RETURN FROM SCOTLAND IN THE YEAR 1682.
WHEN factious rage to cruel exile drove
The queen of beauty, and the court of love,
The Mufes droop'd, with their forsaken arts,
And the fad Cupids broke their useless darts
Our fruitful plains to wilds and defarts turn'd, 5
Like Eden's face, when banifh'd man it
mourn'd.
Love was no more, when loyalty was gone,
The great fupporter of his awful throne.
* On the twenty-firft of November 1673, the duke of York was married to the princefs Mary d'Efte, then about fifteen years of age, and extremely handfome. The ceremony was performed at Dover by the bishop of Oxford. It was against the rules of policy for him at that time to wed a Roman Catholic; and the Parliament addreffed against it.
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 the illuftrious nymph, return'd again,
Brings every grace triumphant in her train.
The wond'ring Nereids, though they rais'd no
Foreflow'd her paffage, to behold her form: 15 Some cry'd, A Venus; fome, A Thetis paft; 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 still 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 Muse resumes her long-forgotten lays, 30-
And Love reftor'd his ancient realm surveys,
Recals our beauties, and revives our plays;
His wafte dominions peoples once again,
And from her presence dates his fecond reign.
But awful charms on her fair forehead fit,
Difpenfing what she never will admit:
Pleafing, 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 fhall vex the church, and tear the
No more fhall Faction civil difcords move,
Or only difcords of too tender love :
Difcord, like that of mufic's various parts;
Difcord, that makes the harmony of hearts;
Difcord, that only this difpute fhall bring, 45
Who beft shall love the duke, and ferve the
king.
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 fhould be alike,
From tropic e'en to pole artique ;
Since
you have fuch a conftitution
As no where fuffers diminution.
Ver. 1. To you who live] Sir George Etheredge gained great reputation by his three comedies, The Comical Revenge, 1664, She Would if She Could, 1668, The Man of Mode, 1676. The laft has been deemed one of our moft elegant comedics, and contains a most just and lively picture of the manners of perfons in high life in the age of Charles II. Having dedicated this comedy to the Dutchess of York, the procured his being fent ambaffador to Ratifbon, where he refided when Dryden addreft this epiftle to him, and where, in a fit of intoxication, to which he was too much habituated, he tumbled down stairs and broke his neck. He had a daughter by Mrs. Barry, to whom he left fix thousand pounds. Dr. J. WARTON,
You can be old in grave debate,
And young in love-affairs of state;
And both to wives and husbands fhow
The vigor of a plenipo.
Like mighty miffioner you come
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,
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 helpless 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 labors full?
Triptolemus (fo fung the Nine)
Strew'd plenty from his cart divine.
But fpite 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'st through forms with as much ease
As the French king through articles.
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