Our fruitful plains to wilds and defarts turn'd,
Like Eden's face, when banish'd man it mourn'd.
Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,
The great fupporter of his awful throne.
Love could no longer after beauty stay,
But wander'd northward to the verge of day,
As if the fun and he had loft their way.
But now th' illuftrious nymph, return'd again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wond'ring Nereids, tho' they rais'd no ftorm,
Foreflow'd her paffage, to behold her form:
Some cry'd, A Venus; fome, A Thetis past;
But this was not fo fair, nor that fo chafte.
Far from her fight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride;
And Envy did but look on her, and dy’d.
Whate'er we fuffer'd from our fullen fate,
Her fight is purchas'd at an eafy rate.
Three gloomy years against this day were fet;
But this one mighty fum has clear'd the debt:
Like Jofeph's dream, but with a better doom,
The famine paft, the plenty ftill to come.
For her the weeping heavens become ferene;
For her the ground is clad in cheerful green:
For her the nightingales are taught to fing,
And Nature has for her delay'd the spring.
The Mufe refumes her long-forgotten lays,
And Love reftor'd his ancient realm furveys,
Recals our beauties, and revives our plays;
His wafte dominions peoples once again,
And from her prefence dates his fecond reign..
But awful charms on her fair forehead fit,
Difpenfing what the never will admit:
Pleafing, yet cold, like Cynthia's filver beam,
The people's wonder, and the poet's theme.
Distemper'd Zeal, Sedition, canker'd Hate,
No more fhall vex the church, and tear the state:
No more fhall Faction civil difcords move,
Or only difcords of too tender love:
Discord, like that of mufic's various parts;
Difcord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Difcord, that only this dispute fhall bring,
Who beft should love the duke, and serve the king.
LETTER to Sir GEORGE ETHEREDGE.
O you who live in chill degree,
As map informs, of fifty-three,
And do not much for cold atone,
By bringing thither fifty-one,
Methinks all climes fhould be alike,
From tropic e'en to pole artique;
Since you have fuch a conftitution
As no where fuffers diminution.
grave debate,
You can be old in
And young in love-affairs of state;
And both to wives and husbands show
The vigour of a plenipo.
Like mighty miffioner you come
"Ad Partes Infidelium."
A work of wond'rous merit fure,
So far to go, fo much t'endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where found of Cupid never came.
· VOL. II.
Lefs had you done, had you been fent
As far as Drake or Pinto went,
For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a,
Or e'en for oranges to China.
That had indeed been charity;
Where love-fick ladies helplefs lie,
Chapt, and for want of liquor dry.
But you have made your zeal appear
Within the circle of the Bear.
What region of the earth's fo dull,
That is not of your labours full?
Triptolemus (fo fung the Nine)
Strew'd plenty from his cart divine.
But spite of all these fable-makers,
He never fow'd on Almain acres:
No, that was left by fate's decree,
To be perform'd and fung by thee.
Thou break'ft thro' forms with as much ease
As the French king thro' articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent,
In waging weighty compliment,
With fuch as monarchs represent.
They, whom fuch vaft fatigues attend,
Want fome foft minutes to unbend,
To fhew the world that now and then
Great minifters are mortal men.
Then Rhenish rummers walk the round;
In bumpers ev'ry king is crown'd;
Befides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is funk,
That pays to make his envoy drunk.
Thefe Dutch delights, I mention'd laft,
Suit not, I know, your English tafte:
For wine to leave a whore or play
Was ne'er your excellency's way.
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were your excellence,
For gaming, writing, fpeaking, keeping,
His excellence for all but fleeping.
Now if you tope in form, and treat,
'Tis the four fauce to the fweet meat,
The fine you pay for being great.
Nay, here's a harder impofition,
Which is indeed the court's petition,
That fetting worldly pomp afide,
Which poet has at font deny'd,
You would be pleas'd in humble way
To write a trifle call'd a Play.
This truly is a degradation,
But would oblige the crown and nation
Next to your wife negotiation.
If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high degree, your friends will fay,
The duke St. Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you scarce,
His grace of Bucks has made a farce,
And you, whofe comic wit is terfe all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.
Then finish what you have began;
But fcribble fafter if you can:
For yet no George, to our difcerning,
Has writ without a ten years warning.
URE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain
To write, while thefe malignant planets reign.
Some very
foolish influence rules the pit,
Not always kind to fenfe, or juft to wit:
And whilst it lafts, let buffoonry fucceed,
To make us laugh; for never was more need.
Farce, in itself, is of a nafty fcent;
But the gain fmells not of the excrement.
The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too,
With all her charms, bore but a fingle fhow:
But let a monfter Mufcovite appear,
He draws a crowded audience round the year.
May be thou haft not pleas'd the box and pit;
Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit:
So Terence plotted, but fo Terence writ.
Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean;
E'en lewdnels is made moral in thy fcene.
The hearers may for want of Nokes repine;
But reft fecure, the readers will be thine.
Nor was thy labour'd drama damn'd or hiss'd,
But with a kind civility difmifs'd;
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