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lord_n honourable_a london_n right_n 15,695 5 6.6784 4 false
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ID Title Author Corrected Date of Publication (TCP Date of Publication) STC Words Pages
A80350 A congratulatory poem to the Right Honourable Sir William Pritchard, Lord Mayor of the City of London 1682 (1682) Wing C5840; ESTC R220445 1,056 1

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Congratulatory POEM TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE Sir WILLIAM PRITCHARD Lord Mayor of the City of London IN that great Train which loudly does reherse Your just Encomiums in Lofty Verse Whose every Line the Lauriat does shake And of a Faculty a trade wou'd make ' Mongst these my Lord that for such treasures hope Give your poor Scribler leave to Interlope Admit that Humble Muse that never knew To couple Verse till now Inspir'd by you To say my Lord that you if Fate should frown Must be the Genius to Preserve this Town And none so fit to Bless the City Throne Except brave Loyal Moor might still Reign on Had then thou City Monarch may thy Reign With Peace and Plenty all the Land maintain Observe how all along the Streets the Crowd With Joyful Sounds does Welcome in their Lord When o● the Thames how all along the Shore 'T was hard to say who did express it more Or whether Men or Cannons that did Roar Caesar Himself and Royal York are come And all the Court to bid you Welcome Home Your Pageants Whisslers and Oxilaries They come on Course and your Artillery But Caesar came to Grace your Loyalty The Giddy Rabble that Illeterate Beast Who Factious Traytors had with fear possest Convincing Time in spight of Whining Zeal Has shewn the Blessing of a Common-Weal That they 'r designs tho' ne'r so Meekly drest Was only Mutiny for Interest That Long-ear'd Rout and their Achittophel That think it Sin to Live and not Rebell Those Pious Elders that Jenaeva Rabble That hope once more to make old Pauls a Stable Or rather see her in her Ashes lye Then hear in Her the true Episcopie Besides she is too Great the Charge Profuse They could Convert her into better Use These my good Lord your Predecessor found To be the Incects Barren'd all the Ground And with that Sword which now is in your Hand He strove to Weed out from our Fertile Land But Old Achittophel that Reverend Bard Whom Heaven intended Man and Nature Mar'd With Treats and something else I dare not say I think 't was Treason bore a part away But he has set his House in Order now And is gone down in Order thereunto Assist you Powers and tye the Damons up For should they find him they would cut the Rope He 's for their work on Earth they understand And what can signifie one Fire-Brand My Lord I Blush at my Impertinence Yet thus far I dare plead my own Defence That did you know the Man that Fate has spent In Tragick Scenes that little Fortune lent You would not have him praise the Instrument I wish your Lordship many Years of Bliss A Jubilee of Days and all like this That each Propitious Star may be your Guide That Fair-ey'd Truth may never be deny'd That when you quit your trust you 'l find a Brother To King to Church and State just such another FINIS Printed for P. Brooksby at the Golden-Ball near the Hospital-gate in West-Smithfield 168●