An essay of a loyal brest in four copies of verses, viz. I. to His Majesty, Charles the 2d, II. to his two houses of Parliament, III. to his general, the Lord Monck, IV. to that his good angel, Madam Jane Lane / by William Fairebrother ...

TO THE KING'S MOST SACRED MAJESTY.

ONce formerly, dread Sir, my Muse did Sing, You our choice Prince in Parlament. A King Then sate your Father there. But ô! since then A sad and long Parenthesis hath been 'Twixt us and Regal-splendour; whilest your Youth Hath tost been to and fro, because of Truth! A Scene of twenty years! an heap too large For my scant Ephah! 'tis an Homer's charge.

Ulysses and his ten years Travels now Seem no less trifling, than Tom Thumb in th' Cow: 'Twixt yours and his such diff'rence I assign, As was 'twixt Bottles of his Wind and Wine. Wine? Wine not so chears the heart, as the sight Of your blest presence, who setst all aright. A Welcom's thus to us. Then 'ts but our due, To carol-out glad Welcoms unto you.

Whom Spain, France, Germany and Belgick-soil With admiration gaz'd on, (as a spoil Ev'n forc't into their hands, through Britains rage) And now do court, as Mirrour of this age; Whom they must needs us envy, yet hath Heav'n (Maugre all hellish plots) us again giv'n, Shall we not him adore? And so'ts our due, To carol-out Hosannaes unto you.

I've seen your Star; and worship: How it shon Your Birth-day's-Ecce! It stood near the Sun At its full-Zenith bright; whilst Thanks was giv'n On St. Paul's sacred ground to th' King of Heav'n By th' King your Father. 'Twas a glorious day! The King then to the Temple led the way; Sunday and Lords-day both. Then be't our due, To carol-out Hosannaes unto you.

But if Sighs must burst forth, and cloud a Day, May they flie up t'expiate Sin away: If Tears the cheeks bedew, let them be sent From Hearts, that of past-villanies relent. Thus may we blunt God's Ax: thus, next to God, Ev'n thou, O King, (I see) will spare thy Rod.

And thus we all may wear the Mourning-weed: Few are the men, who not your Pardon need.

It's wisest then for me, to point-out none; Lest others numb'ring number me for one; Perhaps, 'cause for Alleg'ance once I fled From Cambridge, and at Oxford own'd an Head, But lost it soon again at Naseby-fight, My self ta'ne Pris'ner. Were I silent-quite, Your Grace may know, Who was the greatest Thief; Who of the barb'rous Actours were the Chief; Who the stage-prompters, or Dark-Lanthorn-men, That contriv'd most, though they themselves least seen, White-powder Fiends, killing without a Noise; (To crack thereon, speaks children or meer boyes) What Accessories live; Who, as with knives, Did wound your righteous Cause, through debaucht Lives, At home and eke abroad; and Who, more quaint, Did null the Edicts of that Royal Saint, Your murther'd Father. Then, then may we all Before You, as at God's Tribunal, fall. Peace you persue; Mercy you do proclaim: Who craves them not, a second time's too blame.

To such a God who should not then impart Gold, myrrh, with a frank-incense of the Heart? The last can each one give; the most forlorn: When I hav't giv'n away, 'tis as New-born.

Mine then on dayly-prostrate Knees shall crave Of that One More-supream, that You may have Firm Health; Allies most strong; a matchless Queen; Subjects as Loyal, as e're Prince hath seen;

Innum'rous People; a Church flourishing. So (with your Leave i'le cry) LONG LIVE THE KING.

And now (great Sir and good) I fear, that I A petty-treason make 'gainst Soveraignty, Thus to detain your Person. But true Zeal Dare even back unto your Throne appeal; That with your thickest Pardons you would smother This Crime of, YOURS the humblest,

FAIREBROTHER; Of Kings Colledge in Cambridge; and Of the late Kings Army.

Anagram. CHARLES STUART. STET LAR CHARUS.