Young Monarch, whose Imperial Sway
Sceptres and Thrones are destin'd to obey,
Whose boasted Ancestry so high extends
That in the Pagan Gods his Lineage ends,
Comes from a-far, in Gratitude to own
The great Supporter of his Father's Throne:
What Tides of Glory to his Bosom ran,
Clasp'd in th' Embraces of the God-like Man?
How were his Eyes with pleasing Wonder fixt
To see such Fire with so much Sweetness mixt,
Such easie Greatness, such a graceful Port,
So turn'd and finish'd for the Camp or Court!