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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 fupporter of his awful throne.
Love could no longer after beauty stay,
But wander'd northward to the verge of day,
As if the sun and he had lost their
But now th' illuftrious nymph, return'd again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wond'ring Nereids, tho' they rais’d no storm,
Forellow'd her passage, to behold her form:
Some cry'd, A Venus; fome, 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 fullen fate,
Her fight is purchas'd at an easy rate.
Three gloomy years against this day were fet;
But this one mighty sum has clear'd the debt:
Like Joseph'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 Mufe resumes her long-forgotten lays,
And Love reflor’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.
Diftemper'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 music's various parts;
Discord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Discord, that only this dispute shall bring,
Who best should love the duke, and serve the king.
LETTER to Sir GEORGE ETHEREDGE.
O you who live in chill degree,
map 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 constitution
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 vigour of a plenipo.
Like mighty miffioner you come
• Ad Partes Infidelium."
A work of wond'rous merit sure,
So far to go, so much t'endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where sound 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.
But you have made
Within the circle of the Bear.
What region of the earth's so dull,
That is not of your labours 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 eafe
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 vaft fatigues attend,
Want some soft minutes to unbend,
To thew the world that now and then
Great ministers are mortal men.
Then Rhenih rummers walk the round;
In bumpers ev'ry king is crowa'd;
Besides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is sunk,
That pays to make his
These Dutch delights, I mention's latt,
Suit not, I know, your English taste:
For wine to leave a whore or play
Was ne'er your excellency's way.
Nor need this title give offence,
For gaming, writing, speaking, keeping,
His excellence for all but sleeping.
Now if you tope in form, and rreat,
'Tis the four sauce to the sweet meat,
The fine you pay for being great.
Nay, here's a harder impofition,
Which is indeed the court's petition,
That setting 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 wise negotiation.
If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high degree, your friends will say,
The duke St. Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you scarce,
of Bucks has made a farce,
And you, whose comic wit is terse all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearsal.
Then finish what you have began;
But scribble faster if you can:
For yet no George, to our discerning,
Has writ without a ten years warning:
URE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain
To write, while these malignant planets reign.
foolish influence rules the pit,
Not always kind to sense, or just to wit:
And whilft it lafts, let buffoonry succeed,
To make us laugh; for never was more need.
Farce, in itself, is of a nafty fcent;
But the gain smells not of the excrement.
The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too,
With all her charms, bore but a single show:
But let a monster Muscovite 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 lewdneis is made moral in thy scene.
The hearers may for want of Nokes repine;
But reft secure, the readers will be chine.
Nor was thy labour'd draina damn'd or hiss'd,
But with a kind civility dismiss'd;