The Loyal Health: Occasion'd by His Majesties most Happy Deliverance from the late Horrid Phanatical Conspiracy, by the Fire at New-market.
[...]
YE Monarchy haters,
And VVhiggs of that Leven,
VVith Associators,
See the care of kind Heaven.
Great CHARLES still obtaineth,
VVhose will ne're was bounded,
His Pleasure, and Reigneth,
VVhile you are Confounded.
II.
In Old time by Fire,
Kind Heaven directed,
And to their desire,
His Chosen Protected.
So CHARLES was defended,
As Heaven appointed,
And Angels descended
To save its Anointed.
III.
I or which to kind Heaven in Praises let's sing,
That saved our Liberties, Lives, and our King,
And brought those Villains to Justice, who wou'd
Have Glory'd in Treason, and Revell'd in Blood.
Then let ev'ry one stand
VVith a Glass in each hand,
So to Charles and to James let it freely go round,
Praying Joy in full measure
May wait on their Pleasure,
VVhile Heaven and Earth with our wishes resound.
LOYALTY TRIUMPHANT: OR, Phanaticism Display'd,
A SONG.
[...]
JOY to th' bonny bold Britains did merrily sing,
In Oats his Reign,
And stood up for their Senses, their Liberties, Lives, and their King,
Who in Bumpers wou'd boldly assert Charles's Right,
And still maintain,
That 'tis just the true Heir shou'd Inherit, for whom they wou'd Fight.
While the Villanous Whiggs wou'd be
Bawling 'gainst Plotting and Popery,
Bouncing for Oats and a Parli'ment,
When see what 'twas they meant,
To kill the King, and so undo us
With True Protestant Blunderbuss,
'Cause the Votes of their Commons House
Prov'd not all worth a Louse:
But kind Heaven that waited on Charles from the Womb,
Assisted now,
And broke their damn'd Plot, and Rewarded them with their just Doom.
Now they find that to murmur [...]gainst Kings is in vain,
And all must bow,
And submit to the Fate, with the mark of Curst Murdering Cain,
VVhile the Tories may Glory still,
And of Pleasure enjoy their fill,
'Cause they in the Gap firmly stood,
And stem'd the growing Flood,
VVhile the sneaking VVhiggs hang or hide,
And nor can, nor dare th' Test abide.
So may all be Cursed, I sing,
That do not love their King.
Printed for Charles Corbet, at the Oxford Arms in Warwick-Lane. 1684.