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Vpon his MAJESTIES Coming to HOLMBY.
HOld our brave Charles, and thou shalt winne the feild,
Thou canst not loose thy selfe, unlesse thou yeeld,
On such conditions, as will force thy hand,
To give away thy Scepter, Crown, and Land,
And what is worse to hazzard by thy fall,
To loose a greater Crowne, more worth then all.
Thy poore distressed Cavaliers rejoyced
To heare thy royall resol••tion voiced,
And are content yet farre more poore to be,
Then now they are, so it reflect from thee,
Thou art our Soveraigne still in spight of hate,
Our zeale is to thy person not thy state.
We are not so ambitious to desire,
Our drooping fortune to be mounted higher,
And thou so great a Monarch (to our greife)
Must sue vnto thy subiects for releife,
And when they sit and long debate about it,
Must either stay, or goe away without it.
No sacred Prince, thy freinds esteeme thee more
In thy distresses then they did before,
And though their wings be clipt their wishes fly
To heaven by millions for a fresh supply,
That as thy cause was thus betrai'd by men,
It may by Ange••s be restor'd againe.