A
Congratulatory POEM
TO THE
RIGHT HONOURABLE
Sir WILLIAM PRITCHARD.
Lord Mayor of the City of London.
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IN that great Train which loudly does reherse
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Your just Encomiums in Lofty Verse;
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Whose every Line the Lauriat does shake,
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And of a Faculty a trade wou[l]d make:
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Mongst these my Lord, that for such treasures hope
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Give your poor Scribler leave to Interlope:
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Admit that Humble Muse, that never knew
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To couple Verse, till now Inspird by you.
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To say, my Lord, that you, if Fate should frown
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Must be the Genius to Preserve this Town;
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And none so fit to Bless the City Throne,
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Except brave Loyal Moor, might still Reign on.
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Hail then, thou City Monarch! may thy Reign
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With Peace and Plenty, all the Land maintain.
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Observe how all along the Streets the Crowd
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With Joyful Sounds, does Welcome in their Lord;
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When on the Thames, how all along the Shore,
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Twas hard to say, who did express it more,
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Or whether Men or Cannons that did Roar.
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Caesar Himself and Royal York are come,
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And all the Court, to bid you Welcome Home:
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Your Pageants, Whifflers, and Oxilaries,
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They come on Course, and your Artillery,
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But Caesar came to Grace your Loyalty.
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The Giddy Rabble that Illeterate Beast,
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Who Factious Traytors had with fear possest;
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Convincing Time in spight of Whining Zeal,
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Has shewn the Blessing of a Common-Weal;
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That theyr designs tho ner so Meekly drest,
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Was only Mutiny for Interest;
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That Long-eard Rout, and their Achittophel,
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That think it Sin to Live and not Rebell:
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Those Pious Elders, that Jenaeva Rabble,
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That hop, once more, to make old Pauls a Stable;
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Or rather see her in her Ashes lye,
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Then hear in Her the true Episcopie:
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Besides, she is too Great, the Charge Profuse,
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They could Convert her into better Use.
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These, my good Lord, your Predecessor found,
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To be the Incects Barrend all the Ground;
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And with that Sword which now is in your Hand,
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He strove to Weed out from our Fertile Land:
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But Old Achittophel, that Reverend Bard,
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Whom Heaven intended Man and Nature Mard
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With Treats, and something else, I dare not say,
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I think twas Treason; bore a part away.
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But he has set his House in Order now,
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And is gone down in Order thereunto --- ---
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Assist you Powers, and tye the Damons up,
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For should they find him they would cut the Rope:
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Hes for their work on Earth, they understand,
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And what can signifie one Fire-Brand?
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My Lord, I Blush at my Impertinence,
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Yet thus far I dare plead my own Defence;
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That did you know, the Man that Fate has spent
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In Tragick Scenes, that little Fortune lent;
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You would not have him praise the Instrument.
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I wish your Lordship many Years of Bliss,
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A Jubilee of Days, and all like this;
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That each Propitious Star may be your Guide,
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That Fair-eyd Truth may never be denyd;
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That when you quit your trust, youl find a Brother,
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To King, to Church, and State, just such another.
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