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While peace from hence, and you were gone,
Your houses in that storm o'erthrown,
Those wounds which civil rage did give,
At once you pardon, and relieve.

Constant to ENGLAND in your love,
As birds are to their wonted grove;
Tho' by rude hands their nefts are spoil'd,
There, the next spring again they build.

Accusing some malignant star,
Not BRITAIN, for that fatal war;
Your kindness banishes your fear,
Resolv'd to fix for ever here.

But what new Mine this work supplies ?
Can such a pile from ruin rife?
This like the first creation shows,
As if at your command it rose.

Frugality, and bounty too,
(Those diff'ring virtues) meet in you;
From a confin'd, well-manag'd, store,
You both imploy, and feed, the poor.

Let foreign Princes vainly boast
The rude effects of pride, and coft ;
Of vafter fabrics, to which they
Contribute nothing, but the pay.

This, by the Queen herself defign'd,
Gives us a pattern of her mind :
The state, and order, does proclaim
The genius of that Royal Dame.
Each part with just proportion grac'd,
And all to such advantage plac'd ;
That the fair view her window yields,
The town, the river, and the fields.


Ent'ring, beneath us we descry ;
And wonder how we came fo high.

She needs no weary steps ascend ;
All seems before her feet to bend :
And here, as she was born, she lies ;
High, without taking pains to rise.

Of a TREE cut in PAPER.
AIR hand! that can on virgin-paper write,

Yet, from the stain of ink, preserve it white:
Whofe travel o'er that silver field does show,
Like track of leverets in morning-snow.
Love's image thus in purest minds is wrought,
Without a spot, or blemish, to the thought.
Strange that your fingers should the pencil foil,
Without the help of Colors, or of oil!
For, tho' a painter boughs, and leaves, can make;

you alone can make them bend and shake ;
Whofe breath falutes your new-created grove,
Like fouthern winds, and makes it gently move.
ORPHEUS could make the forest dance; but you
Can make the motion, and the forest too.

To a LADY, from whom he received the foregoing Copy, which for many years had been lojt.

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OTHING lies hid from radiant eyes ;
All they subdue become their spies :


Secrets, as choicest jewels, are
Presented to oblige the Fair :
No wonder then, that a loft thought
Should there be found, where Souls are caught.

The picture of fair Venus, (that, For which Men say, the Goddess fat) Was loft, 'till LELY from your look Again that glorious image took.

If virtue's self were loft, we might
From your fair mind new copies write :
All things, but one, you can restore;
The heart you get returns no more.

of the Lady MARY, Princess of



S once the lion honey gave,

Out of the strong fuch sweetness came; A royal Hero, no less brave,

Produc'd this sweet, this lovely, dame.

To her, the Prince that did oppose

Such mighty Armies in the field, And HOLLAND from prevailing foes

Could so well free, himself does yield.

Not Belgia's fleet (his high command)
Which triumphs where the sun does rise ;



Nor all the force he leads by land,

Could guard him from her conqu’ring eyes.

ORANGE, with youth, experience has ;

In action young, in council old: ORANGE is, what AUGUSTUS was,

Brave, wary, provident, and bold.

On that fair tree which bears his name,

Blossoms, and fruit, at once are found: In him we all admire the same,

His flow'ry youth with wisdom crown'd!

Empire, and freedom, reconcil'd

In HOLLAND are, by great Nassaw: Like those he sprung from, just, and mild,

To willing people he gives law.

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Thrice-happy pair! so near ally'd,

In royal blood, and virtue too! Now Love has you together ty'd,

May none this triple knot undo!

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The Church shall be the happy place,

Where streams which from the same source run, Tho' divers lands awhile they grace,

Unite again, and are made one.

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A thousand thanks the nation owes

To him that does protect us all: For, while he thus his neece bestows,

About our Idle he builds a wall;

A wall! like that which ATHENS had,

By th' oracle's advice, of wood:
Had theirs been such as CHARLES has made,

That mighty state 'till now had stood.

OETS may boast, as fafely vain,

Their work shall with the world remain:
Both bound together, live, or die,
The verses, and the prophecy.


But who can hope his lines should long
Laft, in a daily-changing tongue?
While they are new, envy prevails ;
And as that dies, our language fails.

When architects have done their part,
The matter may betray their art:
Time, if we use ill chosen ftone,
Soon brings a well-built palace down.

Poets that lasting marble feek,
Must carve in Latin, or in GREEK :
We write in fand, our language grows,
And, like the tide, our work o'er-flows.

CHAUCER his sense can only boast;
The glory of his numbers loft!
Years have defąc'd his matchless strain ;
And yet he did not sing in vain.

H 2


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