty's happy return from Holland written by Mr. Browne.

To the Honourable Sir Thomas Alyen. K^t. & B^ar.

RIght Honour'd Sir, vouchsafe to cast your Eye On this Essay of Heroick Poesie, Which for unmerited Favours, as 'tis meet, I Humbly prostrate at your Worthy Feet; Beseeching that it may so happy be To share a Blessing in your Courtesie, And be protected by your Loyal Name From all the Blasts that may it else Defame: Pray entertain it, for (Dear Sir) it sings The very best of War-like Valiant Kings; That Monarch, Sir, by you so greatly lov'd, Even HE, that Heaven kind for us approv'd: 'Tis HE, I say, whom You so much adore, And long have Pray'd to see Return once more Happy and Safe to England's Happy Shoar. Now, Sir, HE's come, my Muse his Welcom sings, And in your Ears his Matchless Praises rings: The which (Good Sir) when you vouchsafe to read, Charity's Mantle o're my Failings spread; My Eyes oft dazled with Excess of Light, My Muse but dull, and narrower my Sight: I might have left this weighty Task to them Whose nobler Thoughts direct a loftier Pen; But yet, I hope, I am to be excus'd, Because 'twas Love and Zeal acted my Muse. I write, but 'tis, alas, with trembling Hand, The Praise of him that Rules blest Albion's Land, And sing his Welcom to his wisht for Strand: 'Tis Wholsom Foot, tho 'tis but homely drest, Yet something here, I hope, may please each Guest.

High are my Strains, my Buskin'd Mistress sings, The very best of Men, the best of Kings, In Verse Heroick tells his Heroick Deeds, Whose Worth all Commentary still exceeds. Nor can a Muse, Imp't with the Noblest Wing, Sound half the Praise of William our Great King: So high is Virtue, in her Native Glory, Advanc'd in Him, above the Reach of Story; Bright as the brightest Star that ere did flame, A shining Monument to Caesar's Name, A Prince in Fame's great Catalogue more bright Than all the Sons of Honour ere could light, A Prince in Prudence, and in Arms more Great Than ever yet ruled in Albion's State; Who lesser Sparks of Honour does out-flame, And swallows all their Titles in his Name: HE far exceeds the Trophies of the Pen, A Prince above the Characters of Men, Wise as the wisest, as the boldest bold, In Dangers, only, and Success grown old: On whom no Barb'rous Enemy can confer Less than an High Immortal Character. Sir, here I must abruptly take my Leave, Because the Printer tells me he shall have More than he can conveniently dispose Within his Page; he bids me therefore close. And so I will, Praying, Right Worthy Sir, That God may still his Blessings on you pour; Your Lady long preserve, you Heirs with Blessing crown, And give you lasting Joys, when you this Life lay down.

This comes

(Good Sir)

from the unworthy Hand
Of him, who is, your very Humble Servant, at Command,
BROWNE.