TO THE DUCHESS OF ORLEANS,

WHEN SHE WAS TAKING LEAVE OF THE COURT AT DOVER.1

THAT sun of beauty did among us rise;

England first saw the light of your fair eyes;

In English, too, your early wit was shown;
Favour that language, which was then your own,

When, though a child, through guards you made your

way;

What fleet or army could an angel stay?

Thrice happy Britain! if she could retain

Whom she first bred within her ambient main.
Our late burnt London, in apparel new,

Shook off her ashes to have treated you;
But we must see our glory snatch'd away,
And with warm tears increase the guilty sea;
No wind can favour us; howe'er it blows,
We must be wreck'd, and our dear treasure lose!
Sighs will not let us half our sorrows tell,-
Fair, lovely, great, and best of nymphs, farewell!

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TO CHLORIS.

CHLORIS! what's eminent, we know
Must for some cause be valued so;
Things without use, though they be good,
Are not by us so understood.

The early rose, made to display

Her blushes to the youthful May,

Court at Dover': the Duchess of Orleans, the youngest daughter of Charles I., came to England on the 14th May 1670, on a political mission.

Doth yield her sweets, since he is fair,
And courts her with a gentle air.
Our stars do show their excellence
Not by their light, but influence;
When brighter comets, since still known
Fatal to all, are liked by none.
So your admired beauty still

Is, by effects, made good or ill.

TO THE KING.

GREAT Sir! disdain not in this piece to stand,
Supreme commander both of sea and land.
Those which inhabit the celestial bower,
Painters express with emblems of their power;
His club Alcides, Phoebus has his bow,
Jove has his thunder, and your navy you.
But your great providence no colours here
Can represent, nor pencil draw that care,
Which keeps you waking to secure our peace,
The nation's glory, and our trade's increase;
You, for these ends, whole days in council sit,
And the diversions of your youth forget.

Small were the worth of valour and of force,
If your high wisdom governed not their course;
You as the soul, as the first mover you,
Vigour and life on every part bestow;
How to build ships, and dreadful ordnance cast,
Instruct the artists, and reward their haste.

So Jove himself, when Typhon heaven does

brave,

Descends to visit Vulcan's smoky cave,

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20

Teaching the brawny Cyclops how to frame
His thunder, mix'd with terror, wrath, and flame.
Had the old Greeks discover'd your abode,

Crete had not been the cradle of their god;

On that small island they had looked with scorn,
And in Great Britain thought the Thunderer born.

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TO THE DUCHESS,

WHEN HE PRESENTED THIS BOOK TO HER ROYAL HIGHNESS.

MADAM! I here present you with the rage,
And with the beauties of a former age;
Wishing you may with as great pleasure view
This, as we take in gazing upon you.

Thus we writ then: your brighter eyes inspire
A nobler flame, and raise our genius higher.
While we your wit and early knowledge fear,
To our productions we become severe;
Your matchless beauty gives our fancy wing,
Your judgment makes us careful how we sing.
Lines not composed, as heretofore, in haste,
Polish'd like marble, shall like marble last,
And make you through as many ages shine,
As Tasso has the heroes of your line.

Though other names our wary writers use,
You are the subject of the British Muse;
Dilating mischief to yourself unknown,

Men write, and die of wounds they dare not own.
So the bright sun burns all our grass away,
While it means nothing but to give us day.

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20

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TO MR CREECH,

ON HIS TRANSLATION OF LUCRETIUS.'1

WHAT all men wish'd, though few could hope to see,
We are now bless'd with, and obliged by thee.
Thou, from the ancient, learned Latin store,
Giv'st us one author, and we hope for more.
May they enjoy thy thoughts!-Let not the stage
The idlest moment of thy hours engage;

Each year that place some wondrous monster breeds,
And the wits' garden is o'errun with weeds.
There, Farce is Comedy; bombast called strong;
Soft words, with nothing in them, make a song.
"Tis hard to say they steal them now-a-days;
For sure the ancients never wrote such plays.
These scribbling insects have what they deserve,
Not plenty, nor the glory for to starve.
That Spenser knew, that Tasso felt before;
And death found surly Ben exceeding poor.
Heaven turn the omen from their image here!
May he with joy the well-placed laurel wear!
Great Virgil's happier fortune may he find,
And be our Cæsar, like Augustus, kind!

But let not this disturb thy tuneful head;
Thou writ'st for thy delight, and not for bread;
Thou art not cursed to write thy verse with care;
But art above what other poets fear.

What may we not expect from such a hand,
That has, with books, himself at free command?
Thou know'st in youth, what age has sought in vain;
And bring'st forth sons without a mother's pain.

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20

So easy is thy sense, thy verse so sweet,

Thy words so proper, and thy phrase so fit,

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Lucretius': this piece is not contained in Anderson, or the edition of 1693.

We read, and read again; and still admire

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Whence came this youth, and whence this wondrous fire!

Pardon this rapture, sir! but who can be

Cold, and unmoved, yet have his thoughts on thee?

Thy goodness may my several faults forgive,
And by your help these wretched lines may live.
But if, when view'd by your severer sight,

They seem unworthy to behold the light,

Let them with speed in deserv'd flames be thrown!
They'll send no sighs, nor murmur out a groan;
But, dying silently, your justice own.

40

SONGS.

STAY, PHOEBUS!

1 STAY, Phœbus! stay;

The world to which you fly so fast,
Conveying day

From us to them, can pay your haste

With no such object, nor salute your rise,
With no such wonder as De Mornay's eyes.

2 Well does this prove

The error of those antique books,
Which made you move

About the world; her charming looks

Would fix your beams, and make it ever day,
Did not the rolling earth snatch her away.