THE SPEECH SPOKEN TO THE Lord General Monck AT GOLDSMITHS-HALL April the tenth, 1660. By WALTER YOLKNEY.  
MY LORD,  

WE have lain under Hatches many years,  
Enthralled at first with Jealousies and fears:  
Since then, th'Indulgence of Pope Oliver  
Pardoned all sins did to his Rise refer.  
Then Dapper Dicky did succeed his Sire,  
A very gentle, proper, ample Squire,  
A Man of Wax, that each Fool worked upon:  
Fleetonian, or a Lambertonian,  
They then prevailing, did prepare a Pack  
Of altogether Knaves, walk, What d'ye lack:  
This was the Rumpin, Thumpin, Rumpin rump,  
To Rhyme to which, my Wits I'm forced to Pump.  
The Rump had not sat long, but it began  
To stink i' th'Nostrils of th'Soulderian.  
Wallingford-House gave light to Hewsons' Eye,  
To find the ready way to Butchery.  
The Sultan Lambert's Pride, with paces even,  
Traced NOLL in Mr. Sterry's way to Heaven:  
He swayed the Officer with swaddling Clout,  
Until Your Excellency gave him the Rout:  
You murdered him in point of his Repute,  
In that you vanquished him without Dispute;  
That, since (My Lord) You have appeared, the else  
Is A la mort, and may go Hoyle himself.  
Thus hath our late so famous Government,  
Been, by the Teeth of Malice, torn and rent;  
Which, to patch up again, the cobbler comes,  
The butcher, and the Tinker, with their Thumbs:  
But your approach dispersed that Rabble Rout,  
Banished our Fears, and gave our Hopes no doubt:  
So that we see your Word's of greater force,  
Than the huge Menaces of Foot or Horse;  
That, like Cyneas, you a Conquest gain  
Where ere you come, and yet not any slain.  
A Civil Garland hath renowned you more,  
Than all his Bloody Triumphs did before:  
Your Prudence hath brought Peace unto our Gates,  
And knit the dislocated joints of States;  
That, by instinct, We sensibly do feel  
Our centre fixed, that late began to reel.  
Religione purer Robe so rent and torn,  
Will be made new, and in a sense, reborn:  
The Law so threatened to be ham-stringed, now  
Will find Protection from your awful brow;  
And Trading, that long time hath bedrid lain,  
Will sprightly grow, and shake its Legs again:  
That we, e'er long, shall be so innocent,  
As not to know what the word PLOT hath meant.  
Then blame Us not, if that our joys abound;  
What e'er Our Reasons are, you are the Ground.    

London, Printed for John Towers 1660.