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HEN factious rage to cruel exile drove
The queen of beauty, and the court of love, The Muses droop’d, with their forsaken arts, And the sad Cupids broke their useless darts : Our fruitful plains to wilds and desarts turn'd, Like Eden's face, when banish'd man it mourn'd.
- Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,
The great supporter 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 lost their way.
But now th'illustrious nymph, return'd again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wond'ring Nereids, tho they rais'dino storm,
Foreslow'd her passage, to behold her form:
Some cry'd, A Venus ; some, A Thetis past;
But this was not so fair, nor that so chaste.
Far from her fight flew Faction, Strife, and Pride ;
And Envy did but look on her, and dy'd.
Whate'er we suffer'd from our sullen fate,
Her sight is purchas'd at an easy rate.
Three gloomy years against this day were set; 1
But this one mighty sum has clear’d the debt :
Like Jofeph's dream, but with a better doom,
The famine past, the plenty still to come.
For her the weeping heavens become serene ;
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 Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays,
And Love restor'd his ancient realm surveys,
Recals our beauties, and revives our plays ;
His waste dominions peoples once again,
And from her presence dates his second reign.
But awful charms on her fair forehead fit,
Dispensing what she never will admit:
Pleasing, 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 shall vex the church, and tear the state:
No more shall Faction civil discords move,
Or only discords of too tender love :
Discord, like that of mufic's various parts ;
Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,
Who best shall love the duke, and serve the king.
who live in chill degree,
informs, of fifty-three,
And do not much for cold atone,
By bringing thither fifty-one,
Methinks all climes should be alike,
From tropic e’en to pole artique ;
have such a conftitution
As no where suffers diminution.
You can be old in grave debate,
in love-affairs of state
And both to wives and husbands show
The vigor of a plenipo.
Like mighty missioner you come
« Ad Partes Infidelium.”
A work of wondrous merit fure,
So far to go, so much t'endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where found of Cupid never came.
Less had you done, had you been sent
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 helpless lie,
Chapt, and for want of liquor dry,
Within the circle of the Bear.
What region of the earth's so dull,
That is not of
labors full ?
Triptolemus (so sung 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 sung by thee,
Thou break'st thro forms with as much ease
As the French king thro articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent,
In waging weighty compliment,
With such as monarchs represent.
They, whom such vast fatigues attend,
Want some soft minutes to unbend,
To shew the world that now and then
Great ministers ar mortal men.
Then Rhenish rummers walk the round;
In bumpers ev'ry king is crown'd;