To His Majesty upon his happy arrivall in our late discomposed Albion.: By R. Brathwait Esq.

To the Croud of Supplicants at White-hall.

HOw is it Friends, that you do thus resort, Croud, and disturbe the Quiet of the Count? Is this the Loyalty you have profest To give no time unto your King to rest? Be these your set imployments thus to stand At th' Presence door to kiss his Highness hand, Or beg an Office? How do you contrive The way to get where there is none to give? Honours He freely can conferre, but those Will not discharge the Mercer for his cloaths. Be civil SIRS; He bears a royall heart, And will bestow on every one a part, When He is setled; mean time 'tis well known Where nought remaines, the King must loss his own. Should all the Rebells Lands to th' Checker fall; Their values would not satisfie us all. Our Sufferings be so numerous, as alas We'r like Bare-bones, who i'th' Last Synod was. Let it content us, that the State's our Debter, And if unpaid, our own will thrive the better. Who serves his Soveraign for meer hope of gain, May have an Hector's heart, but's mind a Swain.