By the fame Hand.
Ious Selinda goes to Pray'rs,
If I but ask the Favour;
And yet the tender Fool's in Tears,
When the believes I'll leave her.
Wou'd I were free from this Restraint,
Or else had hopes to win her;
Wou'd the cou'd make of me a Saint,
Or I of her a Sinner.
HEN Lesbia firft I saw fo heav'nly Fair, With Eyes fo bright, and with that awful Air, I thought my Heart, which durft so high afpire, As bold as his who fnatch'd Coeleftial Fire. But foon as e'er the beauteous Idiot spoke, Forth from her Coral Lips fuch Folly broke, Like Balm the trickling Nonsense heal'd my Wound, And what her Eyes enthral'd, her Tongue unbound.
PROLOGUE to the PRINCESS.
Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
By the fame Hand.
F what we feel of Joy cou'd be exprefs'd
It were unworthy of our Royal Guest:
Great Bleffings, when beftow'd above Desert,
Suppress the Speech, tho' they inspire the Heart.
Thus, tho' the Muse her grateful Homage pays,
She dares not ftrive her trembling Voice to raise,
And pay unequal Thanks, or difproportion'd Praise.
Such Awe there is in all fublime Delight;
And fo fevere is Joy when Exquifite.
Our fickly Clime, which has for ten Years paft,
With one continu'd Winter been o'er-caft:
Has this new Age with wonted Health begun,
Reviv'd and chear'd by the relenting Sun.
Again, the Spring does early Bloffoms yield,
And Nature laughs in ev'ry living Field.
The Stage alone remains a frozen Soil,
And fruitless mocks the weary Lab'rers Toil;
But this bright Prefence darts enliv'ning Fires,
And ev'ry Mufe with Genial Warmth infpires:
Health to the World, the Sun's kind Heat affures;
That lives by his, but we furvive by yours.
VERSES Sacred to the Memory of GRACE Lady GETHIN. Occafioned by reading her Book, intitled, Reliquiæ Gethinianæ.
By the fame Hand.
Fter a painful Life in Study, spent,
The learn'd themselves their Ignorance lament And aged Men, whofe Lives exceed the Space, Which feems the Bound preferib'd to mortal Race, With hoary Heads, their fhort Experience grieve, As doom'd to die before they've learn'd to live. So hard it is true Knowledge to attain, So frail is Life, and fruitlefs Human Pain! Who-e'er on this reflects, and then beholds, With ftrict Attention, what this Book unfolds,
With Admiration ftruck, fhall question Who
So very long cou'd live, fo much to know?
For fo compleat the finish'd Piece appears,
That Learning feems combin'd with length of Years;
And both improv'd by pureft Wit, to reach
At all that Study, or that Time can teach.
But to what height muft his Amazement rife!
When having read the Work, he turns his Eyes
Again to view the foremost op'ning Page,
And there the Beauty, Sex, and tender Age
Of Her beholds, in whofe pure Mind arofe
Th' Etherial Source from whence this Current flows!
When Prodigies appear, our Reafon fails,
And Superftition o'er Philofophy prevails.
Some heav'nly Minifter we ftrait conclude,
Some Angel-Mind with Female Form indu'd,
To make a fhort Abode on Earth, was fent,
(Where no Perfection can be permanent)
And having left her bright Example here,
Was quick recall'd, and bid to disappear.
Whether around the Throne, Eternal Hymns
She Sings, amid the Choir of Seraphims;
Or fome refulgent Star informs, and guides,
Where the, the bleft Intelligence, prefides;
Is not for us to know who here remain;
For 'twere as Impious to enquire, as Vain:
And all we ought, or can, in this dark State,
Is, what we have admir'd, to imitate.
EPITAPH upon ROBERT HUNTINGTON, of Stanton Harcourt, Efq; and ROBERT his Son.
Trather and Son, together laid;
HIS peaceful Tomb does now contain,
Whofe living Virtues fhall remain,
When they, and this are quite decay’d.
What Man fhou'd be, to Ripeness grown,
And finish'd Worth fhou'd do, or fhun,
At full was in the Father fhown;
What Youth cou'd promife, in the Son.
But Death obdurate, both destroy'd
The perfect Fruit, and op'ning Bud:
First seiz'd those Sweets we had enjoy'd,
Then robb'd us of the coming Good.
Poem on the PRINCE, Born on the 10th of June, 1688.
UR Vows are heard betimes! and Heav'n takes care To grant, before we can conclude the Pray'r Preventing Angels met it half the way, And fent us back to Praife, who came to Pray. Just on the Day, when the high mounted Sun Did fartheft in his Northern Progress run, He bended forward and ev'n ftretch'd the Sphere Beyond the Limits of the lengthen'd Year; To view a brighter Sun in Britain bern; That was the Bus'nefs of his longeft Morn; The glorious Object seen, 'twas time to turn, Departing Spring cou'd only ftay to shed Her bloomy Beauties on the genial Bed, But left the Manly Summer in her ftead, With timely Fruit the longing Land to chear, And to fulfill the Promife of the Year,
Betwixt two Seasons comes th' Aufpicious Heir,
This Age to bloffom and the next to bear.
* Laft folemn Sabbath faw the Church attend; The Paraclete in fiery Pomp descend;
But when his wond'rous † Octave roll'd again,
He brought a Royal Infant in his Train.
So great a Bleffing to fo good a King
None but th' Eternal Comforter cou'd bring.
Or did the mighty Trinity Confpire,
As once, in Council to Create our Sire?
It seems as if they fent the new-born Guest
To wait on the Proceffion of their Feaft;
And on their Sacred Anniverfe decree'd
To ftamp their Image on the promis'd Seed.
Three Realms united, and on One bestow'd,
An Emblem of their Mystick Union show'ds
The mighty Trine the triple Empire shar'd,
As every Perfon wou'd have one to guard.
Hail Son of Pray'rs! by Holy Violence
Drawn down from Heav'n; but long be banish'd thence
And late to thy Paternal Skies retire:
To mend our Crimes whole Ages wou'd requir
To change th' inveterate habit of our Sins,
And finish what thy Godlike Sire begins.
Kind Heaven, to make us English-men again,
No less can give us than a Patriarch's Reign,
The Sacred Cradle to your Charge receive
Ye Seraphs, and by turns the Guard relieve;
Thy Father's Angel and thy Father join
To keep Poffeffion, and fecure the Line;
But long defer the Honours of thy Fate.
Great may they be like his, like his be late,
That James his running Century may view,
And give this Son an Aufpice to the New.
Whit-Sunday. t Trinity-Sunday...
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