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Goddess of Rhime, that didst inspire
The Captain with Poetick Fire,
Adding fresh Laurels to that Brow
Where those of Victory did grow,
And statelier Ornaments may flourish now:
If thou art well recover'd since
The Excommunicated Prince:
For that Important Tragedy
Would have kill'd any Muse but Thee;
Hither with Speed, oh! hither move,
Pull Buskins off, and since to love
The ground is holy that you tread in,
Dance bare-foot at the Captain's Wedding.

See where he comes, and by his side
His Charming fair Angelick Bride:
Such, or less lovely, was the Dame
So much Renown'd, Fulvia by name,
With whom of old Tully did joyn,
Then when his Art did undermine
The Horrid Popish Plot of Catiline.
Oh fairest Nymph of all Great Britain,
(Though thee my Eyes I never set on)
Blush not on thy great Lord to smile,
The second Saviour of our Isle;
What nobler Captain could have led
Thee to thy long'd-for Marriage Bed:
For know that thy all-daring Will is
As stout a Hero as Achilles;
And as great things for thee has done,
As Palmerin or th'Knight of th'Sun.
And is himself a whole Romance alone.
Let conscious Flanders speak, and be
The Witness of his Chivalry.
Yet that's not all, his very Word
Has slain as many as his Sword:
Though common Bulleys with their Oaths
Hurt little 'till they come to Blows,
Yet all his Mouth-Granadoe's kill,
And save the pains of drawing Steel.
This Hero thy resistless Charms
Have won to fly into thy Arms;
For think not any mean Design,
Or the inglorious itch of Coin,
Could ever have his Breast controul'd,
Or make him be a Slave to Gold;
His Love's as freely given to Thee
As to the King his Loyalty.
Then Oh receive thy mighty Prize
With open Arms and wishing Eyes,
Kiss that dear Face where may be seen
His Worth and Parts that sculk within,
That Face that justly stil'd may be
As true a Discoverer as he.
Think not he ever false will prove,
His well known Truth secures his Love;
Do you a while divert his Cares
From his important grand Affairs:
Let him have Respite now a while
From kindling the mad Rabbles Zeal.
Zeal that is hot as fire, yet dark and blind,
Shews plainly where its birth-place we may find,
In Hell, where tho' dire Flames for ever glow,
Yet 'tis the place of utter Darkness too.
But to his Bed be sure be true
As he to all the World and you,
He all your Plots will else betray
All ye She-Machiavils can lay.
He all designs you know has found,
Tho' hatch'd in Hell, or under Ground:
Oft to the World such Secrets shew
As scarce the Plotters themselves knew;
Yet if by Chance you hap to sin,
And Love, while Honour's napping, shou'd creep in,
Yet be discreet, and do not boast
O'th' Treason by the common Post.
So shalt thou still make him love on:
All Virtue's in Discretion.
So thou with him shalt shine, and be
As great a Patriot as He;
And when, as now in Christmass, all
For a new Pack of Cards do call,
Another Popish Pack comes out
To please the Cits, and charm the Rout;

Thou mighty Queen shalt a whole Suit command,
A Crown upon thy Head, and Sceptre in thy Hand