Upon His MAIESTIES Comming to HOLMBY.
I.
HOld out brave
Charles, & thou shalt winne the Field,
Thou canst not loose thy selfe, unlesse thou yeeld
On such Conditions; as will force thy Hand,
To give away thy
Scepter, Crowne, and
Land:
And what is worse to hazzard by thy fall,
To loose a greater
Crowne, more worth then all.
II.
Thy poore destressed
Cavaliers rejoyced,
To heare thy
Royall Resolution voyced,
And are content, far more poore to bee,
Then yet they are, so it reflects from
Thee:
Thou art our
Soveraigne still in spight of hate,
Our Zeale is to thy
Person, not thy
State.
III.
Wee are not so ambitious to desire,
Our drooping Fortunes, to be mounted higher,
And thou so great a
Monarch to our griefe,
Must sue unto thy
Subjects, for reliefe:
And wheu they set, and long debate about it,
Must either stay their time, or go without it.
IIII.
No sacred
Prince, thy Friends esteeme
Thee more,
In thy distresses then ere they did before;
And though their wings be clipt, their wishes fly,
To Heaven by millions for a fresh supply:
That as thy cause, was so betrayed by
Men,
It may by
Angels be restored agen.
FINIS.