Classic Poem

I doe confesse the over-forward tongue
Of publick duty turnes into a wrong,
And after-Ages, which could ne're conceive
Our happy C HARLES so fraile as to receive
Such a disease, will know it by the Noyse
Which we have made, in shouting forth our Ioyes;
And our informing-duty onely be
A well-meant spight, or loyall injury.
Let then the name be alter'd, let us say
They were small Starres fixt in a Milky way;
Or faithfull Turquoises, which Heaven sent
For a discovery, not a punishment;
To shew the ill, not make it; and to tell
By their paile lookes, the Bearer was not well.
Let the disease forgotten be, but may
The Ioy returne, as yearely as the day.
Let there be new Computes, let reckoning be
Solemnely made from His Recovery:
Let not the Kingdomes Acts hereafter runne
From his (though happy) Coronation,
But from his Health, as in a better straine;
That plac'd Him in his Throne, this makes Him Raigne.