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Amores Britannici

Epistles Historical and Gallant, In English Heroic Verse: From several of The Most Illustrious Personages of their Times. In Imitation of the Heroidum Epistolae of Ovid. With Notes explaining the Most Material Passages in every History [by John Oldmixon]

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Mrs. Shore being represented to King Edward the Fourth as a great Beauty, he takes an Occasion to see her privately, falls in Love with her, sends her the following Letter, and receives an Answer from her agreeable to his Wishes. She was the Wife of a Goldsmith and Banker in Lombardstreet.

King Edward the IV. to Mrs. Jane Shore.

Edward to Thee, the fairest of thy Kind,
This Letter sends, the Image of his Mind;
Oh! that to ease me of the Pains I feel,
I ne'er had seen thee, or cou'd see thee still.
So much my Eyes to gaze on thine delight,
'Tis Death to be a Minute from thy sight;


Must vile Mechanicks have so rich a Prize,
And Sots possess the Treasures of thy Eyes?
My Love to live among the Base shou'd scorn,
Whose Beauties wou'd the gayest Court adorn.
When with thy Story I was first surpriz'd,
I thought it Fable and the Tale despis'd:
But when the bright Original I saw,
I found no Fancy cou'd thy Picture draw;
No Colours paint a Beauty so Divine,
Nor Words express such Excellence as thine.
Struck with the full Perfection of thy Charms,
I rav'd to think Thee in another's Arms.
Careless of Joy, he takes Thee to his Breast,
By him but half belov'd, and half caress'd.
Who, more than stupid Fools, does Fortune bless?
For while the Miser sleeps his Stores increase.
If in a common Dress Thou look'st so fair,
How glorious woud'st Thou in a Queens appear?
Till cut and set in Gold the Diamond seems
Like Pebbles rowling in the Crystal Streams.


But polisht like Celestial Orbs they shine,
Whose Lustre only is excell'd by Thine.
Thou sleep'st but coarsely on a vulgar Bed,
I Tyrian Carpets o'er thy limbs will spread.
In Purple, wrought with Orient Pearl and Gold,
The wondring Crowd my Mistress shall behold.
When in Disguise to see Thee first I came,
My Crown abandon'd, and my Kingly Name;
I saw thy Husband, he the Monarch view'd,
Ask'd me to buy, and said his Wares were good.
A Casket of his Jewels he produc'd,
I lik'd them all, yet all by turns refus'd;
Another Casket then he made me see,
Yet hid his richest in reserving thee.
I wanted nor his Jewels nor his Gold,
Nor came to purchase what a Banker sold.
Cou'd he a Sapphire to thy Veins compare,
Or had an Agat like thy Blushes fair;
Had he a Diamond which like thee did shine,
Whate'er it cost, the Treasure shou'd be mine:


If not my Purse, my Crown shou'd be the price,
For Crowns are worthless in a Lover's Eyes.
How fond of forein Trifles are we grown,
We praise their Wonders and neglect our own;
The Tuscan Villa's, and the Lombard Fields,
While bounteous England better Prospects yields.
In vain their Poets of their Seasons sing,
In thee alone we find perpetual Spring;
In vain the Merchant brings us Syrian Gums,
Thy Breath is sweeter than his best Perfumes.
Hence let the Mariner his Toil give o'er,
Nor sweep the amber Seas nor search the Shoar;
Thy Lips more sweets than Indian Groves dispense,
Thou Charmer of the Soul and Joy of Sense.
The Crystal brought us from the Northern Sea
Is less transparent, and looks dull to Thee:
France gives us Fashions, and imports her Toys,
To flatter Women, and divert our Boys.


The Mode is best directed by thy Dress,
For none, unless they copy Thee, can please;
On Thee the meanest things appear with Grace,
So much thy Garments borrow from thy Face.
A Fool, thy Husband, to expose his Ware,
When thou outshining all his Gold art there;
Thy Charms our Wishes, and our Looks engross,
And in thy Presence, we despise his dross.
The Golden Tresses which adorn thy Head,
In worth the value of a Mint exceed;
Well may my Love contemn the studious Fools,
Who seek the great Elixir in their Schools.
The Artist in its search, in vain grows poor,
In vain the Chymist melts the pretious Ore;
Their Studies, and their Wealth, in Smoke ascend,
In Folly they begin, in Ruin end.
The powerful Change is by thy Touches made,
And Gold converted from impurest Lead;


Free from allay, it wants no Chymick Fires,
And more Correction, than the Flame, requires.
Let artful Odours be by others us'd,
All Sweetness is, where'er thou breath'st, diffus'd;
All Senses find in Thee enough to feast,
And scarce we can distinguish what is best.
Perfection is in all, to Smell, to See,
To Hear with Rapture, we must live with Thee;
Softer thy Voice, than when the Warblers sing
On blooming Trees, to welcome in the Spring.
Whiter than Milk, thy Skin, or Alpine Snow,
Or Lilies which in Eastern Vallies grow;
We only thee can to thy self compare,
For nothing else in Nature is so fair.
A Thousand Eyes at envious Night repine,
And wish for Day, that they may gaze on thine;
All other Objects they with Pride disdain,
And Light without thee, is to them a Pain.


No Heart so strong, as can thy Charms withstand,
The fair, who rule our Eyes, our Souls command;
The Preachers in the Pulpit censure Love,
But what their Doctrine damns, their Lives approve.
For Wealth the Merchants plow the watry main,
On wanton Wives to lavish what they gain
The Sages oft the search of Wisdom leave,
And sweeter Comforts from your Sex receive.
The Hero arms, and rushes to the War,
That courting Glory he may win the fair.
What tho the Pleader for his Client fails,
The Fees he gave him with the Nymph prevails;
No Peasant, no Plebeian Wretch so mean,
But hugs his Lass, and thinks his Wench a Queen:
Both Prince and People still agree in this,
Their Wishes are the same, the same their Bliss;


Thee for their Theme Apollo's Sons shall choose,
Thy self a Goddess to inspire the Muse;
Soft be their Numbers, and their Sense be strong,
And equal to my Passion be their Song.
Let 'em on thee their Eloquence employ,
Lead thee to Pity first, and then to Joy:
No more let Artists Observations raise
From Stars, of windy Nights and stormy Days;
No more presage the Promise of the Year
From Heavens kind Aspect or an angry Star:
Vain Studies these, and their Prediction lies
To cheat the foolish, and amuse the wise,
But Fate's Decrees are certain in thy Eyes.
No more of Rules and Circles let 'em speak,
Their Proofs are false, and demonstrations weak:
In Thee alone we just Proportion find,
A Symmetry of Body and of Mind:
Our Wits on Thee may shew their utmost skill
In Praise and Picture yet be wanting still.


With Envy from the East the Sun surveys
A Mortal shining with Superior Rays,
He blushes at his weakness, and would fain
Restore the Night, and sink in Shades again:
His Golden Carpet he unwilling spreads,
And jealous Glories on his Rival sheds.
We seldom see those Objects with delight,
By Custom made familiar to the sight.
The Persian Monarch when he rides abroad
But rarely seen, is worshipt like a God,
While those who common to their Slaves are made,
So little are ador'd, they're scarce obey'd.
Thou shou'dst not be expos'd to publick view,
So much respect to Edward's Love is due.
At Court, the Mistress of the King shou'd shine
In brightness that may more resemble thine,
Where to divert thee, England's Youth shall meet,
Dispute the Prize, and lay it at thy Feet.


The vile Embraces of a Subject scorn,
To nobler Joys, and royal Honours born;
Which State becomes thee best, thou soon wilt prove,
And soon distinguish who deserv'd thy Love.
Away with Fears, which may my Hopes destroy:
What we both wish for, let us both enjoy.
In Love, 'tis fatal to dispute the Field,
The wisest there, are such as soonest yield.
My Crown, my Heart, my Freedom I resign,
All that I have, or that I can, is thine;
This on a King's Imperial Word receive,
And what I give with Joy, with Joy receive.


Mrs. Jane Shore to King Edward the Fourth.

When Boys accustom'd to the Mothers Wing,
Practise the Lute, and first attempt to sing,
Their Fingers tremble, and imperfect Notes,
Through doubt of pleasing, strain their Infant Throats;
They dread the Musick of their Master's Ear,
And tune their Voices and their Strings with fear.
My Hand thus conscious of my Weakness shakes,
And Blots, where I intended Letters, makes;
Oh! had I ne'er this tempting City known.
Nor the gay Pleasures of a wealthy Town.
Had I with Shepherds in the Woods been bred,
To watch the Flocks that on the Mountains fed;
I, unobserv'd, and Innocent, and Poor,
Had kept my Vertue and my Peace secure,
Who now expos'd to every Tongue and Eye,
Shine like a Meteor in an angry Sky.


Oft I have heard my Beauty prais'd before,
Content to gaze, they never wisht for more.
A Prince more curious each Perfection sees,
Those Charms transport him which can others please:
The Conquest glorious, but 'tis won with Cost,
For what is got by Chance, is soonest lost.
How am I grown so much my Sovereign's Care?
Or you must be deceiv'd, or I am fair:
With Pride the Beauties of the Court we name,
But others seldom are oblig'd to Fame,
Who sings their Wonders, who their Cheeks compares
To blushing Roses, and their Eyes to Stars.
The Bards will not so much the Muses wrong
With vulgar Subjects, to defile their Song;
Strange! that a Monarch shou'd so far mistake,
As such a Choice, in such a place to make.
A Thousand fairer in the Town you see,
And more deserving of your Smiles than me;


Where'er you move such shining Forms appear,
Who left the Provinces to flourish here,
That all wou'd think, to whom the sight is shewn,
The Realm impoverish'd to enrich the Town:
So lovely all, the meanest Nymph wou'd charm
The coldest Writer, and his Fancy warm;
His Genius in the Subject he might raise,
And make himself immortal in her Praise.
Eternal Sweets he from those Flowers may choose,
No more with rural Weeds debase his Muse;
In every common Hedge the Bramble grows,
While only in the Garden springs the Rose.
Oft pointed Satyr has attack'd our Sex,
In odious Colours painted our defects;
With Justice she our weakness has disclos'd,
Chastis'd our Folly, and our Pride expos'd.
In vain the Matron conscious of her Years,
Wou'd hide her Wrinkles, and her Silver Hairs;


What time has ruin'd, she in vain wou'd save.
She paints, perfumes, and dresses for the Grave.
She haunts indecently the Park and Plays,
For while she aims to flourish, she decays.
Our Youth, affected in their dress and Mien,
Too fond of forein Airs and Toys have been:
Nature in all their Actions they despise,
And think the most ridiculous most nice.
Tho gay and fine we oft the Sex behold,
'Tis borrow'd Beauty, and dissembled Gold.
Yet in this Town enough of real Charms
May Edward find to bless a Prince's arms.
In blaming others I my self condemn,
Mean and unworthy of a King's esteem;
My Virgin Treasures with my Name are gone,
Another's Right, and by another known.
What most cou'd warm your Wishes is destroy'd,
By him who first enjoy'd it, still enjoy'd;
He reapt the bounteous Harvest of my Youth,
As happy in my Person as my Truth.


He thinks me faithful, can I wrong his trust.
Or be to him, and to my self unjust?
You cou'd not think but in your Suit to fail,
Nor hope, when first you tempted, to prevail.
A Crown wou'd dazle me, perhaps, you guess'd,
And the King soon be of his Wish possest.
The Rebel, Honour, you wou'd force to yield,
Seize the rich Prize, and ravage all the Field.
Against your Tears our Virtue is too weak,
We seldom mean the angry things we speak.
Too well you know we are imperfect made,
And where we're most defenceless, you invade.
The lucky Minute you too often find,
Exert your native Power, and we are kind;
You vow, you swear, and we as well believe,
You weep, you sigh, you conquer and deceive:
Our Humour you observe, our Will obey,
And we comply as fast as you betray.
The Fair, the Brown, the Slender and the Tall,
The Bulky and the Short, you praise us all;


Whatever Mien we use, what dress we wear,
You tell us some peculiar Grace is there.
Where'er we walk, like Goddesses we move,
And every thing we do, confirms your Love;
All ways to please us you with Care devise,
Our Ears with Musick, and with Show our Eyes.
But when your fatal Ends you have enjoy'd,
We grow a Burthen, and you soon are cloy'd;
On us ungratefully you throw the shame,
Boast of our Favours, and our Frailty blame.
Ovid first taught your Sex to touch the Heart,
Tho Man in this has little need of Art;
'Tis rare to see a Hero us'd to reign,
Descend to write in a Poetick Strain.
Will Kings in Fables too their Love rehearse,
And court in Similes, and woo in Verse?
'Tis pleasant sure to hear a Prince compare
My Breath to Roses, and to Gold my Hair,
My Eyes to Stars, to snowy Hills my Skin,
Enough the Prize, without a Crown, to win.


The Men who flatter us like you, we raise,
And love too oft the Poet, for his Praise.
Our Husbands bound our Pleasure by their Will,
And fansie they've a right to use us ill;
So far enslav'd when we are once subdu'd,
They think they're Civil, when they are not Rude.
Too well you know this Treatment is not strange,
And we're too easily dispos'd to change.
The Spouses Stomach with Fruition full,
The Wife grows Tastless, and the Husband Dull.
No Adoration to our Charms they pay,
But preach, that they must rule, and Wives obey.
Is this so pleasing to a Womans Ears,
As when a Lover's Sighs and Vows she hears?
When at her Feet the fearful Suppliant lies,
And, e'er he knows his Doom, with terror dies:
Whom every Touch and every Kiss transport
Not sweeter to enjoy, than hear him court.


Our Husbands, weary of repeated Bliss,
Think they oblige us, if they deign to kiss.
In their Caresses they their Pride constrain,
And give unwilling, what their Wives disdain.
To walk the Park, or see the Play deny'd,
They dare but seldom in our Truth confide
The Priest has said it, and the Mob conclude,
The Stage is dang'rous, and the Poems lewd.
More for our Bodies than our Souls they fear,
Were they less jealous, they'd be less severe.
The Comick Muse, as filthy, they reprove,
The Tragick, as it teaches us to love.
This the Pretence, tho what offends the Cit,
Is his own Picture, and the Author's Wit:
Himself the Cuckold, and his Wife the Jilt,
He learns his Folly in his Consorts guilt.
Not all his Care his Fortune can prevent,
He sees 'tis Fate, and is at last content.
In vain he hopes in Bolts to be secure,
What Wife so stupid but defies a Door?


Who so insipid as can Act the Spouse,
Or like the nauseous Business of a House.
An Ape her Pastime, and her Dog her Toy,
A Sot her Lover, and her Play a Boy.
To this Disease a Remedy you bring,
A Sovereign Balm, the Promise of a King.
We faintly struggle when a Monarch woos,
We might the Man, but can't the Prince, refuse.
You are the Cause that I my Husband scorn,
I wish your Presence, and your Absence mourn.
His loath'd Embraces I of late avoid,
To be no more by one I hate, enjoy'd.
For him I love the Lord of my Desires,
I keep for Edward my remaining Fires.
Tho nearer with my Joy my Ruin draws,
'Tis glorious Ruin when a King's the Cause.



King Henry the VIII. on the Peace concluded with Lewis the XII. the French King, gives him, tho then very Old and Infirm, his youngest Sister Mary in Marriage, who before had engaged her self to Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, King Henry's Favourite, and a very fine Gentleman. She had not long been marry'd to Lewis before he dy'd, being in Five Months left a Widow, and at Liberty to remember her Engagement with her beloved Duke. She sends him this Epistle, to chide him for staying after he knew of her Husband's Death, and had the King's Consent to marry her. Which he excuses in what follows.

Mary the French Queen to Charles Brandon.

Such Health as I implore of Heaven for me,
Such Health thy Queen, my Suffolk, sends to Thee.


You little think, or sure you wou'd not stay,
How ill we Women can endure delay.
The Winds, the Waves, are but a faint excuse,
Leander did not thus his Hero use.
A Royal Fleet to waft you hither, waits,
The Passage narrow, as the Sestian Straits.
No Fleet, no Ship, was fitted out for him,
The Winds to combat, and a Sea to swim.
A Princess, young as Hero, and as fair,
A Queen, expects you with Impatience here.
You scarce cou'd be more Negligent and Cold,
Were the Sea wider, and your Mistress Old.
No Beldam Nurse shall interrupt our Bliss,
Nor our soft Revels be disturb'd with Spies.
Tell me no more you want propitious Gales,
Your Lovers Sighs, methinks should swell the Sails.
Your Wishes are becalm'd, your Soul serene,
Or Seas nor Winds wou'd keep you from a Queen.


While raging Tempests in my Bosom reign,
My Love as furious as the stormy Main.
The Winds, as I have wish'd 'em to be fair,
Have shifted since you promis'd to be here.
The greedy Merchant never watch'd 'em more,
Whose Ship expected, brings the pretious Ore,
As I of thee; impatient of his gain,
He vows he ne'er will venture it again.
Haste, Brandon, haste, and do not dread my Frown,
My Rage, as soon as Suffolk smiles, is gone.
To hate you I resolve when you're away,
But sure 'twill be no longer than you stay.
Safe here and secret we'll our Lives enjoy,
No Fears disturb us, nor Offence annoy.
This, since so freely I confess, 'twill try;
If Gratitude, as fast as Love can fly.
The King my Brother, and his beauteous Queen,

King Henry's Queen and their Court went to Dover with the Princess Mary, where she embark'd for France.

The Court, in Tears, when I embark'd, were seen.
To stay, what poor Excuses I invent,
With Joy expected, and with Sorrow sent:


I chose the latest Minute to depart,
And left behind me when I went, my Heart.
To Brandon early I that Treasure gave,
And took the Bed of Lewis for my Grave.
While many guess, tho Suffolk only knows,
The cruel Reason of my Virgin Woes.
I saw you weeping on the crowded Strand,
And wav'd, in bidding you farewel, my Hand:
Nor blush'd, to give you in the Peoples view,
A sad, a tender, and my last, Adieu.
The Seamen took the Signal for their Oars,
And push'd the Gally from the Chalky Shoars.
Then, as a Child that has in playing lost
A Toy he valu'd, and which pleas'd it most;
To find it he a while with Patience tries;
Till seeing 'tis in vain he hides and cries.
Thus to my lonesom Cabin I repair,
Lament your Loss, and tell the Winds my Care.
As once an Empire I refus'd for Thee,

A Marriage was concluded between the Emp. Maximilian I. and K. Henry VII. for the Emperor's eldest Son Philip King of Castile, and Arch-Duke of Austria, Father to Charles V. with the Princess Mary, when they came to Age, which Agreement was broke by Henry VIII.

Lewis had lost me had my Choice been free.


To my first Vows thus faithful I have prov'd,
And loving much, deserve to be belov'd.
Tournay, your Conquest, when by Fame I heard,
It pleas'd me most to see my Love prefer'd.
I fancy'd I beheld him in his Pride,
The Hero shining by the Monarch's side.
The stately Canopy, the Tent of Gold,

K. Henry at the Surrender of Tournay, made a publick Entry under a Canopy of Cloth of Gold, born by Four of the chief Citizens, the King himself mounted on a very fine Horse, and his Trapping embroidered with the Arms of England, France and Ireland.

And all the Pomp of Triumph I behold.
Your Praise alternative the People sing,
Of Suffolk some, and others of the King.
I feel your Pleasure, and your Glory share,
Till a new Scene presents another Care.
Castile, they tell me, is your splendid Guest,
And brings his Sister to adorn the Feast.
A Thousand ways to tempt you she has strove,
And us'd a Thousand Arts to gain my Love.
Thy gallant Youth subdues her haughty Soul;
Thy Charms, what nothing else cou'd tame, controul.
Your Banquets, Tournaments, your Balls, your Plays,

The King treated Prince Charles of Castile, afterwards Emperor, with his Sister Margaret Dutchess of Savoy at Tournay. There was then a Discourse of a Marriage between the Dutchess of Savoy and the Lord Lisle afterwards Duke of Suffolk.


Your Nights I dreaded, and your gamesome Days.
Thus Cleopatra, Rome's Triumvir try'd,
And thus my Brandon may be lost, I cry'd.
Suspicion is the weakness of our Sex:
She who loves most, believe me, most suspects.
With such Offenders we with ease are Friends,
He's least excusable who ne'er offends.
None guess'd on Tournay, you'd pretend to look;
Which, soon as you besieg'd, we heard you took.
When Maximilian with my Brother joyn'd,

Maximilian I. with his Troops serv'd under K. Henry, wore the Cross of St. George and the Rose on their Breasts, being both himself and his Soldiers in our King's Pay. The Kings of England have since had many Princes in the same Circumstances, as much as 'twas then a rarity.

And his proud Eagle with our Crosses shin'd;
Nor thought he injur'd his Imperial Name,
To wait on Henry's, and his Suffolk's Fame.
Both Cæsar and his Knights, with Pride, obey,
Fight in his Armies, and receive his Pay.
I little dreamt that I shou'd pay so dear,
For all your Victories, and end the War.
'Twas Wolsey's cunning and his vile deceit,

Wolsey then Bishop of Lincoln, afterward Cardinal, by his Favour with King Henry, was the chief Cause of this young Ladies being thrown away on the decrepid French King.

To which, unwilling I, by Force submit;


An English Princess cou'd not yet advance,
My Suffolk's Fortune like a Queen of France.
A Royal Dow'r, a better Wealth will prove,
Than the poor Treasure of a Virgin's Love.
Yet losing this, so delicate you're grown,
It soils, you think, the Lustre of a Crown.
Widows are things so miserably dull,
Your Fancy sickens, and your Wishes cool.
In this more scrupulous perhaps than wise,
Your Fears are foolish, but extreamly nice.
If you knew better, you wou'd shun me less,
But save my Blushes, and my meaning guess.
An Infant hanging on his Nurses Breast,
May kiss and toy, and yet the Nurse be chast.
Six Moons have scarce their Silver Circle run,
Since Lewis gave me for my Hand a Crown;
What the good Monarch had return'd in Love,
Might more your Pity than your Envy move.
Cruel indeed! Who at his Bargain grieves,
Who gives so little, and so much receives.


Our Loves in nothing, but Prevention, crost,
My Wealth will pay for all the Minutes lost.
Lewis, to grace my Nuptial Feast, invites,
To Tilts and Turnaments, the Warriour Knights:
The formost to the Lists my Champion came,
To prove his Prowess, and assert the Dame.
Valois beheld Thee with a jealous Frown,

Francis then Duke of Valois, and afterwards Francis I. chose the Duke of Suffolk, and the Marquess of Dorset, to be his Assistants in the Tournaments he Proclaim'd in Honour of the Lady Mary and her Nuptials.

Thy Youth so spritely, and thy Valour shone.
He dreaded it too much to trust his own.
And wisely conscious of unequal force,
He took a kinder, and a safer, Course;
Thee of his Party, and thy Friends he chose,
Who dare all Combatants, and all oppose.
Oh how it struck me when the Justs begun,
To see the Rival Knights at Suffolk run;
Your danger I beheld with such concern,
Who saw me, easily my Care discern.
Nor often cou'd my secret Terror hide,
But, save my Brandon, save my Love, I cry'd.


Then, lest Confusion might betray my Zeal,
I kiss'd the good old King, and all was well.
I saw the Glory which your Squadron won,
The rest neglected, and extoll'd his Son:
And when he turn'd his honest Praise on thee,
I ask'd him, to deceive him, Which is He?
Joy flush'd my Cheeks and sparkled in my Eyes,
When Suffolk was proclaim'd to win the Prize.
The mighty Rapture I cou'd scarce contain,
And scarce from telling what I felt, refrain.
My Womans Wit and Artifice I use,
My Pleasure to conceal, or else excuse.
My Looks on others, or my Praise I turn,
Or seldom nam'd thee, or with seeming scorn.
So Eminent you shin'd above the rest,
As best I lov'd you, you deserv'd it best.
The Knights, the Princes in their splendid Arms,
Thy Valour wanted, or thy youthful Charms.
Yet oft I fancy'd, I their Merit wrong,
As Brave they seem, as Beautiful and Young.


As Gracefully they move, as Great appear,
As Worthy too, if Suffolk is not near.
As Clouds before the Sun from Thee they fly,
And their Worth vanishes when thou art by.
So Diamonds equal in their Lustre seem,
When view'd alone that look by others dim.
A noble Presence in Alencon's seen,
Thy Shape is better, and thy charming Mien.
A fine Behaviour, Gentle and Polite,
Distinguishes Vendosme, but thine is great.
The Gallant Bourbon has a manly Face,
Yet wants my Hero's Sweetness and its Grace.
The Boaster Long'ville, Europe's Champions dare,
Believ'd till Suffolk came the first in War.
The famous Constable's couragious Son,

The Count of St. Paul.

Allows thy Glory has eclips'd his own.
Bonarm and Galleas, with Gigantick Might,

Two famous Combatants of their time. Gallean of such strength, that he ran a Course with a Spear, which at the Head was Five Inches square, and at the Fut Nine. Bonarm at the same time same into the Field arm'd at all points, with Ten Spears about him, and spurring his Horse never stop'd him till he had broken 'em all.

Dispute the Prize, but yield to thine in Fight.
If Henry with our Loves shou'd disagree,
I'll own the Fault is mine, and not in Thee.


My Brother's Smiles created my Esteem;
In loving thee, I only follow him.
The Croud believe I wrong a Royal Bed,
Below a Lancaster or York to wed.
So high a value on my Name they set,
There's none which suits it but Plantagenet.
This, in their Wisdom, I suppose, they say,
Yet grieve at nothing but at Suffolk's stay.
Can England please thee while thy Queen is here,
Or I delight in France while thou art there?
Hast, Hast, my Brandon, and expect to find
An angry Mistress, yet in Anger kind.
When we last parted was your Promise this?
The Oath you swore, and seal'd it with a Kiss.
Is this your speedy, and your wish'd Return?
And are you not ungrateful and forsworn?
With greater Crimes I sooner cou'd dispense,
Than pardon this, a Lovers worst Offence.
And yet if e'er to meet again we live,
What Crime so great I shall not then forgive?


Your Penance heavy, like your Sin, shou'd prove,
My Vengeance shall be only too much Love.
Yes, Brandon, this is all thou hast to fear,
If Love can be too much, thou'lt have it here.


Charles Brandon Duke of Suffolk, to Mary the French Queen.

VVhen you accuse me that I stay too long,
My Love, forgetting where I am, you wrong.
Nor Seas, nor Wind detain me in a Port,
But the slow Motions of your Brother's Court.
Impatient of my last Dispatch I wait,
And curse the Ministers, and blame the State.
The King commands 'em, and they promise fair,
Yet artfully contrive to keep me here.
If nothing but the Winds oppos'd my way,
Thou shou'dst not chide me for my tedious stay.
Nor Night, nor Tempest wou'd I fear for Thee,
But cut my Passage through the troubled Sea.
Your Eyes wou'd light me o'er the darksome way,
And Love, your Suffolk, on a Wave, convey,


Swift as my Wishes to my Queen I'd fly,
Nor dread the Billows tho they reach'd the Sky.
My Hopes wou'd mount me yet above their Rage,
While I, undaunted, with the Storm engage.
The Sun just finishes the Golden Year,
My Queen at Paris still, and Brandon here.
Still parted by our Foes, or by our Fate,
Our Loves must suffer, by the Forms of State.
Your Truth, your Constancy, you oft repeat,
Yet, great as 'tis, your Suffolk's is as great.
In Pompous Embassy, when Longville came,

The Duke of Longville Ambassador on this Occasion.

To wed the Princess in his Master's Name.
Oh! how I wish'd we might dispute in Fight,
If Lewis shou'd possess my Lover's Right.
To rash Attempts provok'd by my Despair,
I meditate his Death to save the Fair.
The Powers which kept me from so black a Deed,
Forgive the Sins that from our Love proceed.


For who cou'd see with Temper, and unmov'd,
The Beauty ravish'd he so dearly lov'd?
Richmond the Glory of our Silver Thames,
Wild and Deserted, in your Absence, seems.
'Twas there, you know it well, you stole my Heart;
'Twas there, in Tears, you told me, we must part.
There I beheld you at your Rural Sport,
The Grace, the Wonder, of a shining Court.
Oft like Diana, on the flowry Green,

Queen Katharine, whom Henry VIII. afterwards divorc'd.

You revel'd with your Brother's beauteous Queen.
The Birds, in Winter, at your presence sing,
And fancy, when they see you, 'tis the Spring.
The Groves, the Shades, the Meads, while you was there,
Preserv'd their Sweetness thro' the smiling Year.
The Spring, the Birds, with you are fled away,
And scarce are heard to welcome in the May.
The Thames complaining, with his Murmur glides,
Or rages in his Grief, with swelling Tides.


He sees the Goddess by his side no more,
Nor bears the Burthen which he proudly bore.
To meet you coming from the Shoar, he heaves,
And lifts you gently on his wanton Waves.
The Swains, by Wonder, to the Banks are led,
The Flocks, the Herds, which near the River fed,
From the green Pasture, from the Mountain stray'd,
And the gay Swan, around your Gally, play'd.
The Stream unwilling, now his Course pursues,
And nothing lovely, since you left him, views.
When Fame inform'd me of the Storm you met,

The Queen in her Passage to France was met by a great Storm, which drove the Yacht or Vessel she was in, into the Haven of Bulloign, and scatter'd the Fleet.

Which tore your Gally, and dispers'd your Fleet.
I knew from whence the dreadful Tempest rose,
How Venus made the Warring Winds your foes.
She loath'd to see so bright a Princess led,
A Youthful Victim, to an useless Bed.
The Winds, to please her, all their Rage employ,
That, what she cou'd not gain, she might destroy.


Your Ships, with fury, on the Coast she drove,
In Vengeance to her self, and slighted Love.
The God ne'er governs by the Rule of State,
Nor Cruel to the Mean, nor Partial to the Great
But when a fond, a tender Heart he finds,
He aims his Dart, and whom he pleases, joyns
He Curses such, as what he Wills, oppose,
And certain Ruin with his Curses goes.
How for your Safety shou'd I once have pray'd
Of the least Wind, of every Wave afraid!
Yet thus to leave me, with my Joy so near,
Too much provok'd me to increase my Care.
Till Love returning, and with Love my Zeal,
I heard, with Transport, that the Queen was well.
Of your gay Meeting we were quickly told,

King Lewis XII. her Husband then very old, met her at Abbeville, where he made with his new Queen a most pompous Entry.

The Bride Conspicuous, in her Gems and Gold
Your Charms more radiant than your Gem appear,
Like a new Star, to deck the Southern Sphere


Your Virgin Train in Silver Robes are seen,

The Queen had 36 Ladies clad in Cloth of Silver, the chiefest of the English Nobility, the Trappings of their Horses were of Crimson Velvet.

O'er all Illustrious, but the lovely Queen.
Whose Brightness, as unequal seem'd to theirs,
As the Sun's Lustre to the paler Stars.
Is all this Splendour for a Child, I cry'd,

King Lewis besides his Age, was much troubled with the Gout.

'Tis less to shew his Kindness than his Pride.
Himself Decrepid and Decay'd, he strove
To please thy Vanity, if not thy Love.
Of his rich Trappings, and his Steed, they talk,
As if he shou'd not ride, who cou'd not walk!
A fine Companion for a Royal Maid,
For a Grave fitter, than a Marriage Bed.
He sought thy Beauty, as the Miser's Gold,
To hoard the Treasure up, and to behold.
Fond to Possess, uncapable to Use:
Yet loath to keep it, as he fear'd to lose.
With Hands profane, the Beauty so Divine,
'Tis Sacrilege to touch the hallow'd Shrine.
Thy Youth on him was thrown away in wast,
Who surfeited on Food he cou'd not tast.


And yet, like Children, who for Trifles long,
He covets still, as if he still were young.
When Capel, Dorset, and the Valiant Grays,

The Duke of Suffolk when the Torunament was proclaimed in England to be held at Paris, for the sake of the Queen his Mistress, got the King's leave to go thither, with whom went Gray, Marquis of Dorset, and his Four Brothers, the Lord Clinton, Sir Edward Nevill, Sir Giles Capell, Thomas Cheyney, as his Assistants.

In search of Glory, crost the narrow Seas.
As Knights they went, Companions of my Fame,
To try their Force, and spread the English Name.
In Triumph to the Lists, I saw you ride,

The Entry of that Queen into Paris, after her Coronation at St. Dennis.

And proud was Brandon, to behold your Pride.
Paris around with Tyrian Carpets hung,
The Court with Joy, with Mirth the City rung.
A Numerous, and a Gallant Band prepar'd,
Attend in shining Armour, as your Guard.
In high Procession, follow'd next the Priests,
Array'd in Purple, and in Golden Vests:
Their Vows they mingled with the Joyful Throng,
And sung your Praise, and Hymeneal Song.
The Princes of the Church, the Peers of France,

The Dukes of Alenson, Bourbon, Vendome, Longueville, Suffolk, and five Cardinals.

With the Bride's Champions, in their Rank advance.


Aloft, on your Imperial Chariot, born,
Your Seat, you Honour, and your Crown adorn.
To shine, your Ladies, an unhappy Train,
Like Stars too near the Sun, attempt in vain.
Their Youth, their Vanity, their Care and Cost,
So near Perfection, in the Queen, are lost.
Affected in their Airs, and nice in Dress,
While Native Beauties, in their Mistress, please.
Thus the bright Cynthia from the West appears,
Attended with a Troop of feeble Stars;
She rules the Skies, with undisputed right,
Confest their Sovereign, and the Queen of Light.
Secure of Conquest, to the Lists I ride,
For what of Might I want, my Love supply'd.
Thrice at the Barriers I your Charms proclaim,
And enter'd fierce to justifie your Fame.
The Knights, to name the Rival Ladies, dread,
And, as the Fair deserv'd it, they succeed.
I prov'd Triumphant in your Royal View,
O'r them superior; to their Ladies, you.


Nor Arms your Suffolk, nor their Spite, compell'd,
To quit Inglorious, the disputed Field,
The German boasted of Gigantick Race,

The Duke of Valois, afterwards Francis I. French King, envying the Duke of Suffolk's Fortune and Bravery, got a German of prodigious Strength, to encounter with the victorious Brandon, who closing with this boasted Champion, beat him with the Pummel of his Sword, till the Giant had enough of the Combat.

Tho brought in Treason for your Knight's Disgrace,
I forc'd, you saw it and were pleas'd, to yield,
And offer'd at your Feet, his Massy Shield.
Forgive—if recent Actions I repeat,
Or talk of things you cannot yet forget.
My Fame, my Fortune, to your Smiles are due,
And all that I have got, returns to you.
From your bright Image in my Soul it came,
And Love and Victory were then the same.
By every Motion, by my Eyes you guess,
To what I ow'd my Courage and Success.
This, had the People leisure, they might see;
But gaze on you too much to look on me.
Thus, unobserv'd, our Glances often joyn'd,
Mine fierce with Wishes, as the Queens were kind.


Again enflam'd, the Combat I pursue,
Defy'd the Champions, and again subdue.
'Twere vain of Pedigree, or Birth to boast,
The Thames, the Tyber, in the Sea are lost.
The Monarch Eagle, o'er the Faulcon flies,
In view, he leaves him, and ascends the Skies.
Your self the fairest of a Race Divine,
What Merit can I hope to plead by mine?
Or else as Heir to Brandon I might claim,

Sir William Brandon's Father was slain at Bosworth Fight, by Richard III, being then Standard-bearer to the Earl of Richmond, afterwards Henry VII.

A Prince's favour in my Father's Name.
Whom Richmond chose, at Bosworth Plain, to bear
His Glorious Ensign, and direct the War.
The Tyrant's Cause and Person he withstood,
And bought our Honours with his Loyal Blood.
Blame me no longer for unkind delay,
Nor think thro Coldness or Neglect I stay.
Our Council's slow, I fain would have 'em sure,
Prevent all Danger, and our Hopes secure.
We'll trust to Fortune, and to Friends no more,
By both once flatter'd, and betray'd before.


The King's Consent his Council must approve,
And all that follows will be Joy and Love.



The Earl of Surrey, famous in the Reign of Henry the VIII. for his Muse and his Valour, was very much in Love with the Lady Giraldine, of the Family of Fitzgerald in Ireland, and being in his Travels at Florence, where the Giraldi gave him Reason to remember his Lady, and the Name they had given her, as by some is imagin'd, he sends this Letter to comfort her in his Absence, and the Lady Giraldine's Answer is the next following.

Henry Howard Earl of Surrey to the Lady Giraldine.

From Florence, whence the brave Giraldi came,

The Family of that Giraldi are now one of the most Noble in Florence; that the Lady Giraldine was descended from them, my Lord Surrey sings himself, and that she was born in Ireland.

From Tuscan came my Ladies worthy Race,
Fair Florence was sometimes her ancient Seat;
The Western Isle whose pleasant Shoar doth face,
White Cambers Cliffs did give her lively heat.

A Race of Heroes, and my Love from them;


I send this rude Epistle to Thee, the Fair,
With more Sincerity compos'd, than Care.
The Tuscan Eloquence I shall not wrong,

The Tuscan Language thought the purest in Italy, whence the Proverb Lingua Toscana in bocca Romana.

To speak my Wishes in my Native Tongue.
Tho fine their Language, Gallant and Polite,
My Passion like my own, is Fierce and Great.
Near the Nine Sisters and the sacred Spring,
Where Virgil, and where Ovid, learnt to sing;
In English Numbers I, to write t'you, choose,
The Lover English, and the same the Muse.
The Tuscan Sweetness if she wants, we boast
The Roman Majesty, which they have lost;
Her Grace, perhaps her Affectation, less,
She wears a Modest, but a Noble, Dress.
When e'er she mounts, above their height she flies,
And soars sublimely to her Native Skies;
Of Heroes, Demi-Gods, and War, she sings,
Of Europe Conquer'd, and of Captive Kings.
She leads our Princes thro' the dusty Field,
And shews the Battle won, and Town compell'd;


But when she pleases to descend to Love,
And paint the Shepherd in the Myrtle-Grove.
So soft her Notes, so moving are her Strains,
The Virgin pities, as the Youth complains.
Oh wou'd she now her duteous Son inspire,
To kindle in your Soul the same Desire,
Which burns in mine an unconsuming Fire.
No want of Grace wou'd in the Stile appear,
Nor Tuscan Eloquence with mine compare.
Love, conq'ring Love, in every Page shou'd shine,
And your kind Wishes grow as warm as mine.
My Grief, my Joy, Impatience, Hope and Fear,
What here torments me, you wou'd suffer there,
Share in my Pleasures, and divide my Care.
You then wou'd know how dreadful 'tis to part,
And ease by Pity, my afflicted Heart.
Think with what Pain I left my native Shoar,
For England troubled, for your Absence more.
With trembling I beheld a friendly Gale,
Swell out our Canvass, and present to sail.


You saw me driving from the Coast to Sea,
And weeping, I believ'd, you wept for me.
In tears, the Fortunes of our Love I mourn,
Nor quite departed wou'd to Land return;
The Winds, the cruel Waves, their Aid deny'd,
And drove me forward with a furious Tide.
The Port again I bid the Sailors make,
And pray the rising Winds to force us back.
The Winds, the Mariners, refuse to hear,
Laugh at my Sorrow which they took for Fear.
Not the proud Monuments of ancient Rome,
Invited me to leave my Love and Home;
Her pleasant Villas, and Campanian Fields;
Nor the rich Banquets that her Vintage yields.
Nor the gay Spirit which inspir'd their Souls,
When her Wits revell'd o'er Falernian Bowls,
Cou'd tempt thy Lover from his Prince and Thee,
With Storms to Combat, and a dangerous Sea.
But Glory urg'd me to assert by Arms,
My Truth unequal'd, and Thy Sov'rein Charms;


To Florence, Fame, the daring Champion draws,
Where Fortune prov'd as friendly as my Cause.
Cou'd Love, by Distance or by Time, decline,
A Thousand Accidents had ruin'd mine:
Books, Schools, and what in Learning I admire.
Had cur'd my Passion, and had quench'd Desire.
But their grave Maxims I of late despise,
And think, To Love, is only to be Wise.
Divine Erasmus, and our famous More,
Who taught, improv'd me, and who Charm'd before.
Their Wisdom and their Eloquence wou'd seem,
But when they talk of Love, A barren Theme!
I went from Belgia to the Knightly War,
And left the Sages with their Precepts there.
I crost the Danube and the Rhine to view,
The Court Imperial, and my Course pursue.
I met the great Agrippa there renown'd,

This Fiction might have been spar'd, but Mr. Drayton's Excuse may serve for me, that he us'd his Invention the more freely, as writing in the Person of a Poet.

For Magic Science, and for Arts profound.


I ask'd him, by his mighty Skill, to see,
The distant Maid, and how it far'd with Thee.
Strange to believe! he in a Glass disclos'd,
The Lovely Scene, and all thy Charms expos'd.
As once I saw thee on a Bed reclin'd,
Thro the white Lawn, thy whiter Beauties shin'd,
I gaze with Rapture on thy matchless Face,
And beg'd him never to remove his Glass.
He shew'd Thee reading, and the Numerous Line,
Discover'd in his Glass, I saw was mine.
Of Love it sung, and I beheld the Maid
With Blushes, and, I thought, with Pleasure, read.
The wondrous Artist I with Joy embrac'd,
And sure of Victory, to Florence past.
I boast no Honours from a Noble Name,
My Father's Glory or from Surrey's Fame.
The Lyon shining in our Arms I wave,

The Earl of Surrey was a Hero as well as a Poet, had a Silver Lyon added to his Arms, for the Victory he gloriously obtained over James V. King of the Scots at Bramston near Flodden-Hill, being a part of the Cheviot Mountains, the most noted of the North.

For Clowns can fight, and ev'ry Fool be brave.


Tho Flodden-Field will never be forgot,
Nor Surrey Conq'ring, nor the routed Scot.
With Heroes, I might claim the foremost Place,
By my own Actions, or my Warriour Race.
Another Title to your Love I plead,
Which sooner, with the Gallant, shou'd succeed.
The Son of Phœbus, and the Sacred Nine,
My Name Illustrious, and my Works Divine.
My Soul enlighten'd with a Heavenly Ray,
Derives its Being from the God of Day.
Not the least worthy of the Tuneful Throng,
Your Beauties are immortal in my Song.
The Fair with Pleasure, what I write, rehearse,
And Kings repeat my never dying Verse;
These the best Trophies, to my Name, I raise,
And wear the Laurel, but to grace the Bays.
In ample Synod when the Gods design,
To raise a Being, like themselves, Divine.
The frame dispos'd, a Spirit they infuse,
Which forms a Hero, or creates a Muse.


A Smaller Portion of Ætherial Fire,
The Croud of Heroes, and of Kings inspire,
The Muse they quicken with a purer Flame,
To give, as he deserves, the Monarch Fame.
The World had ne'er of great Achilles rung,
Nor Hellen's Rape, had Homer never sung;
Time wou'd his Valour, and her Charms destroy,
Or both had perish'd in the Flames of Troy.
For Slaves and Kings are equal in the Grave,
The same in Death, the Coward and the Brave;
Till with new Honours by the Muse they live,
And in the Fable, or the Scene, revive.
She adds by Fiction to their real Worth,
And makes 'em Gods, Who were but Men on Earth.
The Son of Thetis, and the Spartan Dame,
Were less in Nature, than they are in Fame
But the bright Image of your living Face,
No Art can paint, nor Eloquence express.


Such are the Graces of your Wit and Youth,
The Muses Fiction cannot reach the Truth.
A perfect Picture, who pretends to make,
From Thee his Features, and his Fire, must take.
Yet these, Alas! so Lovely and so Gay,
With Age will wrinkle, and with Time decay,
You'll curse the Change, and wishing to be young,
Seek the lost Graces in the living Song.
Nor Time, nor Age, my Picture shall consume,
Your Youth will there be ever in its bloom.
There, tho imperfect, shall your Image last,

The Lady Stanhope was a great Beauty as he himself has recorded in the Verses, he writ on her refusing to dance with him, under the allegory of the Lyon and the Wolf; a little extraordinary, 'tis true, to compare the Lady to a Wolf, but no matter, his Reasons will be seen best in his Writing.

A Lyon saw I late as white as any Snow.

I might perceive a Wolf white as a Whale's bone.
A fairer Beast of Fresher Hue, beheld I never none,
But that her Looks were Coy, and froward was her Grace.

And future Beauties envy like the past.
Stanhope, the Wonder of the courtly Train,
O'er Thee no longer shou'd unjustly reign.
To Thine, her Titles, and her Conquests, yield,
If equal to the Fair my Verse excell'd.
By Arms I'll vindicate thy Sovereign Right,
Or prove by Numbers, if I lose by Might.


For this Apollo will my Breast inspire,
And kindle in my Soul the latent Fire.
Then shall my Genius, like the Subject shine,
My Song be Deathless, as the Theme Divine.
Wyat the Charmer of your Sex, with me,

Sir Thomas Wyat translated the Psalms of David, of which the Earl says somewhere;

What Holy Grave, what worthy Sepulchre,
To Wyat's Psalms shall Christians purchase there!

The Hero and Poet did not think the Translation of David so despicable an attempt, as a late modern Bard has often express'd it. 'Tis the ill Performance, and not the Design of those who have pretended to't that is most faulty.

On Sir Thomas's Death he writes,

What Virtues rare were temper'd in thy Breast,
Honour, that England such a Jewel bred;
And kiss'd the Ground whereas thy Corps did rest.

Shall tune his Harp, and sing again for Thee.
To late Posterity thy Fame shall run,
While by thy Merit, we exalt our own.
The Prince, when Surrey at his Court appear'd,

The Great Duke.

Proclaim'd the Tournaments, and Lists prepar'd.
A golden Pillar in the Cirque was plac'd,
With different Portraits, and Devices, grac'd.
Yours, with Amazement, and Delight, they view,
And destin'd, e'er the Fight, the Prize to you.
The Spurs, the Lance, my Silver Lyon, held,
Beneath your Picture, and defy'd the Fair.
When prancing on a Barb I first appear,
Approach the Pillar, and pronounce Thee Fair.


The Trumpets sounded, and with loud acclaim,
The Croud approve it, and admire the Dame;
The Knights, defy'd, the sturdy Lance prepare.
Assert their Mistresses, and bid the War.
From ev'ry Nation they to Florence come,
From Europe, Africk, and from Asia, some,
To lose their Honour, and their Love at home.
Dismounted, at my Feet, the Champions lie,
And curse their Fortune, and demand to die.
The Trumpets sound, and Clamours rend the Skies,
When Surrey is proclaim'd to win the Prize.
The Court, the Sentence of the Field, allow'd,
And Truth Eternal, to the Fair I vow'd.
A Pile erected in the Rising Flame,
I cast an Offering to your sacred Name,
The Broken Spears, the Trophies of my Fame.
To Heaven it mounts, a bright Ætherial Fire.
Pure as my Love, and fierce as my Desire.


I bless the Omen, and my Vows renew,

The Custom of the Knights who won the Prize of Chivalry, to take an Oath to be true to their Dames, as here describ'd.

To Sing, to Combat, and to love for you.
Nor Balls divert me, nor the splendid Feast,
Their Sights, their Musick, and their Praise displeas'd;
And pensive, to my Chamber, I repair,
And meditate alone, the distant Fair.
My Wandring Thoughts on various Objects rove,
On Hunsdon, Hamoton, but they meet in Love.

Of Hunsdon he says, and of Hampton Court and the rest,

Hunsdon did first present her to mine Eye.
Of Hampton Court and Windsor, where abound.
All Pleasures.

The Lady Giraldine was in the Service of Queen Katherine.

Hampton me taught to wish her first for mine.
Windsor Alas! doth chase me from her fight.
When Windsor Walls sustain'd my wearied Arm;
My Hand, my Chin, to ease my restless Head.
With a King's Son my Childless Years I past.
In greater Feasts than Priam's Son of Troy.
Those large Green Courts where we were wont to rove,
With Eyes cast up unto the Maiden's Tower.
With easie Sighs, such as Man draw in Love.
The stately Seats, the Ladies bright of Hue,
The dances short, long Tales of sweet Delight,
The secret Groves which we have made resound.
With Silver Drops the Meads yet spread for ruth
As goodly Flowers on Thamesis do grow.

The following Lines are by some attributed to Sir Francis Bryan. The Numbers seem to be more Harmonious than any we can find in others much more modern.

Tagus farewell, which Westward with thy Streams.
Turn'st up the Grains of Gold already try'd;
For I with Spur and Sail go seek the Thames.
Against the Sun that shews his wealthy Pride,
And to the Town that Brutus sought by Dreams,
Like bended Moon that leaves her lusty Side.
To seek my Country now for whom I live.
O Mighty Jove for this the Winds me give.

On Royal Windsor, and our past Delights,
Our Days of Sporting, and our Joyous Nights;
Our Morning Pleasures, and our Evening Shade,
And how we Lov'd, and what we did and said
This to remember gives my Sorrows ease,
And pleases still, when nothing else can please.
Windsor, as Charming, as She's Noble, seems,
The Boast of England, and the Pride of Thames;
For Kings and Princesses a soft Retreat,
To Love, delicious, and the Muses Seat.


My Mistress with the Nymphs I there have seen,
Confess'd in Beauty, and Desert, a Queen.
There in the Forrest, or the Neighb'ring Groves,
We stray'd together, and compar'd our Loves.
Beneath a Poplar, or a Beechen, Shade,
I sought, and have surpriz'd the Heav'nly Maid.
And fondly have I guest your Virgin Care,
And fancy'd, that you came to meet me there.
This Image flatters, in my Fear, my Mind,
Or else you were, or I believ'd you, kind.
Oft on the Willows by the Banks of Thames,
With Marks mysterious, I engrav'd our Names.
When next you wander, by the River, see,
These Wishes written on the fairest Tree,
And as of you I think, Remember me.
When Silvia sits beneath thy Shade,
From Heat defend the Fair;
A Thousand Odours round her spread,
And Flora fan the Air.


Te Birds, that singing in the Groves,
Each others Breasts inspire;
Instruct my Sylvia by your Loves,
To bless a Swain's Desire.
When Sylvia sleeps, Ye Gentle Streams!
Who Lull her to her Rest;
Inform the Virgin in her Dreams,
How Damon wou'd be blest.
England, to Italy, I still prefer,
A Spring perpetual is, they tell me, here,
But how can I believe, while thou art there?
For Thee the Forrest blooms, the Meadow springs,
And Philomel deceiv'd, in Autumn sings.
Campania's Glory ne'er had reach'd our Isle,
Had not her Muse been richer than her Soil.
Nor boasted Tyber, nor the wanton Po,
Like Thames, or Severn's Silver Currents, flow.
Oh! were I sure at my Return to find,
Your Heart the same, as when I left you, kind.


Their painted Cities then wou'd tempt in vain,
Their Courts, where Vanity, and Pleasure, reign.
Their Pomp, their Luxury, I then wou'd scorn,
To better Fortune in your Beauty born.
O'er the rude Alps, with Eagle hast I'd fly,
Cut the rough Waves, and fill my Arms with Joy.

The Earl of Surrey was eldest Son to the Great Duke of Norfolk. He was, says the Learned Bishop of Salisbury in his History of the Reformation, a high spirited Man, had a vast Fortune, and the Head of the Popish Party; however a Man of great Qualities. He had a great Wit, and was more than ordinarily learned, his Heat in the Popish Cause ruin'd him, and he was try'd for Treason; the Pretence, his giving the Arms of Edward the Confessor, and being concern'd with his Father in other Plots and Crimes. This Earl wrote several very fine Poems for his Age, there are none so Gallant and of so fine a Turn, considering the Times, extant. There were also in King Henry VIIIth's Court, Sir Thomas Wyat, (Father of the unfortunate Sir Thomas Wyat in Queen Mary's Reign) who was a Gentleman very famous for his Genius in Poetry, and my Lord of Surrey's Friend Sir Francis Bryan, afterwards Embassador in France. Thus we see that their Love of the Muses was not then thought injurious to their Ministry, and he must himself have a very wretched Talent, who thinks the Man that excells in so delicate an Art cannot fit himself with a great deal of Ease for the most important Offices of the State. The same good Sense that made him shine as a Poet, will certainly make him illustrious as a Minister. There are several things in this Epistle, and the Lady's answer, which may give us an Idea of the Court and Manners of the Reign they liv'd in, and prove to us how Men of little Wit and little Honesty have attempted to be troublesome in their Generation, and what Opinion they had of their Industry.


Lady Giraldine to Henry Howard Earl of Surrey.

If, like my Surrey, I cou'd speak my Mind,

John Earl of Kildare, her Ancestor, and Maurice his second Son, first Earl of Desmond, were descended from Thomas Fitz-Maurice, Lord Justice of Ireland, Son of Maurice Fitz Gerald, Son of Gerald, who married the Daughter of Rees, the Great Prince of Wales, and in a direct Line sprung from Walter Son of Oter of Windsor.

My Love wou'd be as fond, my Heart as kind.
'Tis Custom, only, makes our Sex conceal
The Flames that wast 'em, and which yours reveal.
This niceness, Surrey! This my Pen restrains,
Or else 'twould answer you in softer Strains.
Less artful, yet as honest and sincere,
Writ with more Truth, tho not with greater Care.
Bred in a Court, their Manners I despise,
Nor aim at Conquest by my Mien, or Eyes.
No Hearts I flatter with pernicious Smiles,
Nor make you Rivals by fallacious Wiles.
My Heart, tho weak, is uncorrupt and pure,
My Virgin Innocence the richest dowr.


To You great Arbiter of Love and Wit,
I fear to speak, and now, with trembling, write;
Or I forget, or you have often said,
Fear, tho 'tis folly, yet becomes a Maid.
Our Virtue, with our Ignorance, we lose,
And Innocence will want of Art excuse.
If in your Absence I appear too free,
If my Words shou'd'n with my Sex agree,
Remember Lovers are not always wise,
And Maids may be too forward or too nice.
Uncertain if we e'er, again shall meet:
Cou'd I love less, I might be more discreet.
Yet, try my Errors, like a Judge severe,
And chide me much, if I a little err.
My Women, when your Letter I receiv'd.
Or thought me Frantick, or a Fool believ'd.
Transported as I was, they knew not why,
Nor guest the Reason of my silent Joy.
I strove to hide it, conscious of my Shame,
But my Eyes sparkled, and confest my Flame.


A Secret still I fain would have it be,
And fearing to be seen, the more they see.
They thought 'twas Love, but cou'd not think for whom,
Nor whence the Message, and my Pleasure come.
In Love, by Age, and long Experience learn'd,
My Passion, by their Weakness they discern'd.
I blush'd or smil'd at every Line I read,
Forgetting where I was, or what I did;
Your Verse, as powerful, as you think, they prove,
'Tis You, and You alone that won my Love.
No Numbers can be sweeter than your Tongue,
Your Voice more moving than your artful Song.
So graceful are your Words, so soft your Air,
They're forc'd to love you, who to listen dare.
My Heart so tender, you may scarce, believe,
And think, a Court has taught me to deceive.
That You, like others, by my Smiles betray'd,
Hear the false Vows which I to them have made.


Who's proud of Worship, or is fond of Praise,
Ne'er matters, if she conquers, what she says.
She wants not Lovers, but to make 'em Slaves,
And only to enlarge her Empire, craves.
This in the Court, and in our Sex you see,
So oft, you well may be afraid of Me.
Shou'd you my meaning, or my Faith, mistrust,
Your Judgment will be weak, as 'tis unjust.
An Air of Truth in every Page appears,
And what I ought not to reveal, declares.
I wou'd not trust it, were it feign'd to you,
You'll soon distinguish if 'tis false or true.
Yet who from Slander in this Age is free,
So thick it falls, perhaps 'twill light on me?
To live at Court, where Spite and Envy reign,
Whose Fame so pure, that Scandal will not stain:
Tho such is mine, nor by my Foes deny'd,
My only Frailty is, they tell me, Pride.
In what, did any this my Error see,
Of what am I, or vain, or proud, but Thee?


I ne'er pretend that I from Florence came,
Nor borrow Lustre from Giraldi's Name;
Nor fancy Desmond or Kildare disgrace,
The Boasted Glory of the Tuscan Race.
The Line of Windsor and Fitzgerald bears,
Sufficient Honours if they own me theirs.
Were my Birth Nobler, or my ancient Blood,
'Tis only your Consent which makes it good.
Where'er I come, I meet with something new,
Which gives me Reason to remember you.
At Windsor, when I walk for Evening Air,
The Shades disgust me when I miss you there.
Windsor where oft my Hero I beheld,
Triumphant in the Lists, the Terror of the Field.
To Nonsuch Forrest, when the Queen removes,
The Trees I see are printed with our Loves.
In Hampton's proud Magnificence I find,
A lively Image of thy Princely Mind.
I view at Richmond when the Court is there,
The numerous Trophies of thy Northern War.


And Woolsey's Gallery around is set,
With rich Devices of thy Noble Wit.
Greenwich is still to my Remembrance dear,
'Twas there we met, Alas! and parted there.
The Town, the Country, are the same to me,
My Thoughts are full, and every Place, of Thee.
When the Winds rise, and angry Ocean boyls,
I dread the Tempest, as I hate his Smiles,
A Calm detains Thee, and a Storm destroys,
This ruins both, and that prevents our Joys.
I blame the lazy Winds, the Furious, fear,
Or hope impatiently, or else despair.
Oh! were you here beneath a Shade to tell,
The Wonders which your Pen describes so well.
So kind the Story from your Lips wou'd come,
The Tuscan Greatness, and the Pride of Rome.
The Wonders you have seen, we then shou'd hear,
With greater Pleasure than you saw 'em there.
Thus to their Dames, the Grecian Chiefs relate.
The wast of Troy, and Mighty Hector's Fate.


They draw the Figure of the War, in Wine,
The Grecian there, and there the Trojan line.
Were you now present with your artful Hands,
To shew how Venice on her Pillars stands.
To tell, or by your Picture to display,
The beauteous City rising from the Sea.
The Nuptials of her Prince, her Pomp marine,

'Tis the Custom of the Doge of Venice, once a Year, to go, attended by the Senate, in rich Gallies, and triumphant Manner to wed the Adriatick, to shew thereby that the Sovereignty of that Sea is in the Republick.

By you were better told than ever seen.
They're such as you, who in your Travels find,
Illustrious Virtues to enrich your Mind.
England you honour, and her Peers adorn,
And Foreign Habits, and their Vices, scorn;
While Fops infected with an itch to roam,
Leave their few Morals, and their Wit, at home.
Fond of the Vanities of different Climes,
They bring their Follies back, and oft their Crimes
At Rome they're lewd, at Paris they are vain,
In Holland Drunkards, and devout in Spain.


The Fools, who fear to be despis'd at home,

The Folly of some People, who are fond of Rambling without qualifying themselves before, to make their Travels useful to them, gave Occasion to the following Lines; and much more might have been said on the Subject, if we did not fear to offend against Gallantry and Love, which will not admit of too much Satyr. Those who out of Vanity have wandred too far, are accountable for the Scandal our Country lies under among the refin'd Nations, who, shou'd they judge of such as are left at home, by the Merit of some that go abroad, may well take us for as barbarous as Cæsar found us.

Wou'd raise their Merit by a Tour to Rome.
They hope, by wandring from the common Road,
To make a Figure, and to shine abroad.
Strange Tales they tell, of what they've heard and seen,
And how they were Carest, where'er they've been.
What Ruins they beheld, what wast of Time,
What Wines they met with in the Southern Clime.
Who Sung, who Fiddled best, with this content,
The Fops return as worthless as they went.
Their Tast, in Fashions, and in Airs refin'd,
They thought 'twas needless to improve the Mind.
If such as these were only seen at Rome,
They well may scorn the Region whence they come.
But Surrey so Divinely Great appears,
His Actions wipe away the Stain of theirs.


To Me the Muses Sons, with Songs repair,
And beg at least, that I wou'd deign to hear.
I please 'em by approving what they bring,
For next to Paying, is to hear 'em sing.
They want Supplies, nor will a little serve,
By Nature lavish, as they lov'd to starve,
Prudence, it seems, is Av'rice with the Wits,
And Care looks mean in any one but Citts.
The little that they get, they madly spend,
Still hoping, Fortune at the worst will mend.
Their Fame, among their Fellows to secure,
They think 'tis necessary to be Poor.
This to the Bays, is oft their best Pretence,
And want of Mony, less than want of Sense.
Their Case, to you, they beg me to commend,

There were some Persons in this Reign, who thought Poetry and Politicks were incompatible; and tho Sir Thomas Wyat, Sir Francis Bryan, Sir Thomas Moore, and the Lord Surrey, were all Lovers of the Muse at the same time that they distinguished themselves in the Cabinet or Field. Yet the Cry against the Poetical Ministers was so loud, that at last it prevail'd, and they were all outed.

Their Prince, their Patron, and their constant Friend.
Wits in your Absence, at the Court disgrac'd,
The Muse neglected, and her Sons displac'd.


To You, by Me, to be reliev'd they fly,
The Mean wou'd be excus'd, the Great deny.
E'en those, that only by her Favour rose,

Another Complaint against those Gentlemen, was, that while they had it in their Power to do good, and several fair Proposals were made to 'em for the Advancement of Learning, and the Encouragement of those that deserv'd it in all Sciences, yet they slipt the Opportunity, and forgot the Art which had been so serviceable to them, taking too much Care to get Money, and to keep what they had gotten. 'Tis true, they were well with the Court, and their Loyalty hid a great many Faults. But they had in general disoblig'd those whom they once cherish'd, and for the sake of one or two writers, who made their Court to 'em with most Assiduity, neglected the rest, and were severely censur'd by their Brethren. They found when they had occasion for their Pens, how impolitick it was to be Partial to a few, who cou'd not defend them, neglect those who cou'd. However as they were guilty of no such false Steps in the publick Affairs, the Bards shou'd have forgiven their Errors in private ones.

Her Friends, when humble, when advanc'd, her Foes.
Their Brethren, in Necessity despise,
And keep 'em down, if they attempt to rise.

Tho these Ministers were not only Lovers of Poetry, but perform'd in it with Reputation. Yet so far were they from encouraging the Art, that when Address was made to 'em by the Poets for Favour, they as often hindred their Advancement, as help'd 'em to rise.

With Partial Bounty, they their Gifts dispense,
And Sots are better paid, than Men of Sense.
Who sings his Ballad, who his Musick plays,
Or he that reads his Poem has a Place.
Who most adores 'em, for a Wit they choose,
And his must be the best, the taking Muse.
The rest are despicable and obscure,
To make him rich, they keep his Fellows poor,
No Wit but his, no Critick they'll allow,
And all the Poets Sheaves to his must bow.
The Monster Faction, with devouring Rage,
First fell upon the Court, and next the Stage.


She snarl'd at both, her venom'd Teeth she shew'd,
And all the Mischief did 'em that she cou'd.
For you, they both with equal Reason cry,
These Clouds before your shining worth wou'd fly.
Your mighty Genius, wou'd their Peace restore,
And Fools and Knaves be suffer'd there no more.
The Building Founded, in your Absence lies,

The Lord Surrey built a very noble Structure on Leonard's Hill, over against the City of Norwich, which the Rabble in Ket's Insurrection, in Edward the VI's Reign, almost demolish'd. It had a fine Prospect of the River Yare, and the lovely Vale of Mouschole under it. The House was from this Lord, call'd Mount Surrey.

With the Ground level, and despairs to rise.
Your self the Architect, the Treasure yours,
And Norwich waits to see the promis'd Tow'rs.
'Tis mine, my Surrey, 'tis the People's Voice,
Restore our Darling, and secure our Joys.
The Muses then will to their Seats return,
The Nymphs to sigh, the Shepherds cease to mourn.
Discord and Faction of their Aims will fail,
And Merit be prefer'd, and Wit prevail.
But what is dearer, what is more to me,
My Heart will meet with all its Hopes in Thee.



The Lady Jane Gray, being left by King Edward the VI's will his Successor, She was on his Death Proclaim'd Queen, but her Reign lasted only Ten Days. She was in that short time put out of her Pretensions, by the Power of King Edward's Sisters, Mary and Elizabeth. Queen Mary confin'd both the Lady Jane, and the Lord Guilford Dudley, her Husband, to separate Apartments in the Tower. Where these Two Epistles are suppos'd to be written from one to the other, a Day or Two before they were beheaded. The Lady Jane Gray was Daughter to the Duke of Suffolk, and the Lord Guilford Dudley, Son to the Duke of Northumberland.

The Lady Jane Gray, to the Lord Guilford Dudley.

Since from my Lord, I am by Bolts confin'd,
This only way is lest to ease my Mind.


This, in the Loss of mighty Blessings past,
Is our sole Refuge, and, Alass! the last,
Of such as keep me, I demand of Thee,
As Thou, I hear by them, dost ask for me.
To these, I make it oft my earnest Pray'r,
Go to my Lord, my dearest Witnes bear.
Tell him— but then, I speak the rest in Sighs,
And they, the Message, and my Griefs despise.
They shut the massy Doors with savage Care,
And what I fain wou'd speak, refuse to hear.
Deaf to my Cryes, they leave me to my Woe
Nor stay to learn, what thou wou'dst gladly know.
No friendly Voice to sooth me in my Pains,
No Sound, but jarring Doors, and ratling Chains.
At once for Thee, and for my self, I fear,
I view the dismal Hour approaching near.
In Thee, our Foes will soonest reach my Heart,
'Tis terrible to die, but worse to part.


I now the utmost of their Malice feel,
Nor dread the sharpen'd Axe, nor pointed Steel.
My Innocence wou'd teach me to endure,
My doom with Patience, were my Love secure.
For Thee my Anxious Soul, is still in Pain,
For Thee, the Partner of my Bonds and Reign.
This forces from my Eyes a briny Flood,
To weep for Thee, who soon must weep in Blood.
Now let thy Virtue in thy Looks appear,
Our Foes are pleas'd the more, the more we fear.
Whate'er to suffer, we're by them compell'd,
Yet let us never to our Sufferings yield.
The Guilt was only theirs, to whom we owe,

The Dukes of Suffolk and Northumberland's Ambition, the Occasion of their Children's Ruin.

Our Life, our Nuptials, and our present Woe.
Instructed by our Parents to rebel,
We rose with them, and in their Fall, we fell.
Not our Ambition rais'd us to a Crown,
Their Pride advanc'd us, as it pull'd us down.


Not born to Empire, they usurp'd the Pow'r,
And when they aim'd to mount, they brought us low'r.
Thus Fortune our aspiring Hopes deceives,
And those she flatter'd, in their Ruin leaves.
To act the things, they had design'd, afraid,
Their Councils tempted, and their Hearts betray'd.
Anothers Right, we never, had desir'd,
Nor by wrong Steps to Mary's Throne aspir'd;
If those who better shou'd have taught our Youth,
Had led us safely in the Paths of Truth.
Our Error's fatal, and our Foe severe,
But great our Courage, and our Conscience clear.
Her Share of Fate, thy Wife alike sustains,
Our Pleasures once the same, and now the same our Pains.
The Smiles and Frowns of Fortune we have known,
And been as happy, as we're now undone.


Another's Int'rest made me first thy Bride
My Heart rejoyc'd, and blest our Father's Pride
With Hymeneal Song our Pallace rung,
The Priests, the Nobles, and the People sung.
The House of Suffolk was to Dudley's joyn'd,
And glorious Projects by the Match design'd.
Love was our end, and we our end enjoy'd,
They with their Projects are themselves destroy'd.
Soon broke the Knot, they hop'd wou'd never break,
Their Thoughts prodigious, but their Forces weak.
They put a Royal Scepter in my Hand,
An useless Present this, without Command,
The Crown, the Globe, nor all the Forms of Sway,
Nor gave us Right, nor made the Realms obey.
No vain Dominion, like Content, is sweet,
And he who rules himself, is truly great.
Happy had I, and Guilford, ever been,

Descended from Frances, the Daughter of Charles Brandon Duke of Suffolk, by Mary Queen Dowager of France, and K. Henry VIII's Sister.

Had they ne'er forc'd me to be call'd a Queen


Happy our Fathers, had they deign'd to hear,
Our just Excuses, and allow'd our Fear.
Happy our Houses, had their Lords in Peace,
Consulted to preserve, and not increase.
Contented with the Honours of our Name,
Ne'er push'd their Fortune on a lawless Claim.
Had they perceiv'd the Precipice was nigh,
Nor ventur'd with their waxen Wings too high.
I boast no Merit from the Royal Line,
Tho' noble Brandon mixt his Blood with mine.
The beauteous Princess he in Triumph lead,
And crown'd, with better Joys, her widow'd Bed.
In her the long contending Roses joyn'd,
And on one Stalk their friendly Branches twin'd.
In her the pure Vermilion, and the white,
Their Names united and disputed right.
From her my Blood, in generous Channels, flows,
End thence our Honour, and our Folly rose.
Forgive me—'tis untimely to be vain,
In Death, we little from our Birth shall gain.


To learn to die will now avail us most,

King Henry always fear'd his Daughter Mary wou'd restore the papal Power and Worship.

For all Distinction in the Grave is lost.
Who, when an Empire is in view wou'd spare,
His nearest Blood, and think the Purchase dear.
Who dares to plead Relation to a Throne,

The Divorce between Queen Katherine, the Lady Mary's Mother, and King Henry.

A Kindom never shou'd be claim'd, till won.
Kings, like the Sun, their distant Objects chear,
But burn, whoever dares approach too near.
No tyes of Friendship can oblige a Crown,
The Prince, will all the Man profest, disown.
What most, great Henry study'd to avoid,
Is now befaln, and what he built destroy'd.
Edward, too early for the Faith is gone,
And Mary next, by right, demands the Throne.
What Heaven has joyn'd can earthly Courts divorce,
Or Man his Will oppose by Wit or Force.
The Creature may resolve, the God fulfills,
Who oft opposes what the Mortal Wills.


When Heav'n appears to plead the righteous Cause.
How impotent is Power, or humane Laws.
The Proud he disappoints, upholds the Meek,
Disarms the Mighty, and supports the weak.
Men fondly raise Foundations on the Sands,
While Virtue, on a Rock, securely stands.
In Death, my Lord, let this be thy Support,
The Path is gloomy, but the Passage short.
A shining Host will meet us on the way,
And guide us to the source of endless Day.
Look up, my Guilford, to our Heavenly Crown,
That still is ours, tho this on Earth is gone.
We thither, when our Hour is come, shall soar,
Meet in the starry Way, and part no more:
Behold the Regions of Emperial Light,
We there shall Reign, and none dispute our Right.
But how can Nature with these Hopes comply;
Or fond of living, we consent to dye.


How pass the Vale of Death, a horrid Gloom,
And leave this Crown with Joy, for one to come.
Yet if, by Faith, these Terrors we remove,
There still remains, a greater Terror, Love.
Love oft presents Thee, murder'd to my Eyes,
I hear thy dying Groans, and latest Sighs.
'Tis Torture to my Soul, to this I yield,
And Faith, till then Victorious, quits the Field.
I feel thy Wounds, thy deadly Sorrows bear,
And careless of my self, for Thee I fear.
To whom, in our Distress, shall we repair,
Implore the listning God, by earnest Pray'r?
Him let us move, to smooth the rugged Way,
And light us with a Beam of future Day.
In all our wants, if we on him rely,
In Life, or Death, he will our wants supply.
By Grace he'll lead us to the darksome Grave,
And then, reward us, for the Grace he gave.
On Him, for Succour, in our Hour depend,
Against the Tempter, he'll our Hearts defend.


But jealous of his Glory, will be woo'd,
Just to himself, as he to us is good.
View thy past Life, and all thy Actions scan,
See then what Merit thou canst find in Man.
To Him with me, thy humble Vows address,
Repentant praise him, and thy Faults confess.
The God benificent, our Vows will hear,
And will Illustrious in our Cause appear.
Nor Earth, nor Hell, shall then our Souls dismay,
Nor we be to our Foes, or Death, a Prey.
Superior to their Malice, we shall rise,
And Death conduct us to immortal Bliss.
Unutterable Joys reserv'd on high,
For such as live by Faith, and in its Author die.
Then, grateful Thanks to our Creator pay,
Who calls us hence, before the dreadful Day.
When Sin and Idols shall these Realms defile,
And Flames of cruel Zeal destroy this Isle,


Through Racks and Fires the Sons of God must go,
Through Agonies of Blood, and bitter Woe.
Happy that we the Martyrs Crown shall gain,
Nor live to see the Foe, his House profane.
May Mary's Womb be found a barren Soil,
Nor leave to foreign Heirs, this Realm, a Spoil.
May her wrong'd Sister, in her Throne succeed,
And cleanse the Church of ev'ry noxious Weed.
May fair Eliza, all her Fears survive,
And Peace to Sion, in Affliction give.
Sion, tho desolate and wast before,
Again shall flourish, and despair no more.
Again Eliza, shall the Faith maintain,
Shake of the Yoke of Rome, and humble Spain.
A fragrant Name, the martyr'd Saints shall leave,
Those joy with Sion, who with Sion grieve.
Farewel my dearest Lord, our end is near,
Heav'n is our home, we are but Strangers here.


There, from our worldly Labours we shall rest,
With Visions of Eternal Splendor blest.
Farewel—and do not of thy Lot complain,
We part a while, but soon shall meet again.


Lord Guilford Dudley to Lady Jane Gray.

Attend, my Love, and hear thy Lord complain,
I sing my Elegy, a mournful Strain;
Like Swans, who by a Stream their Fate bewail,
And, the Song ended, in the current Fall.
Attend, my Love, and in the Consort joyn,
Try thy last Notes, and tune thy Voice by mine.
Together let us sigh, together weep,
And equal Measure in our Sorrow, keep.
By Grief consummate, we our Foes will move,
At least to pity, whom they cannot love.
Such Words from me, methinks; thou shoudst not hear,
Nor I discourage, whom I ought to chear.
Tho in thy writing, I such Virtue see,
As shews no Sign of want of Help from me.
Believe not in my Tryal, I shall faint,
Thou my Example, and protecting Saint.


I court not Life, nor will I fear to die,
But tremble, when I think thy Fate is nigh.
More than my Love can for her self, I fear,
Nor was she ever to her self so dear.
A Thousand Lives with her, wou'd soon be gone,
What Portion then have I to spare of one?
Teach me ye Powers! to be resign'd like her,
That I may Martyrdom, to Life prefer.
Teach me with Joy, to meet the dreadful Blow,
Nor suffer me to sink beneath my Woe.
When for approaching Death, I shou'd prepare,
I try my Heart, and find Thee always there.
Thou my best Blessing, art my greatest Ill,
The Cause, tho Guiltless of the Pains, I feel.
So much I meditate in my Distress,
Of Love and Thee, I think of Heav'n the less.
No Star with baleful Aspect did portend,
Thy Birth unhappy, or thy Life, this end.
To my own Danger, and thy Safety, blind,
I, fond of Empire, with our Fathers join'd.


Approv'd their Councils, and to Act resolv'd,
And in our Ruin thou wer't thus involv'd.
As Indian Widows in their Brides attire,
Wait on their Husbands to the funeral Fire,
Ascend the Pile, and in the Flames expire.
I boast not now of Dudley's Name or Blood,

The Duke of Northumberland (then Earl of Warwick) overthrew Ket the Rebel at Mount Surry in Norfolk.

Of Peace by him restor'd, or Ket subdu'd.
The Laurels which my Victor Father won,
Are now of little value to his Son.
His Glories are in this attempt forgot,
So much his latter Deeds, his former blot.
I boast not of the Heroes of my Race,
With ev'ry Virtue blest, and ev'ry Grace.
Nor of our Infants, in our Loss undone,

descended from Mary the French Queen, Daughter to Henry VII.

Tho sprung of Kings, and Kindred to the Throne.
Thou only art my Pride, of Thee I boast,
And in thy bright Perfections, Glory most.
I ne'er by Courting Thee, to Reign aspir'd,
I lov'd, and nothing but thy Love desir'd.


Till more acquainted with thy Merit grown,
I found that none so well deserv'd the Crown.
A perfect Queen by Nature thou wer't made,
Thy Eyes command us, and thy Lips perswade.
And when, if e'er, thy matchless Beauty fails,
Thy Wisdom with resistless Force prevails.
Thy self more worthy, more esteem'd by me,
Than all that else, I might expect by Thee.
So chast thy Love, so innocent thy Life,
The Virgin was not purer than the Wife.
And Heav'n in Thee so great a Gift bestow'd,
Itself cou'd only be a greater Good,
Such was the Joy, the Treasure I possest,
Rich in thy Charms, and in thy Virtue blest.
Our selves in Peace, our Fame we then enjoy'd,
Whom, false Ambition, and the War destroy'd.
Who to Ambition hearkens, is undone,
All Arms are ready to defend the Throne.
Happy the Man, whose Fortune and Desire,
Nor tempts him to encrease it, or aspire.


When Dudley led the Royal Armies forth,

Made General by the Council to go against Queen Mary.

Who doubted then his Forces, or his Worth.
Our sagest Councils then advis'd the War,
They councell'd boldly, till the Foe was near.
The Churches Danger justify'd the Cause,
Own'd by the Judges, and confirm'd by Laws.
Our Foes prepar'd their Arms, our Friends their Prayers,
Our Cause was righteous, but successful theirs.
What Prince's Act, when He's no more, will bind?

K. Edw. VI. by his Will, left the Crown to this Lady Jane.

Who has most Right, will most Assistance find.
This Mary knew, and this her Friends inspir'd,
Who flockt to hers, and from our Camp retir'd.
The Suffolk People, Suffolk's Hopes oppose,
And who were most our Friends, are most our Foes.
We wish'd to know, before to Reign we knew,
Fond of a Crown, while only 'twas in view.
But when possest, and giddy with the height,
We saw our Ruin, but 'twas then too late.


For us, who feels soft Pity in his Breast,
There, if he loves his Safety, let it rest.
So wretched we're become of what we were,
'Tis Death to think our Usage is severe,
For us, the Foe, no Pardon has in Store,
And but to ask it, they wou'd rage the more.
The Rancour of their Souls, enough they shew,
Enough the Goodness of their Hearts we know.
Whate'er wou'd please us, they in spite deny,
Nor suffer whom we love, to see us dye,
Our Children, and our Friends, Content must bear
Our Loss, nor venture once to shed a Tear.
Not the least Sigh, nor one reluctant Word,
Must our old Servants on our Death afford.
And those, who lately were ador'd by all,
Unpitty'd now, and unlamented fall.
Here for Protection and Defence we came,
Our Place of Honour once, as now of Shame.


What we have been, and what we are, we see,
These Chains but ill, with what we were, agree.
Let us look back on worldly Pomp no more,
Our Day on Earth is done, our Business o'er.
For Death, 'tis now our Duty to prepare,
Heav'n is our home, and we shall soon be there.
Farewel—My Soul is on the Wing to fly,
Disdains the nether World, and mounts on high.



The Earl of Essex having offended Queen Elizabeth, by coming from his Expedition in Ireland without her Permission, and the Earl in taking the Advice of my Lord Southampton, with other hot Men, his Friends, endeavouring to engage the People in his Defence—His Enemies the Lord Burleigh, and Sir Walter Raleigh, manag'd their Hate so well with the Queen, that they got him to be apprehended, try'd, and afterwards beheaded, while the Queen was in her Fury: Who, as 'tis said, heartily repented of it, and his death occasion'd hers, or at least shorten'd her Days. This Letter is suppos'd to be sent him the Day before his Tryal, and his Answer return'd a Day or Two after.

Queen Elizabeth to the Earl of Essex.

See Essex! see how weakly I maintain,
The former Glories of my Virgin Reign.


Betray'd, forsook, to write Thee, I descend,
And use Thee still, as thou wer't still my Friend,
To Thee, this Favour, like the rest will prove,
Despis'd perhaps, because it looks like Love.
Mistaken Pity, will thy Pride deceive,
Which rather shou'd confound Thee, than relieve.
But vain and haughty in thy latest Hour,
My Mercy thou'lt abuse, as once my Power.
Yet say, Ungrateful! what thy Arts can plead,
To save thy Honour, and thy forfeit Head.
The Lords, thy Judges, for thy Doom prepare,
Thy Crimes as heavy, as the Court severe.
Condemn'd already, by the general Voice,
Thy Friends forsake Thee, and thy Foes rejoice.
Cecill's base Envy, whom he fear'd reviles,

Cecill, Lord Burleigh; whose Envy of this Noble Earl and his Politicks too great for the generous open Temper of my Lord Essex, work'd him on to his Destruction.

And Raleigh, with malicious Pleasure smiles.

Sir Walter Raleigh; 'tis the blemish of his Life, that he concern'd himself in the Fate of our unfortunate Hero. The Mighty and Warlike Prince James I. return'd the hard Measure on him he dealt to this Earl in the House of Commons, of which he was then a Member.

Their Malice, with their Duty, they conceal,
'Tis the Queens Safety, and the publick Weal,


The worst of Treasons, to thy Charge is laid,
An Army famish'd, and a Trust betray'd.
They urge, a Nation by thy wast undone,
The Rebels pardon'd, and their chief Tyrone.
Thy Fears they tell me, did the Traytor save,
And scare will now allow thee to be brave,
Their brutal rage shou'd on themselves be spent,
Were Essex, what I wish him, Innocent.
So much confest, by one so much abus'd,
Thou'lt fancy nothing, will be next refus'd.
But know, Unhappy! if I wish Thee free,
'Tis more to vindicate my self, than Thee.
Thee, whom to rival Monarchs, I prefer'd,
To be the Queens, to be the Nations Guard!

Essex enter'd into a Treaty with the Rebel Tyrone, which his Commission, large as the Queens Favour, qualified him to do. This was a main Article against him at his Tryal.

The Creature of my Favour, Thee I chose,
To fight my Battles, and chastise my Foes.
Warm'd by my Smiles, and kindled into Man,
Thy Soul to feel Heroick Flames began:
Till then to Fortune, and to Fame, unknown,
Who since defended, and adorn'd the Throne.


Mine are thy Laurels, and Iberian-Spoils,
Thy Northern Conquest, and thy boasted Toils.
The vast Design, the Martial Spirit, mine,
The dull Mechanick Action only thine.
Thus form'd, the Hero I created, dares,
Insult his Queen, and raise Rebellious Wars.
My Court disturb'd with Faction and Allarms,
My Person threaten'd, and the Croud in Arms.
Oh Faithless! is it thus I am repay'd,
And thus thou justify'st the Choice I made.
What will the Nations; what will England say
Who dread my Anger, or my Laws obey.
If this unpunish'd, unreveng'd they see,
'Twere just they took my Crown, and gave it Thee.
So fierce thy Courage, and thy Soul so great,

'Tis said, the Earl's Carriage to the Queen at their last Enterview, was such, as provok'd her to strike him.

The Blow receiv'd, thov never canst forget.
Struck by a Queen, the Mighty Warriour raves,
Whose Rage had else been punish'd by her Slaves.


Affronted thus, thou think'st thy Honour lost,
A Fate too Glorious, and which Kings wou'd boast.
Think of thy Insolence, and thank thy Stars,
Thy Rudeness more advanc'd Thee, than thy Wars.
My boundless Fury, has enlarg'd thy Fame,
And more my Patience, than my Passion, blame.
Provok'd, to strike Thee, I abus'd the Throne,
To me, Dishonour, as to Thee, Renown.
Yet this, thy Folly, and thy Pride, proclaim,
With fruitless Threats, injurious to thy Name.
Rail on—thy Rage is impotent and base,
And shews thou ill deserv'dst a better Place.

My Lord of Essex was then in the Tower.

But that the Wretch who wrong'd me, I despise,
And scorn to triumph o'er the Man who dyes:
How might I now upbraid Thee, and expose,
A Picture, blacker, than thy vilest Foes?
What hinders that, thus injur'd, I forbear,
To leave Thee, to their Malice and Despair:


What in thy Actions hast thou left undone,
My Quiet to disturb, and shake my Throne.
I cannot, must not think of this again,
Nor, while I prosecute Revenge, complain.
By those, who follow'd and ador'd Thee, left,
Of Favour, Pity, and of Help bereft.
How easie might my Vengeance be pursu'd,
If thine wou'd please me, as thou seek'st my Blood.
None wou'd thy Merit, or thy Cause defend,
If Rutland were not faithful to her Friend.

The Countess of Rutland, fam'd for her Beauty and her Love for this Lord.

She sighs and mourns, and in her earnest Pray'rs,
Too much of Love, too much Concern appears.
Nor is her Friendship, or her Passion young,
'Tis fed with Hopes, and has been flatter'd long.
In this, if I discover thy Deceit,
Her Grief is not as certain as thy Fate.
If by thy Wiles, unlicens'd, thou hast strove,
To tempt her from her Duty, and to love.


New Guilt, and heavier, will increase thy Store,
And sink Thee deeper than thou wert before.
The Queen, by high Prerogative, decreed,
The Beauteous Orphan, to another Bed.
'Tis Treason, to divert her Virgin Vows,
Corrupt my Servants, and divide my House.
My Word engag'd, or what have I to care,
For what she thinks of thee, or thou of her.
A Heart so false, and such a faithless Tongue,
Will never be belov'd, or never long.
Oh hadst thou prov'd, as Loyal and Sincere,
As Eminent in Truth, as great in War.
Wert thou, as once I thought thou wou'dst have been,
True to thy Oaths, thy Duty and the Queen;
Did thy proud Heart pernicious Arts despise,
Nor sought without me, and too fast, to rise.
Cecill of Plots, and Treasons might complain,
And Raleigh curse his Rival, but in vain.


Their Spite discover'd, thou mightst laugh to see,
The Shame return'd on Them, they meant on Thee.
Safe in thy Innocence, thou needst not fear,
How Envy cou'd defame, or hurt Thee here.
Left by thy Friends, on me thou mighst depend,
While the Queen liv'd, thou shoud'st not was a Friend.
Willing to help, cou'd I my Help excuse,
To save the Life, which thou art fond to lose

The Earl of Leicester, my Lord Essex's Predecessor in the Queens good Graces.

An injur'd Monarch wou'dst thou else defie,

Philip II. King of Spain, Henry III. the French King and the King of Sweden, courted Queen Elizabeth.

But Penitent in Guilt, to Mercy fly,
Woudst thou so nigh Conviction, else arraign,
My Sov'reign Justice, and thy Wrongs maintain,
How art thou wrong'd, if 'tis not by the weight,
Of Honours, Wealth, and being made too great.
Advanc'd so high in Favour and in Pow'r,
That nothing but a Crown cou'd raise thee more.


Ev'n Kings, grew jealous of thy growing Pride,
And Leicester grieving at thy Fortune, dy'd.
Philip, and Henry, and the gallant Sweed,
With different Hopes, pretended to my Bed.
I scorn'd their Empires, and repeated Vows,
My People, I resolv'd, shou'd be my Spouse.
Nor wanted Heroes of consummate Worth,
To guide the State, and lead my Armies forth
Some in the Field, in Councel some excel,
The first in both was Essex, till he fell.
Young, and a Victor, yet in Fortune wise,
He early won our Hearts, he charm'd our Eyes,
Nor rose as fast as he deserv'd to rise.
Thus Loyal was he once, belov'd and brave,
Shall he now Perish, whom a Word wou'd save.
Tell me 'tis Cecill, who his Death contrives,
Or Raleigh, undistinguish'd, while he lives.
My Mercy thou may'st easily deceive;
Repent, and what thou pleasest, I'll believe.


Yet least thy Folly, and my Wrath return,
Or we too late, our cruel Councils mourn.
This, tho thy Judges shou'd thy Fate decree,
Ensures thy Safety, and will set thee free.
This Present use in thy extreamest want,
Whate'er with This is ask'd, I'll freely grant.

The Queen sent him a Ring, as part of the Story says, by the best Judges thought to be fabulous, but never the worse for a Poetical Fiction. She told him whenever he return'd the Ring, whatever he then demanded, she wou'd grant. The Lady Nottingham to be reveng'd on the Earl, for past ill usage, took the Ring of him, but never gave it the Queen, nor told her of it, till after the Earl's Death.


The Earl of Essex to Queen Elizabeth.

Fairest, and Greatest, of your Sex, believe,
Less for my Sentence, than your Hate, I grieve.
Oh! cou'd you pity me, if not forgive,
I then shou'd rather choose to die, than live.
To Sin, and die unpardon'd is my Curse,
But Life, and not to be forgiv'n, worse.
Nor Ax, nor Scaffold, wou'd my Fear create,
Nor Death, or what is terrible in Fate;
Wou'd my Queen pity my unworthy Doom,
And honour with a Tear, my happy Tomb;
My greedy Foes, unenvy'd, shou'd enjoy
The Pow'r, for which, your Essex they destroy.
I dare not on my Innocence relye,
My Queen offended, I deserve to die.
Else my past Service, and triumphant Wars,
My Wounds for England, and my frightful Scars.


Else Cales, by me, your Conquest I might plead,

The Earl of Essex, when my Lord Howard, Admiral at the Expedition of Cales, commanded him with a Squadron, of Men of War to begin the Attack, threw his Hat into the Sea for Joy, and did Wonders in that Action.

Dispute with this for Mercy, and succeed.
Young as I was, I won the doubtful Fight,
And forc'd the Spaniards to inglorious Flight.
The Darling of the People, I return'd,
By all then worship'd, as I now am scorn'd.
Enrich'd, the Soldiers, and their General came,
My Troops with Plunder, and my self with Fame.
Oh Essex! lost for ever, where are now,
The Crouds, which at thy Presence us'd to bow?
Where are the supple Slaves, who then ador'd,
The youthful Follies of the rising Lord?
Contemn'd, forgot, they leave me in my Shame,
And whom they flatter'd much, they much defame.
What are their Falshood, their Reproach or Scorn,
Light as their Praise, and easie to be born?
The Queen appeas'd again, they wou'd adore,
The Man they curse, and bless him as before.


My Queen's just Fury, I confess I fear,
Such Majesty enrag'd, I cannot bear,
But sink beneath my Sorrows, and despair.
Learn'd by Experience, and by Suffering, wise,
As others mine, their Fortune I despise,
Who hope, when Essex is remov'd, to rise.
For Envy, or their own Ambition, soon,
Will spoil the work, they think so well begun
Who shares his Prince's Bounty, wou'd have all,
And higher as he mounts, prepares his Fall.
My Error, this, in others I can see,
And that will ruin them, which ruin'd me.
Oh Essex! Happy once, belov'd, carest,
With the Queen's Favour, and the People's, blest.
Faln from thy Height, so miserably low,
Thy Foes then envy'd, whom they pitty now.
Ev'n Cecill, of Remorse and Pity void,
Weeps o'er the Wretch his jealousie destroy'd.
He weeps to view the cruel Turns of Fate,
And fearing for himself, repents his Hate.


My Queen, or thus, I flatter my Despair,
Believes my Judges, in my Cause, severe.
My Crimes were such, as Raleigh wish'd to see,

Sir Walter Raleigh succeeded the Earl of Essex in the Command of the Queens Guards.

Not what they were, but what he'd have 'em be.
Death was his aim, and nothing less wou'd do,
My Life he wanted, and my Honours too.
Cou'd Essex be so faithless, and so base,
He oft might have prevented this Disgrace.
The Power you gave him, had he ill employ'd,
Or joyn'd those Rebels, whom his Arms destroy'd.
My want of Faith, might then have fatal prov'd,
Which tempted much, you ever found unmov'd.
'Tis said, an Army, by my Conduct starv'd,
Convince the World, that I these Chains deserv'd.
My Treaty with Tyrone, my Trust betray'd,
My Troops by Famine, and Disease decay'd;
The sickly Soldiers, well might dread the Foe,
And fear to Combat, when they scarce cou'd go.
The Peace I gave, Necessity compell'd,
Content to conquer thus, who else must yield.


My Care had better in my Charge been try'd,
Had Cecill as he ought, the Camp supply'd.

'Twas reported by my Lord Essex's Friends, that Provisions were kept back by Cecill's means, then Minister of State, to bring his Army into streits, and ruin my Lord's Reputation.

To me, your Armies Losses, might be laid,
Cou'd I cure Sickness, or cou'd make 'em Bread.
Hard Fate of Heroes, who from Battle come,
To fall by Cowards, and their Arts at home.
These may their Princes, and their People guard,
If others Service, you like mine reward.
For who for Victory, or Fame will strive,
To die like Traytors, or like Slaves to live?
This the fair Crop, the Victor's Harvest brings,
The common Gratitude of jealous Kings.
They fear the Valour, which secures the Throne
And hate the Glories that eclipse their own,
So Fatal! to oblige or serve a Crown.
Who'll Court Commands, or venture with 'em far,
While trembling Ministers direct the War.
Their Councils still distracted by their Fear,
And Danger ever in their Fancy near.


Commissions, narrow as their Souls they grant,
And fatten, while the Soldier pines with want.
The General, when he fails, their Censure bears,
Whenever he succeeds, the Praise is theirs.
Their Wisdom then, the mighty Action rules,
And Soldiers are at best, but Statesmens Tools,
A dull, unthinking Herd of fighting Fools.
Fools; since to every wealthy plotting Knave,
'Tis folly to be Honest, or be Brave.
Burleigh be curst, for 'tis to him I owe,
These Horrors, and this Bitterness of Woe.
Curst be his Treasons, and his Plots, from them
This Prison, Sentence, and Dishonour came:
Than whom, there never in a State was known,
A Villain fitter, to betray a Crown.
His Temper, Cruelty; and Gold, his Lust;
To Vengeance only, and his Int'rest just.
For Him too soon, too late, Alass! for Me,
Whose Trust was executed best, you'll see.


'Tis time for Essex, dying, to forget,
The Joys and Sorrows of a Mortal State.
Short is the Scene which he's to act below,
And Heav'n commands him to forgive his Foe.
Forgive me Heav'n, if Humane Passion's frail,
And Nature suffering will to Death prevail.
Pardon, my beauteous Sov'reign, if my Rage,
Breaks out too fierce, before I quit the Stage.
The last rude Action of my Life forgive,
'Twas Madness, rather than Design, believe.
Sincere my Penitence, to Heav'n and You,
Whatever I was then, I now am true.
No Merit, by my Services, I claim,
Yet pray my Mistress to defend my Name.
Let not base Tongues, your Essex dead, revile,

The Earl jealous of Nottingham's Fidelity in returning the Ring.

Nor wrong the Man, on whom You deign'd to smile.
But Oh! what Words can move you to be kind,
To the dear Relict I must leave behind.


At last, it seems, the fatal Secret's known.
Tho sure our Loves were harmless to the Throne.
My own Misfortunes, I cou'd proudly bear,
Yet, my Soul shrinks, when I consider her.
For Her, and for our Infant, yet unborn,
And what for me they may endure, I mourn.
With this, tho you may never this receive,
I send the Present you were pleas'd to give.
'Tis my Lifes surety, and returns by Her,
Whom the Queen trusted, and yet whom I fear.
On my Knees bending, I your Gift restore,
And Favour only for my Wife implore.
Her Youth, her Beauty, and Distresses join,
To move your Pity, in itsself Divine.
Protect her Innocence from Cecill's Rage,
And her poor Infant in its helpless Age.
So may just Heav'n defend your sacred Head,
So may your Councils, so your Arms succeed.


A better Servant you perhaps may find,
Yet ne'er repent you were to Essex kind.

The Two Letters in Cabala of this Noble Earl's, are the best writ of any of the Kind in his Days.



Mary Queen of the Scots, had, during her Marriage with Francis the Dauphin, Son to the French King Henry II. pretended She was Heiress to the Crown of England, as descending from Margaret Daughter to Henry VII. King of England, by James IV. King of Scotland and that Queen Elizabeth was illegitimate. This and her Attempts to raise a Rebellion, and being accus'd of Babington's Conspiracy against the Life of the Queen, were the Cause of her Death at Fotheringhay Castle in Northamptonshire, where She was beheaded after a long Imprisonment. The Duke of Norfolk suffer'd for Misprision of her Treasons, supplying her with Money to send to the Scots, who invaded our Borders, and endeavouring to marry her against the Queens Consent. What their Fates were, will be better seen in the Duke's Epistle, and Queen Mary's Answer.

Duke of Norfolk, to Mary Queen of the Scots.

At last our Foes, illustrious Queen, succeed,
And Norfolk sentenc'd, must to morrow bleed.


All vile Submission, I for life despise,
My Soul preparing for her Native Skies.
Great, like my Actions, shall my Death appear,
Who dauntless, oft have met him in the War.
Let bloody States-men, from his presence fly,
Who live by Treason, must with Horror die.
Let Burleigh tremble, when his Name he hears,
To me familiar, and below my Fears.
T'wou'd please the Traytor, and the Cruel Queen,
Were the least Terror, in my Sufferings seen.
But Innocent and wrong'd, my Heart disdains,
By Fear, to shew that I deserve my Chains.
To Court the curst Contriver of my shame,
And stain the Honours of our Princely Name,
No—Let him Howard, like the rest devour,
I dare his Malice, and defie his Power.
What can I hope, from an Ungrateful Queen?
To Cringe like Cecill, I must be as mean.


Cast in a Mould, as Crooked as his mind,

The Lord Burleigh was not the honestest, nor the best shap'd Man of his time.

In Spite to Nature, he destroys his kind;
Such Servants, ever may such Sovereigns find.
Vain of her Wisdom, every fawning Slave,
Who flatters her in this, insults the Brave.
Cowards and Hypocrites her Pow'r maintain,
The famous Pillars of her Virgin Reign:
Whose virtue is their Wealth, whose God their gain.
To these, shall Norfolk for a Pardon bow,
Sunk in his Spirit, as in Fortune low?
Shall I to Leicester, in distress apply,
Confess my Guilt, and own I dread to die.
Shall I his Vallour, or his Wit Commend,
Or praise him for his zeal to serve his Friend.
Must I to Cecill, tell my mournful Tale,
My Gold, will sooner, than my Grief prevail.
To Moreton—Curse him—must I make my Plaint,

The Earl of Moreton, a great Enemy of the Scots Queen.

Pray him to mediate as my Guardian Saint.


Approve the Murder of his Lord, and swear,
The States are Loyal, and his Zeal sincere.

The States of Scotland, set up James VI. of Scotland, her Son, under the Government of Murray.

'Tis thought by some, that Moreton was concern'd in the Death of the Lord Darnly, the Queen of the Scots first Scottish Husband, but by others, with more reason, that Earl Bothwell, who got after into the Queens Bed, turn'd out the other.

The Senate with Petitions, shall I vex,
And stile their Mistress, fairest of her Sex.
Tell her She's Beauteous, Merciful and Young,
And own her Title, in Maria's Wrong.
If my false Tongue, my Love and Faith denies,
Witness,—Whoever hears me, that it lies,
If, from my Fathers, I so far decline,
May Moreton's Death, and Cecill's Fate be mine.
In either World, Perdition be my Lot,
Tormented in the next, in this forgot.
What better from a Court, cou'd I expect,
That acts, as Burleigh pleases to direct?
How can a Subject, of his Rage complain,
Whose Hands, Divinity it self profane.
Gods! is it thus, the Nations shou'd adore,
The rightful Heiress to the Soveraign Pow'r.
Thus—that the People, their Allegiance pay,
With such Devotion, as to Heaven they pray.


Stand of.—Ye Traytors! Let the Queen be free,
And Execute your Cruelty on Me.
Hide her—Ye Angels! with your peaceful Wings,
Protect the sacred Majesty of Kings.
Howe'er of Me, my Fortune may dispose,
Oh save Maria, and prevent her Foes.
To whom shou'd she account, but You, ye Pow'rs,
At whose Tribunal shou'd She stand, but yours?

The Doctrine still taught by the ambitious and loose part of the Clergy, that Kings are accountable to none but Heaven, and 'tis without a President, they tell you of Kings being brought to a Bar. Forgetting that Henry III. of France, was summon'd to a Tryal by the Parliament of Paris, under the Protection of the League for the Death of the Duke of Guise, and Cardinal Lorrain, and condemn'd, if he did not appear to answer the Charge in such a time. The whole Process was on record, till Henry IV ordered it to be raz'd out of the Register. Perifixe Histoire de Henry le Grand.

Where Justice infinite, with Mercy reigns,
And Innocence like hers, the promis'd Crown obtains.
Loose Her—Ye Impious! 'tis a Queen you bind,
The Greatest, Best and Fairest of her kind.
Her Beauty might from Tygers, Pity draw,
Her Eyes, all Insolence, but Cecill's awe.
Whom wou'd you bring to your Illegal Bar?
You madly judge your selves, in judging her.
Ye Monarchs! See how they affront the Throne,
Assert her Rights, and vindicate your own.


In Her, the Rebels wound the Royal Name,
The same your Rank, your Wrongs may be the same.
Her Suff'rings, shou'd the neighb'ring Crowns alarm,
France, and all Europe, to revenge her Arm.
Victorious Guise, the Princes of Lorrain,
The Sturdy German, and Confederate Spain.
To save a Sovereign, or revenge appear,
For Faith and Monarchy, are struck in her.
No Succour should she want, were Howard free,
Nor Hosts nor Heroes, but have all in me.
If Earth and Hell, against Maria rose,
Norfolk alone, their fury would oppose.
Thro' Troops of Rebels, to her aid I'd fly,
Or bravely rescue her, or bravely die.
Who tamely on a Scaffold, now must Bleed,
And forfeit, for suspected Crimes, my Head.
Tho what is Death, (The worst our Foes can do,)
To Thinking, how it then may fare with You?


Death would be welcome, were my Queen secure,
The shame, and unconcern'd, I should endure.
Soon will the Pain, the Terror soon be o'er,
And scarce Maria's Friendship, bless me more.
My Soul with pleasure, to her Seat would fly,
On Angels Wings, and sing of you on high.
Long may your People, in your Reign be blest,
Your Charms, your Piety, by all confest.
England, when she who envys you is gone,
Transported, may advance you to her Throne
Like me who loves you, wou'd his Death prefer,
To Life, if dying, he might see you there.
To you were Fortune, she to me were Kind.
For all my wishes, are in yours confin'd.
Hear—Hear me Heaven! the Lovely Fair defend,
On Heav'n she only must for Help depend.
The Listning God has heard my earnest Pray'r,
And in Imperial Robes, presents the Fair.
My Mind distemper'd, what it hopes, believes.
And Love, my Senses, with the Charm deceives.


The Clouds are scatter'd, and a Golden Ray,
Breaks fiercely forth, to gild the promis'd Day.
The Monarch, mounted on her Throne appears,
Her Dames around her, and her Loyal Peers.
Joy in each Sex, in every Age, is seen,
While Crouds, with honest Shouts, salute the Queen
She Smiles—Oh whither wou'd my Fancies rove,
On me She smiles,—And all the rest is Love.
The Joy, too Furious, I can scarce contain,
To Madness, it transports my working Brain.
Come Cecill, Moreton, with your Ruffians come,
Least Rapture kills me, and prevents my Doom.
The Splendor dazles, and confounds my Sight,
I dream of Day, but wake in horrid Night.
The Scene is shifted, and the Vision flies,
And Ghastly Forms, and less Delusion rise.
Behold, the Royal Excellence is laid,
By Guards, surrounded on a sordid Bed,
And thence, in solemn Pomp, to Death she's led.


Away—Ye rude Companions of Despair,
Away—Ye Gloomy Thoughts, to Native Air,
They hate the Saint, but durst not hurt the Fair.
In vain, Alass! to sooth my Grief I strive,
Maria is too great, too good to live.
A shining Host of happy Spirits wait,
To guide her to a new, a better State.
No Tyrants there, nor Traytors can molest,
Your Reign Triumphant, and Immortal Rest.
Amid the Thrones, I shall behold you first,
Your Foes, to Darkness, and Perdition curst.
Oh Thou! whose Mercy's boundless as thy Pow'r
Forgive this Fury, in my dying Hour.
Let my whole Soul attend its sudden Flight,
Short be our Passage, and our Burthen light.
Enlarge our Patience, and increase our Zeal,
Blest, in thy Presence, let us ever dwell.
Till there again we meet, Illustrious Queen! Farewel.


Mary Queen of the Scots, to the Duke of Norfolk.

How shall I write Thee, how my Grief express,
My Pity, will the Pains I sooth, encrease.
With Horror, Howard, will my Letter see,
For all his Troubles are deriv'd from me.
From me, his Infamy and Prison came,
A Traytor's Sentence, and a hated Name.
His Zeal to serve me, has his House undone,
First, of his Peers; and second, to the Throne.
Thy Fate, Unrighteous, will their Honours wast,
And Norfolk, Greatest of his Name, be last.
Their mighty Actions, be in thine forgot,
And this, which shou'd adorn their Annals, blot.
'Tis thus with Heroes, when the Statesmen rise,
For Vice, is Virtue then, and Virtue, Vice.


Hadst thou like these, my Royal Claim disown'd,
Betray'd my Friendship, and my Fortune shun'd.
Great still, and Happy, thou like these hadst been,
The Fav'rite Hero of the Virgin Queen.
Still Great, tho better in a Grave for Me,
Proud Leicester might have charm'd her less than Thee.
Far from thy Soul, this dreadful Image drive,
And little as thou canst, to hate me, strive.
If by my Ruin, I cou'd ransom thine,
Our Foes wou'd most have been disturb'd with mine.
By endless Terror, and Remorse pursu'd,
Their Guilt will on themselves, revenge my Blood.
My Soul at Liberty will wing its way,
To the blest Regions of Eternal Day.
An earthly Crown, contented, I shall leave,
Another there, a brighter to receive.
With Thrones, Dominions, and the Saints to reign,
To know no Danger, and to feel no Pain.


And what in Death wou'd terrible appear,
Or what cou'd tempt my wandring Wishes here.
The World, her Empires, and her Wealth I scorn,
For other Ends, and other Tryals born.
With Shame and Torture, I shou'd choose to dye,
For such my God endur'd, and such shou'd I.
No Vile insulting, nor Reproach shou'd move,
My Soul preparing for its Flight above.
Were Howard safe, transported, I wou'd soar,
Beyond all Envy, and descend no more.
My Fortunes sink him whom my Love wou'd bless,
And sure such Friendship can be nothing less
What by this kind Confession wilt thou gain,
It comes too late, and sooner had been vain.
From Scotland banish'd, and deny'd the Throne,
My Love had ruin'd Thee, as soon as known.
Poor and Imprison'd, I cou'd ill reward,
The Vows you made, and I with Pleasure heard,


Had I been free, to give to whom I pleas'd,
The Crowns, the Rebels, and my Rival siez'd.
As Darnly once, so Norfolk shou'd have sat,
On Alban's Throne, and rul'd the Factious State.
The Realm obedient, wou'd have own'd her Lord,
And fear'd thy Valour, and thy Form ador'd.
Thy Native England to thy Yoke had bow'd,
Thy Arms have dreaded, and my Claim allow'd.
Oh Norfolk! see thy Wishes do not stray,
But keep thee safer, tho a rougher way.
For Death approaching, shou'd we thus prepare,
To hug the Trifles we are leaving here.
These golden Vanities we keep in view,
And for false Glories, we despise the True.
In Scales ill Ballanc'd, we our Losses try,
They wou'd weigh lighter, were we fit to die.
For Nature wou'd her present Goods possess,
And slights a future Crown for this she sees.


The doubtful Change she meditates in Tears,
And feign with that wou'd part, might this be Hers.
Not thus with me—to Heavens Decrees Resign'd,
By my past Follies, I've improv'd my Mind.
Fair was the promise of my youthful Pride,
To Empire born, and mighty Kings ally'd.
France early saw me in her Dauphin's Arms,

Her first Husband was Francis the Dauphin, and after Francis II, the French King. He died young.

As rich in Fortune, as in Native Charms.
My self a Queen, my Husband's Hopes were more
And Europe jealous of our growing Power.
These Visions vanish'd when the Prince was dead
And Darnly mounted to my widow'd Bed.

Her Second was the Lord Darnly.

Love then with better Joys my Bliss encreas'd,
Of all in Darnly, I cou'd wish possess'd.
His horrid Murder chang'd the gaudy Scene,
And now Maria is no more a Queen.

Earl Bothwell her third, forc'd to fly to Sweden, to escape the Fury of the People, who wou'd revenge the Death of the Lord Darnly, laid to his Charge.

Driv'n from my House, and from my Kingdom forc'd.
From him who lov'd me, and I Lov'd divorc'd.


Young as I was, and then unus'd to Care,
I fled for Safety, and I found it here.
For safe in Death, my Soul will be at ease,
And find what Scotland had deny'd me, Peace,
Oh Norfolk! other ways they might have try'd,
As well for them in private, I had dy'd.
Daggers or Poyson wou'd have done the deed,
And Queens but seldom on a Scaffold bleed.
The Pomp of Tryals will not hide their Guilt,
Nor Justice be deceiv'd, where Blood is spilt.
Less hurt in dying, than an injur'd Name,
To justifie their Sentence, they defame.

Some were so sawcy as to murmur, as if she knew of the Attempt on her 2d Husband, but they gave no order Reason for't, than because her 3d was suppos'd to be the Assassin.

Oh woudst thou think it to my Charge they lay,
Such Crimes as Innocence abhors to say.
My Husband murder'd, by the Slaves I hir'd,

Gifford the Priest confess'd the Scots Queen, was not His, and Babington's Conspiracy. She was a Prisoner 18 Years or more.

My Rival's Death, they swear I next conspir'd.
Gifford with Moreton, and our Foes combin'd,
Declares, with Babington, and him I joynd,
To kill their Queen, consented and design'd.


Elisa gone to sieze the Brittish Crown,
To Thee the Treason he discovers known.
Oh Horror! how shall we our Foes forgive,
'Tis hard—but this we must, if we wou'd live.
If Mercy from our God, we hope to find,
To those who wrong us, we shou'd be as kind.
Our God, who ne'er the Penitent refus'd,
Wo dy'd to save us, was like us abus'd.
A Prison humbles, and Affliction tames,
From Passion and Revenge our Hearts reclaims,
And purifies our Souls as Metal in the Flames,
The Words, which, reigning had been Death to hear,
Since grown familiar, I with Patience bear.
Chains in a Minute, will improve us more,
Than Books or Lessons cou'd in Years before.
Monarchs, Instructions from their Slaves despise,
And think 'tis Vulgar, to be Learn'd or Wise.
With Books, as Children with their Toys they play,
Affect to read, as Hypocrites to pray.


A shew of Learning, and they need no more,
To make their Wisdom dreaded like their Pow'r.
With little reading, for too much is dull,
A King's a Scholar, and his Slave a Fool.
They look on Morals, as below their State,
Nor study to be better, till too late.
If Twenty tedious Winters they had spent,
In loathsome Solitude, and wretched Want.
Books then, and Virtue, they like me wou'd find,
The best Companions for a sickly Mind.
Kings, with Confusion, in my Fate may see,
No Prince so mighty, but may fall like me.
Once I was Happy, and while Happy, thought,
A Monarch never cou'd so low be brought.
Now, what is Mystery to them, I know,
I ne'er had mounted, but by being low.
Of Foes no longer, nor of Death afraid,
My Passage easie, by my Hopes is made,
Attending Glories, that will never fade,


True—Nature thinks 'tis hard to leave a Crown
That Heav'n hereafter, may with ease be won.
Love tells me Norfolk's Doom is too severe,
Nor yet wou'd be content to miss him there.
Oh cou'dst thou leave it in a gentler way,
'Twere Cruel in this lower World to stay,
And our bright Meeting in the next Delay.



Mr. Waller has not made himself more famous for his excellent Vein in Poetry, than for his Love to the Lady Dorothy Sydney, Daughter to my Lord Leicester, and afterwards Countess of Carlisle: Celebrated by him, under the Name of Sacharissa. She was one of the most noted Beauties in the Court of King Charles L. and as proud as She was Fair. There will not be much History expected in these Epistles, the Persons being very little concern'd in the State.

Mr. WALLER to the Countess of Carlisle.

Thus the bright God, who gilds the Chrystal Skies;
Chac'd the Coy Nymph, and thus his Daphne flies,
To the fierce Wolf she gives her fleecy Train,
Of nothing fearful, but the Deathless Swain.


She leaves her little Lambs, her bleating Ewes
Hasts to the Village, and the God pursues.
He Sings, he Sighs, he follows her in vain,
Her Home she leaves, and hyes her to the Plain
As fast as Daphne from Apollo flew,
From me you fly, and I as fast pursue.
If the Nymph heard him touch his Golden Lyre,
Nor caught the Flame of his Immortal Fire.
What Hopes, you'll listen to my Songs or me,
A Mortal I, and you as proud as She.
At Court, they tell me, when I seek you there,
At Pensburst, I may find our absent Fair.
To Pensburst, I pursue the flying Dame,
And ever Chacing, ever miss the Game.
To Court, she hastens from the Beechen Shade,
And shuns the Flowry Walks her Hands have made.
The Mountain sports, the Circle at the Green,
The Subjects of the May, her self the Queen.


The merry Maids she leaves, the jolly Swains,
And the gay Pleasures of her Native Plains.
To her self Cruel, she consents to be,
If else she fears, she must be kind to me.
Your Eyes too much ador'd, your Charms desir'd,
To shine in Solitude, and Live retir'd.
How poor the Service of such humble Swains,
When Princes are ambitious of your Chains?
Illustrious, like your Beauty, you aspire,
To Conquest, and to set the World on Fire.
Thus like the Sun, beneath the burning Line,
You rather to destroy, than bless us, shine.
So fierce, and yet so Beauteous you appear,
We wish at once to see you, and we Fear.
Jove, will not long your Tyranny endure,
Whose Dart's as Fatal, as his Vengeance sure.
You brav'd his Fury, and was once compell'd,

The Lady Dorothy Sydney, Dowager of my Lord Carlisle.

Tho vainly you resisted him, to yield.


In Arms Rebellious, you again appear,
And press amid the thickest of the War.
Where Show'rs of Darts, & pointed Arrows rain,
The Danger you despise, the Fight maintain,
And ride, a Cruel Pleasure! o'er the slain.
You see the Ruins that your Eyes have made,
And triumph o'er the Dying, and the Dead.
Death, in your soft envenom'd Glances lies,
And he that gazes of their Poyson dyes.
Happy, to perish by a quick Despair,
Whose Life you think so little worth your Care.
The killing Smart, contented, he'd endure,
Were your Eyes ready as to hurt, to cure.
Which like our Indian Plant, at once conceal,
To wound, the Venom, and the Balm to heal.
Proud of your Fortune, your survey the Spoils,
And rule severely, whom you won with Smiles.
As Monarchs, giddy with too much Success,
By War grow Cruel, who were born for Peace.


Love may at last, the destin'd Hero send,
The Charm to finish, and our Bondage end.
Brave, Young, and Great, for such the Knight must be,
Who wins the Dame, and sets the Captives free.
As you, your Slaves, so he may you controul,
And haughty like your self, command your Soul.
Thus the fierce Amazon in Phrygian Fields,

Pentheselea, Queen of the Amazons, at the Siege of Troy, was according to the Fable, kill'd by Pyrrhus Son of Achilles.

Voiture in his Letters, speaks of the Spanish Beauties, and writ several gallant Poems in the Spanish Tongue, which were taken to be done by their famous Lopez de Vega.

Rush'd thro' wing'd Squadrons, and by brazen Shields.
Her Arms, her Eyes, the Victor Greeks destroy,
And singly she suspends the Fate of Troy.
Till Pyrrhus meets her, and her Conquests Bounds,
Charms with his Youth, and with his Valour wounds.
Far as the Glory of our English Name,
Carlisle is worship'd, and the first in Fame.
From France, from Italy and Spain they come,
To see this Wonder, and receive their Doom


Europe and Asia of your Beauties ring,
Of these, a happy Theam, the Poets sing,
And Foreign Incense to your Altars bring.
Voiture, the Gallant, who so well has sung,

The same Voiture in his Letter to Mr. Gourdon at London, extolls highly the Beauty of this Lady Carlisle.

In their own Language, and adorn'd their Tongue.
Of Proud Iberian Dames, whose matchless Eyes,
Wou'd shine like Stars, and better light the Skies.
To you confesses, they with Shame must yield,
By yours, their Beauty and their Pride excell'd.
Tho vain and partial, is his Nations Vice,
Who every thing, but what is French despise,
Carlisle compells him to be just and wise.
Montausier Cruel, as he says She's Fair.
And Paulet gentle, as her Friend's severe.
Both wou'd by your superior Brightness seem,

Mademoiselle de Rambouillet, afterwards Dutchess of Montausier, and Mademoiselle Paulet, Voiture's Fav'rite Mistress, very much celebrated by him in his Letters.

As much eclips'd, as other look by them.


Carlisle he saw, yet own'd he ne'er had seen,
Yet far, in search of Beauties he had been,
A Dame so perfect, and shou'd ne'er agen.
Tho in French Authors we are us'd to meet,
Of Words full plenty in a Dearth of Wit.
Voiture's Complaint, is yet as just as new,
That Words are wanting, when he speaks of you.
Weak as their Langurge is, it serves to paint,
Their Images imperfect, and as faint.
But when like you, a Goddess they behold,
The Subject seems in their Surprize, too bold.
In English Numbers, and her Native Tongue,
Soft as her Graces, like our Passion strong,
An English Beauty can be only sung.
Their Ladies shining with dissembled Light,
Thus War their Heroes, and their Poets write.
Their Courage is as false as their Desire,
And Vanity in both mistook for Fire.


To Love, to Fight, no better Reasons move,
Than hopes to have it said, they Fight and Love.
In Treason, or in Numbers safe, they dare,
And as they Love, thro' Wantonness they war.
If Rich their Master and his Slaves appear,
They neither matter what indeed they are.
The Province bought, his dreadful Arms invade,
The King's a Conq'ror, and the Muse well paid.
With Pomp, and many Words, his deeds are writ,
The Monarch's Conquests, like the Poets wit.
More Nations have not, were his Fable true,
By the Great Lewis, been enslav'd than you.
The Court you chose, a proper Scene to shew,
How far the Fairest are excell'd by you.
Where sighing Princes at your Feet are seen,
And suppliant Crouds adore you as their Queen.
For such they think you are, or shou'd have been.


By Laws confin'd, an Empire you despise,
And uncontroul'd, command us with your Eyes.
Kings may our Hands with Iron Fetters bind,
With Chains severer, you secure the Mind.
Monarchs to save their Subjects, shou'd employ,
The Pow'r, which first they did from them enjoy.
Carlisle, like Lewis, Conquers to destroy.
Too well our want, and your Desert you know,
We're still but paying, what you say we owe.
Deaf to our Praise, our Services you scorn,
They're a just Debt, and merit no Return.
Were you less fair, you fewer Slaves wou'd find,
And ev'n to those, to keep 'em, must be kind.
But when such Numbers to your Temple croud,
Our warm Devotion makes the Goddess proud.
She sees 'em, unconcern'd, before her fall,
Thinks 'tis their Duty, and despises all,
In Courts you hope, and Cities to maintain,
And spread the Terror of your Tyrant Reign.


Love, from Ambition, and from Tumult flies,
And in the distant Shade, in Ambush lies.
There with the Muses, and the Nymph He plays,
Walks in the Meads, or on the Mountain strays.
He sits by cooling Springs, he haunts your Bow'rs,
And steals upon your soft and silent Hours.
As much as you provoke, you dread him there,
And where you met him once, to meet him fear.
But know—if Love affects to reign in Shades,
He oft the Pallace, and the Throne invades.
Amid your Guards, you will not be secure,
When the God pleases to exert his Pow'r.
Your shining Slaves, will only serve to Grace,
The Triumphs of the Man he means to bless.
Knights, Peers and Princes you may now refuse,
For one whom Love will to revenge 'em choose,
Without a Title, and without a Muse,

The Gentleman who recommended this Subject to me for an Epistle, is so good a Judge, that if I have pleas'd him in the Imitation of Mr. Waller's manner, I am sure the World will be satisfied. I own the attempt bold, and my Success doubtful, but if I may take the Assurances of those Friends who have seen it, I have not much to fear from the Criticks that shall see it hereafter.


The Countess of Carlisle to Mr. WALLER.

When I first flourish'd in your artful Song,

The Lady Carlisle being in Company with Mr. Waller the Duke of Buckingham, and several Persons of the first Rank for Wit and Quality, ask'd him in her elder Years, when he wou'd again write so finely of her, to which Mr. Waller reply'd when her Ladyship was again as young.

Fresh was the Beauty, and the Muse was young.
The Court was full, the City of my Fame,
And the Woods eccho'd Sacharissa's Name,
At once delighted, and amaz'd, they view,
The shining Picture which your Fancy drew.
They cry'd a Goddess, and ador'd the Shrine,
The Praise the Painters, and the Worship mine.
Your Verse, the Pleasure of the Fair and Great,
And both to flatter me your Songs repeat.
Such as you made me, I believ'd I was,
And try'd your Image by as false a Glass.
Their Wonder pleases, and my Youth betrays,
For Women are like Wits, bewitch'd with Praise.


I leave my Judgment to be rul'd by you,
And live, as if I thought the Fable true.
I mounted with you in your airy Flight,
Kept her in view, and reach'd the Muses height.
Still tow'ring upwards on a daring Wing,
Nor thought of Falling, while I heard her sing,
My Hopes as Glorious, and as few my Fears,
I soar'd, and took my Seat among the Stars.
In Lustre equal, to their Orbs I reign'd,
Commenc'd a Goddess, and the World disdain'd.
Crowns from my Feet, & scepter'd Slaves I spurn,
And less than an Immortal Lover scorn.
The Great, in my Opinion, like the Croud;
And him I use the worst, who made me Proud.
His Songs at first, created their Esteem,
And first I try'd my boasted Pow'r on him.
He suffers by the Deity he made,
Repents, and wou'd unsay the things he said.
His Praise, and their Devotion, I despise,
His Love's like theirs, a Tribute to my Eyes.


As once an Artist, who a Statue made,
Built her a Shrine, and to his Image pray'd.
Implor'd the new Divinity in vain,
And Curst, and wish'd her in the Log again,
While the fierce Goddess, or the Fable lies,
The Wretch who form'd her, in her Rage destroys.
This, if in Rhimes Rebellious you presume,
Again to urge your Merit, is your Doom.
This, you expect, for you who make 'em know,
What Goddesses provok'd too much can do.
Nor is't the Poets Priviledge to take,
The Pow'r he gave, and what he made, unmake.
Rome's Mitred Vicars, tho their God before,
The Saints themselves have Cannoniz'd adore.
The Bull with Signet Apostollick sign'd,
He's a Saint still, tho friendly or unkind.
In your own Language, I assert my Claim,
To the first Honours of my Virgin Fame.


I hate a sordid Mercenary Muse,
Who asks, and murmurs if the Fair refuse.
Obedience pure, you've taught me to require,
From Interest free, and Guiltless of Desire.
A Wit in Love, becomes an errant Fool,
And quickly, if he grows sincere, is dull.
Fiction's the Life of Poetry, and those,
Who boast Sincerity, shou'd speak in Prose.
Too well you know it, to be told by me,
Verse shou'd be Gay, and Pegasus be free.
He trots but heavy, when he steps with Care,
And his whole Study is to please his Fair.
Not to one Path with tedious Pace confin'd,
But various in his Course, and free as Wind,
The Muse shou'd sing of all the Charming Kind,
Of Flames affected, and her Darts they'll read,
Play with the Danger which they else wou'd dread.
But if she blazes with a real Fire,
The Phœnix Muse may in the Flames expire.


Few are the Poets, and the Lovers few,
We fear for speaking, or for being true,
And none, whom less we shou'd suspect than you.
Yet when of Murder, and of Fire you cry
So loud, 'tis safest for our Sex to fly.
Wits, as of antient Petrarch, 't has been said,

Petrarch, who flourish'd in the Year 1370, was a Poet and Canon of Padua, and writes much of a certain Laura, generally believ'd to be an affected Name for an imaginary Beauty.

Shou'd dye for some Imaginary Maid,
Their Passion Fabulous, and such the Dame,
And Laura, serve for all, a common Name.
The Nymph Divine, the Goddess you adore,
In Rhimes are useful, and shou'd mean no more.
The Sighing Shepherds, and the weeping Maids,
And Eccho Regent of the moanful Shades.
The smiling Graces, and the little Loves,
The fairy Pleasures of your silent Groves.
Your Streams, your Willows, and the dying Swain,
May turn some Melancholly Damsel's Brain.


Who reads the Tale with Sympathetick Sighs,
And the sad Story wets the Matrons Eyes.
But when for something Real 'tis design'd.
Your Tears look foolish, and your Sighs are Wind.
Your gamesome Circles, and your merry Plays,
May speak your Fancy, or a Poem Grace.
Yet still the Splendor of a Court will please,
While Pride is dearer to our Sex than Ease.
Where Flatt'ry most, and where Ambition thrive,
The Great will covet, and the Fair to live.
To Court the witty, and the Brave repair,
For Wit and Valour flourish only there.
The Soldiers fight, and best the Poets sing,
Warm'd by the Presence of a Mighty King.
Charm'd by the Fair, and cherish'd by the Great,
Your Fire it quickens, and refines your Wit.
Your Sex, have Pensions, Dignities and Pow'rs,
Business is yours, you think, and Pleasure ours.


As if we ought not in the State to share,
And cou'd not be at once both Wise and Fair.
Less to our Weakness owing than your Pride,
You thought us useless, till our Strength was try'd.
Content to hear you flatter us and vain,
Too long we suffer'd you alone to Reign.
Why may'nt my Lady, summon'd to the Board,
As sagely sit, and Councel, as my Lord.
'Tis hard, you will not let 'em there have room,
Yet yield 'em up the Government at home.
You find us cunning, to your Cost, in Love,
In Court Intrigues, we may our Arts improve.

'Tis said, this Lady was a great Caballer in King Charles the first Court, and hearing of the King's Intention to field the Five Members, she gave them notice to escape, which they did.

Tho Wit and Politicks but seldom meet,
Beauty's more necessary there than Wit.
You fear by one Misfortune, 'tis in vain,

Mr. Waller was a Member of the Long Parliament and at first zealous for Liberty, but not being Proof against the Temptations of the Court at Oxford, he betray'd the Parliament's Councells to the King, for which he was try'd and convicted, and hardly got off for a Fine of 10000 l. and Banishment which lasted till the Restauration.

To tempt by Politicks to rise again.
You leave the Court, and seek the Myrtle Grove,
And having nothing else to do, you Love.


You Write, you Rhime, and when the Song is done,
As easie as it came, your Passion's gone.
The Dame's made cruel, and the Shepherd true,
A fine Employment for a Wit, like you.
Full Plenty you, with Laurel may be blest,
But Laurel, is a Winter Green at best.
Tho happily the Muse may merit Praise,
A Crownet, makes a better Shew, than Bays.
To Rivers you, and to the Woods resort,
As you the Country, I prefer the Court.
Besides, if what you say is True, I fear,
To find the little God in Ambush there.
Like Fairies he, you tell me, haunts the Woods,
The Greens, and Dances on the Silver Floods.
Invisible to Mortal view, he lies,
On Mischief bent, by Force, or by Surprize.
'Tis well you warn'd me, I might else have thought,
No Danger, and have ventur'd and been caught.


No Groves, no Greens, for Me, if Love is there
He comes but seldom to disturb us here.
Safe here his Vengeance, and his Threats I'll brave,
Live Great, and Free, and be no more a Slave.

The Stile of the last Epistle is observ'd in this, and if the Criticks think 'tis not natural in a Woman, let 'em consult the Character of this Lady, and perhaps they will not be so severe.