To the Dutchess of YORK, on her Return from Scotland in the Year 1682.
WHEN factious rage to cruel exile drove
queen of beauty, and, the court of love, The Mufes droop'd, with their forfaken arts, And the fad Cupids broke their useless darts: Our fruitful plains to wilds and defarts turn'd, Like Eden's face, when banish'd man it mourn'd. Love was no more, when loyalty was gone, The great supporter of his awful throne. Love could no longer after beauty stay, But wander'd northward to the verge of day, As if the fun and he had loft their way. But now th' illuftrious nymph, return'd again, Brings every grace triumphant in her train. The wondering Nereids, though they rais'd no storm, Foreflow'd her passage, to behold her form: Some cry'd, a Venus; some, a Thetis past; But this was not fo fair, nor that so chaste. Far from her fight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride; And Envy did but look on her, and dy'd. Whate'er we fuffer'd from our fullen fate, Her fight is purchas'd at an easy rate. Three gloomy years against this day were fet; But this one mighty fum has clear'd the debt: Like Joseph's dream, but with a better doom, The famine paft, the plenty ftill to come.
For her the weeping heavens become ferene';
For her the ground is clad in cheerful green :
For her the nightingales are taught to fing,
And Nature has for her delay'd the spring.
The Mufe refumes her long-forgotten lays,
And Love reftor'd his ancient realm furveys,
Recals our beauties, and revives our plays ;
His wafte dominions peoples once again,
And from her presence dates his second reign.
But awful charms on her fair forehead fit,
Difpenfing what she never will admit :
Pleafing, yet cold, like Cynthia's filver beam,
The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.
Diftemper'd Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate,
No more shall vex the church, and tear the state:
No more fhall Faction civil difcords move,
Or only difcords of too tender love :
Difcord, like that of mufic's various parts;
Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Difcord, that only this difpute fall bring,
Who beft fhall love the duke, and ferve the king.
A LETTER to Sir GEORGE ETHEREGE.
To you who live in chill degree,
As map informs, of fifty-three,
And do not much for cold' atone,
By bringing thither fifty-one.
Methinks all climes should be alike,
From tropic ev'n to pole artique;
Since you
have fuch a constitution
As no where fuffers diminution.
You can be old in grave debate,
And young in love-affairs of state;
And both to wives and husbands show
The vigour of a plenipo.
Like mighty miffioner you come
"Ad Partes Infidelium."
A work of wondrous merit fure,
So far to go, fo much t'endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where found of Cupid never came.
Lefs had you done, had you been fent
As far as Drake or Pinto went,
For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a,
Or ev'n for oranges to China.
That had indeed been charity ;
Where love-fick ladies helpless lie,
Chapt, and for want of liquor dry.
But you have made your zeal appear
Within the circle of the Bear.
What region of the earth 's fo dull,
That is not of your labours full?
Triptolemus (fo fung the Nine)
Strew'd plenty from his cart divine.
But, spite of all these fable-makers,
He never fow'd on Almain acres :
No, that was left by fate's decree,
To be perform'd and sung by thee.
Thou break'st through forms with as much ease
As the French king through articles.
In grand affairs thy days are fpent,
In waging weighty compliment,
With fuch as monarchs reprefent.
They, whom fuch vaft fatigues attend,
Want fome foft minutes to unbend,
To fhew the world that now and then
Great minifters are mortal men.
Then Rhenifh rummers walk the round;
In bumpers every king is crown'd;
Befides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is funk,
That pays to make his envoy drunk.
Thefe Dutch delights, I mention'd last,
Suit not, I know, your English taste :
For wine to leave a whore or play
Was ne'er your excellency's way.
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were your excellence,
For gaming, writing, fpeaking, keeping,
His excellence for all but fleeping.
you tope in form, and treat, 'Tis the four fauce to the fweet meat, The fine you pay for being great. Nay, here's a harder impofition, Which is indeed the court's petition,
That, fetting worldly pomp afide,
Which poet has at font deny'd,
You would be pleas'd in humble way
To write a trifle call'd a Play,
This truly is a degradation,
But would oblige the crown and nation
Next to your wife negotiation.
If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high degree, your friends will fay,
The duke St. Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you scarce,
grace
of Bucks has made a farce,
And you, whofe comic wit is terse all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.
Then finish what you have began;
But fcribble fafter if you can:
For yet no George, to cur difcerning,
Has writ without a ten years warning.
To Mr. SOUTHERNE, on his Comedy call'd, The WIVES EXCUSE.
URE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain
To write, while thefe malignant planets reign.
Some very foolish influence rules the pit,
Not always kind to sense, or just to wit:
And whilst it lafts, let buffoonry fucceed,
To make us laugh; for never was more need.
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