To the Kings most excellent Majesty. Lluelyn, Martin, 1616-1682. 1660 Approx. 11 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 7 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2011-04 (EEBO-TCP Phase 2). A88392 Wing L2628 Thomason E1080_1 ESTC R38486 99872507 99872507 169337

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. A88392) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 169337) Images scanned from microfilm: (Thomason Tracts ; 161:E1080[1]) To the Kings most excellent Majesty. Lluelyn, Martin, 1616-1682. 12 p. printed for J. Martin, Ja. Allestry, T. Dicas, and are to be sold at the Bell in St. Pauls Church-yard, [London : 1660] By Martin Lluelyn, who signs each poem. Verses written to the King and his brothers the Duke of York and the Duke of Gloucester. Imprint from colophon. In this edition "s" of "Kings" in second line of title is upside-down; p. 3 line 6 of text ends: bewaile, or welcome thee. Variant; Thomason Tract copy lacks colophon. Annotation on Thomason copy: "1660 May 24". Reproduction of the original in the British Library.

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 eng Charles -- II, -- King of England, 1630-1685 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. James -- II, -- King of England, 1633-1701 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. Henry, -- Duke of Gloucester, 1640-1660 -- Poetry -- Early works to 1800. 2020-09-21 Content of 'availability' element changed when EEBO Phase 2 texts came into the public domain 2009-11 Assigned for keying and markup 2009-11 Keyed and coded from ProQuest page images 2010-01 Sampled and proofread 2010-01 Text and markup reviewed and edited 2010-04 Batch review (QC) and XML conversion

TO THE KINGS MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY.
TO THE KINGS MOST EXCELLENT MAJESTY. GREAT Prince of Cares and Ʋs, by dark Fates hurld, Round each falſe Corner of the treachrous World; Our doubtfull Joyes and Sighs diſtracted be, Whether We firſt Bewaile, or Welcome Thee. Whoſe wandring Feet can ſcarce that Soil diſcloſe, Which hath not bred, or elſe increaſ'd Thy woes. Or Thee, or Thine, each Nation did enfold. So wide a Ruine no one Clime could hold. At Home, were drawn to moſt extenſive length, The Shafts of all our Stratagems, and Strength, Gainſt Thy ſoft Boſome; when, to cruell Times, But to be born our Prince, was all Thy Crimes. When ſuch, whoſe hands were ſtain'd in Sacred Gore, And muſt ſecure paſt Ills, by acting more; By interchanged miſchiefs graſpe the State: Not to Relieve the Preſſures, but Tranſlate. Our weapon'd Guardians raiſe them, their arm'd hand, Makes each their Image, our dread Idoll ſtand And though their brain-ſick eyes could hope to ſee, No dawn of Cure, no Hellebore but Thee. Thou that ſole Anchor of a floating Rout, Art ſtill as Anchors are, alone caſt out. Abroad, thy Griefs do their cold Friendſhips prove, Who welcome now Thy Stay, ſtrait Thy Remove. It doth more greivous to a Gueſt befall, To be Diſlodg'd, then not Receiv'd at all. If once a bold Uſurper do pretend, To thunder Menaces, or be their friend; Thy fraile Allies, on Thy reception frown, And a Confederate-Rebel weighs Thee down. Thou muſt take wing afreſh, a politick ſpight, Makes Thee to flie, ev'n from Thy place of Flight. O where have then Thy carefull dayes been ſpent, Whoſe very Exile ſuffer'd Baniſhment! But being now return'd our Numerous Prince, By Birth, and Virtues firſt, by Sufferings ſince; May Peace her Olive to Thy Scepter bring, And England know no Halcyon but her King. Thy Sacred Father in Thy memory weare Piouſly firm, but not too ſadly there. No mean Unequall blood diſcount His Fate: Let Veins deſpaire, Seas cannot expiate. May Loyall Breaſts with unrevolting breath, Attone Thy wrongs, and His more clamorous death. Camillus thus his injuries brake through, And came at once Romes bluſh, and Reſcue too. No Crimſom-guilty Streams, nor innocent gore, Do tyde our Sea-toſt Prince back to his Shore, What lingring time long wiſht, but could not ſee, Wrought by Thy martyr'd Sire, nor yet by Thee. What Birth, nor Brains, Treaſure, nor Force could do, Our kind Neceſsity hath rais'd Thee to. And You attain your long diſputed height, A Glorious Conqueror without a Fight. But though our Tears confeſſe, and ſign it true, That our own ſtreights and wrongs have righted You; Yet do thoſe forcing ſtreights extort no more, Then what our generall Groans implor'd before. For though we ſhiver in a thouſand Rents, Of querulous Sects, and unappeas'd intents: Yet in this one we center, and agree; We ſtill requeſt a King, and that King, Thee. Come then and bind us up with tender hands, O Thou the Balſome of theſe bleeding Lands. Ore-look the falſe, by proſpect on the True; And let the Many, expiate the Few. Had You by Forreign Strengths regain'd Your Right, You might at once Reſtore us, and Affright. For Spaniſh Aides, had ſcarce the credit won, Of Spaniſh Succours, but Invaſion. Your wiſht Approach it ſelf might ſo, amate, And Your Return had ſeem'd Our Eighty Eight. Our hopes Reſtorer France did fear to be, And Spain though Hoſpitable; was not He. Renowned Monck alone to Us, and You; Is France, and Spain, and theſe three Kingdoms too With what Amazement our loſt Phanſies burn, At this Your aenigmatical Return, Myſterious Prince! three Kingdoms long diſdain, And now their Jubilee; their Cure, and Pain. Nor could the Iſſue leſſe at length appear, When we recount Your preſervation here; When at a Miracles expenſe, You ſhow, Whoſe Care You were, ev'n in Your Overthrow. When Worc'ſters hapleſs day proclaim'd it true, That to Eſcape, was more then to Subdue. Succeſs crowns Rebel-fame, Yours higher flies, Nor are You Fortunes minion, but the Skies. When Tarquin had receiv'd his exil'd Fate, Not Porſena his Royal Advocate, Nor potent Armes his Reſtoration ſhape; Oppos'd by his own Pride, and Lucrece Rape. His Armies, are by Armies overcome. And Porſena's grave Legats reaſon'd home: In Fights or Parlyes ſtill they diſagree; He ſtrugling to be King, Rome to be Free. How different are theſe Sames! Your exiles friend, Princes nor Aides, nor Interceſſors ſend. You uſe no Advocate, but milde Delay: And we no Freedome find, but to Obey. After Your tyring Exile, we diſcloſe, You do Return the Prince we did Expoſe: And in Your tempted Pilgrimage, we find, That You have chang'd your Aire, but not your Mind. While to their Wants, or Weakneſs, moſt become Tame Proſelytes, and to Impatience ſome, Thy breaſt was proof 'gainſt all, & rais'd Thee Powers, To ſtand our Faiths Defender, when ſcarce Ours. No ſoft perſwaſive Errors bright Array, Nor rugged ſtormy Uſage, could diſmay Your fixt Reſolves. You ſtill your own ſure Prince! Whom Wants did oft Diſtreſs, but ne'r Convince. And though Thy coole Revolt might ſoon have lead, Thy Raviſht Crowns to thy Rejected head. Thoſe beckning Gems want Luſtre to allure, Nor ſeem'd it great to Raign, but to Endure. And now, though to be King is dignity, Next Heavens tranſcendent Charter, great and high, Yet ſome, in Forraign Empires ſeem Thy Peer, And juſtly challenge Kingdoms, as Thou here. Others Uſurpe, their panting Nations Lords, And carve out guilty Scepters with their Swords. And though Injuſtice difference their Claim, Yet All are Kings, and therein are the ſame. But by a madding People chas'd away, And mad again, till they reſtore Thy ſway. Woed to a Crown, and Courted to a Throne, There You are Prince; there You are King alone. Let more Imperious Potentates rejoyce, To be their Subjects Soveraigns, Thou their Choice. MARTIN LLUELYN M. D. Lond, ſocius.
TO HIS HIGHNESSE THE DUKE OF YORKE. YOUR bright Return doth equall glories reare, To what You ſtill return a Conquerer. Nor hath your Sword abroad more Terrors won, Then Your Renown hath purchas'd hearts at home. Hence You create like cheerfull comforts here, As when you did with ſafety Diſappeare. And ballance Times aright, the Bliſſe is one, To travaile Home, and be ſecurely Gon. This only difference we muſt avow, That what were then but Joyes, are Triumphs now. Fear in our hearts, kept our Expreſsions low; And though we did Rejoyce, we durſt not Show, Our Joyes are now no Stealths, but open clad; Without the Felony of being Glad. And what can check our Jo's? who receive A Prince, whoſe loſſe forſaken Nations greive. Whoſe Vigour, now, ſhall Spaniſh Caution warm? And ſpirit grave Approach, into a Storme. Thy Poize, muſt temper French Exceſſe no more: Nor form that Valour, which was Rage before. Theſe Adverſe Camps, had each the bleſs'd event, To heal Defects, by Thee their Supplement. From whoſe divided Proweſs either gains: The Pondering learns Careere; the Giddie, Rains. Each thus improv'd, a Peace muſt needs enſue. Conteſt is vain, where Neither can Subdue. MARTIN LLUELYN M. D. Coll. Lond. ſocius.
TO HIS HIGHNESSE THE DUKE OF GLOCESTER. Illuſtrious Prince, THough, midſt Your Countries flames You fled exil'd, Like young Telemachus, a Frighted Child. By ſoft Diſtinctions yet Thy flight's allay'd, Nor wert Thou Forc't an Exile, but Convey'd. The Courteous Tyrant will Thy harmes prevent, And bids Thee to be ſafe in Baniſhment. The glozing Crocodile doth fawn, and ſlay, As he markt Thee his Pilgrim, not his Prey. Guids to Your youth, and Wayes, are joyntly lent, You are for Amicable Ruine meant. Dire Monſter! thus to aggravate Thy wrongs, Like Sirens; by the Muſick of his Songs. This Friendſhip, yet, from that fierce Tyger won, Well may You aske; what miſchief have I done? And rack Your cryſtal Innocence, to prove, What Crime in You, commends You to his Love. Diſmiſs that ſcrutiny: if he forbears, 'Tis not his Kindneſſe, but his Surfeit ſpares. MARTIN LLUELYN M. D. Lond. ſocius. FINIS.