You hoard not health for your own private use,
But on the public spend the rich produce.
When, often urged, unwilling to be great,
Your country calls you from your loved retreat,
And sends to senates, charged with common care,
Which none more shuns, and none can better
bear,

Where could they find another form'd so fit
To poise with solid sense a sprightly wit?
Were these both wanting, as they both abound,
Where could so firm integrity be found?
Well-born and wealthy, wanting no support,
You steer betwixt the country and the court;
Nor gratify whate'er the great desire,
Nor grudging give what public needs require.
Part must be left, a fund when foes invade,
And part employ'd to roll the watery trade:
E'en Canaan's happy land, when worn with toil,
Required a sabbath-year to mend the meagre soil.
Good senators (and such as you) so give
That kings may be supply'd, the people thrive.
And he, when want requires, is truly wise,
Who slights not foreign aids nor overbuys,
But on our native strength in time of need relies.
Munster was bought; we boast not the success;
Who fights for gain, for greater makes his peace.
Our foes, compell'd by need, have peace em
braced :

The peace both parties want is like to last;
Which if secure securely we may trade;
Or, not secure, should never have been made.
Safe in ourselves, while on ourselves we stand,
The sea is ours, and that defends the land.
Be then the naval stores the nation's care,
New ships to build, and batter'd to repair.

Observe the war in every annual course;
What has been done was done with British force.
Namur subdued is England's palm alone;
The rest besieged, but we constrain'd the town.
We saw th' event that follow'd our success;
France, though pretending arms, pursued the
peace;

Obliged by one sole treaty to restore

What twenty years of wars had won before.
Enough for Europe has our Albion fought;
Let us enjoy the peace our blood has bought.
When once the Persian king was put to flight,
The weary Macedons refused to fight;
Themselves their own mortality confest,
And left the son of Jove to quarrel for the rest.
E'en victors are by victories undone;
Thus Hannibal, with foreign laurels won,
To Carthage was recall'd, too late to keep his own.
While sore of battle, while our wounds are green,
Why should we tempt the doubtful die again?
In wars renew'd, uncertain of success,
Sure of a share as umpires of the peace.

A patriot both the king and country serves,
Prerogative and privilege preserves;
Of each our laws the certain limits show;
One must not ebb, nor th' other overflow:
Betwixt the prince and parliament we stand,
The barriers of the state on either hand;
May neither overflow, for then they drown the
land.

When both are full, they feed our bless'd abode,
Like those that water'd once the Paradise of God.
Some overpoise of sway by turns they share,
In peace the people, and the prince in war:
Consuls of mod'rate power in calms were made:
When the Gauls came one sole Dictator sway'd.
Patriots in peace assert the people's right,
With noble stubbornness resisting might;
No lawless mandates from the court receive,
Nor lend by force, but in a body give.
Such was your generous grandsire; free to grant
In parliaments that weigh'd their prince's want;
But so tenacious of the common cause

[thine!

As not to lend the king against his laws;
And in a loathsome dungeon doom'd to lie;
In bonds retain'd his birthright liberty,
And shamed Oppression till it set him free.
O true descendent of a patriot line!
Who while thou sharest their lustre lend'st their
Vouchsafe this picture of thy soul to see;
"Tis so far good as it resembles thee:
The beauties to th' original I owe,
Which when I miss my own defects I show:
Nor think the kindred Muses thy disgrace;
A poet is not born in every race;
Two of a house few ages can afford,
One to perform, another to record.

Praise-worthy actions are by thee embraced
And 'tis my praise to make thy praises last:
For e'en when death dissolves our human frame,
The soul returns to Heaven from whence it came;
Earth keeps the body, Verse preserves the fame.

XV.

To Sir GODFREY KNELLER, principal painter to his
Majesty.

ONCE I beheld the fairest of her kind,
And still the sweet idea charms my mind;
True, she was dumb; for Nature gazed so long,
Pleased with her work, that she forgot her tongue;
But smiling said, She still shall gain the prize;
I only have transferr'd it to her eyes.

Such are thy pictures, Kneller! such thy skill,
That Nature seems obedient to thy will;

Comes out, and meets thy pencil in the draught; Lives there, and wants but words to speak her thought.

At least thy pictures look a voice; and we
Imagine sounds: deceived to that degree,
We think 'tis somewhat more than just to see.

Shadows are but privations of the light,
Yet when we walk they shoot before the sight;
With us approach, retire, arise, and fall;
Nothing themselves, and yet expressing all.
Such are thy pieces, imitating life

So near, they almost conquer in the strife,
And from their animated canvass came
Demanding souls, and loosen'd from the frame.
Prometheus, were he here, would cast away
His Adam, and refuse a soul to clay;
And either would thy nobler work inspire,
Or think it warm enough without his fire.

But vulgar hands may vulgar likeness raise;
This is the least attendant on thy praise;
From hence the rudiments of Art began;
A coal or chalk first imitated man:
Perhaps the shadow, taken on a wall,
Gave outlines to the rude original,
Ere canvass yet was stain'd, before the grace
Of blended colours found their use and place,
Or cypress tablets first received a face.

By slow degrees the godlike art advanced;
As man grew polish'd picture was enhanced.
Greece added posture, shade, and perspective,
And then the mimic-piece began to live.
Yet perspective was lame, no distance true,
But all came forward in one common view;
No point of light was known, no bounds of art;
When light was there it knew not to depart,
But glaring, on remoter objects play'd,
Not languish'd, and insensibly decay'd.

Rome raised not Art, but barely kept alive,
And with old Greece unequally did strive,
Till Goths and Vandals, a rude northern race,
Did all the matchless monuments deface;
Then all the Muses in one ruin lie,
And rhyme began t' enervate poetry.
Thus in a stupid military state

The pen and pencil find an equal fate:
Flat faces, such as would disgrace a screen,
Such as in Bantam's embassy were seen,
Unraised, unrounded, were the rude delight
Of brutal nations only born to fight.

Long time the Sister Arts, in iron sleep,
A heavy sabbath did supinely keep;
At length, in Raphael's age, at once they rise,
Stretch all their limbs, and open all their eyes.
Thence rose the Roman and the Lombard line;
One colour'd best and one did best design.
Raphael's like Homer's was the nobler part,
But Titian's painting look'd like Virgil's art.

Thy genius gives thee both: where true design,
Postures unforced, and lively colours join,
Likeness is ever there; but still the best,
Like proper thoughts in lofty language dress'd,
Where light, to shades descending, plays, not
strives,

Dies by degrees, and by degrees revives.
Of various parts a perfect whole is wrought:
Thy pictures think, and we divine their thought.
Shakspeare, thy gift, I place before my sight;
With awe I ask his blessing ere I write ;
With reverence look on his majestic face,
Proud to be less, but of his godlike race.
His soul inspires me while thy praise I write.
And I like Teucer under Ajax fight:

This is the man ordain'd to do thee good,
The pelican to feed thee with his blood;
Thy wit, thy poet, nay, thy friend; for he
Is fit to be a friend to none but thee.
Make sure of him, and of his Muse, betimes,
For all his study is hung round with rhymes.
Laugh at him, jostle him, yet still he writes;
In rhymes he challenges, in rhyme he fights:
Charged with the last and basest infamy,
His business is to think what rhymes to lie;
Which found, in fury he retorts again;
Strephon's a very dragon at his pen :

His brother murder'd, and his mother whored,
His mistress lost, and yet his pen's his sword.

XVII.

To her Grace the Dutchess OF ORMOND, with the
Author's Translation of Palamon and Arcite.
MADAM,

THE bard who first adorn'd our native tongue,
Tuned to his British lyre this ancient song,
Which Homer might without a blush rehearse,
And leaves a doubtful palm in Virgil's verse:
He match'd their beauties where they most excel,
Of love sung better, and of arms as well.

Vouchsafe, illustrious Ormond! to behold
What power the charms of beauty had of old;
Nor wonder if such deeds of arms were done,
Inspired by two fair eyes that sparkled like your

own.

If Chaucer by the best idea wrought,
And poets can divine each other's thought,
The fairest nymph before his eyes he set,
And then the fairest was Plantagenet,

Who three contending princes made their prize,
And ruled the rival nations with her eyes;
Who left immortal trophies of her fame,
And to the noblest Order gave the name.

Like her, of equal kindred to the throne,
You keep her conquests and extend your own;
As when the stars in their ethereal race,
At length have roll'd around the liquid space,
At certain periods they resume their place;
From the same point of heaven their course ad-

vance,

And move in measures of their former dance;
Thus after length of ages she returns,

Restored in you, and the same place adorns;

Or you perform. her office in the sphere,

Born of her blood, and make a new Platonic year.

O true Plantagenet: O race divine!

(For beauty still is fatal to the line)

Had Chaucer lived that angel-face to view,
Sure he had drawn his Emily from you;

Or had you lived to judge the doubtful right,
Your noble Palamon had been the Knight;
And conquering Theseus from his side had sent
Your generous lord to guide the Theban govern-

ment.

Time shall accomplish that; and I shall see A Palamon in him, in you an Emily.

Already have the Fates your path prepared,
And sure presage your future sway declared.
When westward, like the sun, you took your way,
And from benighted Britain bore the day,
Blue Triton gave the signal from the shore,
The ready Nereids heard, and swam before
To smooth the seas; a soft Etesian gale
But just inspired, and gently swell'd the sail :
Portunus took his turn, whose ample hand
Heaved up the lighten'd keel, and sunk the sand,
And steer'd the sacred vessel safe to land.
The land, if not restrain'd, had met your way,
Projected out a neck, and jutted to the sea.
Hibernia, prostrate at your feet, adored,
In you, the pledge of her expected lord,
Due to her isle; a venerable name

His father and his grandsire known to fame:
Awed by that house, accustom'd to command,
The sturdy Kerns in due subjection stand,
Nor bear the reins in any foreign hand.

At your approach they crowded to the port,
And, scarcely landed, you create a court:
As Ormond's harbinger, to you they run;
For Venus is the promise of the Sun.

The waste of Civil wars their towns destroy'd,
Pales unhonour'd, Ceres unemploy'd,
Were all forgot; and one triumphant day
Wiped all the tears of three campaigns away.

Blood, rapines, massacres, were cheaply bought:
So mighty recompence your beauty brought.

As when the dove, returning, bore the mark
Of earth restored to the long-lab'ring ark,
The relics of mankind, secure of rest,
Ope'd ev'ry window to receive the guest,
And the fair bearer of the message blest:
So when you came, with loud repeated cries
The nation took an omen from your eyes,
And God advanced his rainbow in the skies,
To sign inviolable peace restored;

The saints with solemn shouts proclaim the new accord.

When at your second coming you appear, (For I foretell that millenary year)

The sharpen'd share shall vex the soil no more,
But Earth unbidden shall produce her store:
The land shall laugh, the circling Ocean smile,
And Heaven's indulgence bless the holy isle.
Heaven from all ages has reserved for you
That happy clime which venom never knew;
Or if it had been there, your eyes alone
Have power to chase all poison but their own.
Now in this interval which Fate has cast
Betwixt your future glories and your past,
This pause of power, 'tis Ireland's hour to mourn,
While England celebrates your safe return,
By which you seem the seasons to command,
And bring our summers back to their forsaken
land.

The vanquish'd isle our leisure must attend,
Till the fair blessing we vouchsafe to send; [lend.
Nor can we spare you long, though often we may
The dove was twice employ'd abroad before
The world was dry'd, and she return'd no more.
Nor dare we trust so soft a messenger,
New from her sickness, to that Northern air;
Rest here awhile, your lustre to restore,
That they may see you as you shone before;
For yet th' eclipse not wholly past, you wade
Through some remains and dimness of a shade.
A subject in his prince may claim a right.
Nor suffer him with strength impair'd to fight:
Till force returns his ardour we restrain,
And curb his warlike wish to cross the main.
Now past the danger, let the learn'd begin
Th' inquiry, where disease could enter in?
How those malignant atoms forced their way?
What in the faultless frame they found to make

their prey?

Where every element was weigh'd so well,
That Heaven alone who mix'd the mass could tell
Which of the four ingredients could rebel;
And where, imprison'd in so sweet a cage,
A soul might well be pleased to pass an age.
And yet the fine materials made it weak;
Porcelain, by being pure, is apt to break:
E'en to your breast the sickness durst aspire,
And, forced from that fair temple to retire,
Profanely set the holy place on fire.

In vain your lord, like young Vespasian, mourn'd,
When the fierce flames the sanctuary burn'd;
And I prepared to pay in verses rude
A most detested act of gratitude.

E'en this had been your elegy, which now
Is offer'd for your health, the table of my vow.
Your angel sure our Morley's mind inspired,
To find the remedy your ill required
As once the Macedon, by Jove's decree,
Was taught to dream an herb for Ptolomee:
Or Heaven, which had such over-cost bestow'd,
As scarce it could afford to flesh and blood,
So liked the frame, he would not work anew
To save the charges of another you.
Or by his middle science did he steer,
And saw some great contingent good appear,
Well worth a miracle to keep you here?
And for that end preserved the precious mould,
Which all the future Ormonds was to hold;
And meditated, in his better mind,

An heir from you who may redeem the failing kind.
Bless'd be the power which has at once restored
The hopes of lost succession to your lord!
Joy to the first and last of each degree,
Virtue to courts, and, what I long'd to see,
To you the Graces, and the Muse to me!

O daughter of the Rose! whose cheeks unite
The differing titles of the Red and White;
Who heaven's alternate beauty well display,
The blush of Morning and the Milky way;
Whose face is paradise, but fenced from sin,
For God in either eye has placed a cherubin.

G

All is your lord's alone; e'en absent he Employs the care of chaste Penelope.

For him you waste in tears your widow'd hours,
For him your curious needle paints the flowers:
Such works of old imperial dames were taught;
Such for Ascanius fair Eliza wrought.

The soft recesses of your hours improve
The three fair pledges of your happy love:
All other parts of pious duty done,
You owe your Ormond nothing but a son,
To fil! in future times his father's place,
And wear the garter of his mother's race.

PROLOGUE.

PROLOGUES.

I.

Spoken the first day of the King's house acting after the fire.

So shipwreck'd passengers escape to land,
So look they, when on the bare beach they stand
Dropping and cold, and their first fear scarce o'er,
Expecting famine on a desert shore.

From that hard climate we must wait for bread,
Whence e'en the natives forced by hunger fled.
Our stage does human chance present to view,
But ne'er before was seen so sadly true:
You are changed too, and your pretence to see
Is but a nobler name for charity.

Your own provisions furnish out our feasts,
While you the founders make yourselves the guests.
Of all mankind beside Fate had some care,
But for poor Wit no portion did prepare;
'Tis left a rent-charge to the brave and fair.
You cherish'd it, and now its fall you mourn,
Which blind unmanner'd zealots make their scorn,
Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,
Which spared not temples in its furious rage.
But as our new-built City rises higher,
So from old theatres may new aspire,
Since Fate contrives magnificence by fire,
Our great Metropolis does far surpass
Whate'er is now and equals all that was.
Our wit as far does foreign wit excel,
And like a king should in a palace dwell.
But we with golden hopes are vainly fed,
Talk high, and entertain you in a shed.
Your presence here, for which we humbly sue,
Will grace old theatres and build up new.

II.

PROLOGUE. Spoken at the opening of the New house.
March 26, 1674.

A PLAIN-built house, after so long a stay,
Will send you half unsatisfy'd away:
When, fall'n from your expected pomp, you find
A bate convenience only is design'd.
You who each day can theatres behold,
Like Nero's palace, shining all with gold,
Our mean ungilded stage will scorn we fear,
And for the homely room disdain the cheer.
Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
And a plain suit (since we can make but one)
Is better than to be by tarnish'd gaud'ry known.
They who are by your favours wealthy made
With mighty sums may carry on the trade:
We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
With our small stock to humble roofs retire;
Pity our loss, while you their pomp admire.
For fame and honour we no longer strive,
We yield in both, and only beg to live:
Unable to support their vast expense,
Who build and treat with such magnificence,
That, like th' ambitious monarchs of the age,
They give the law to our provincial stage.
Great neighbours enviously promote excess,
While they impose their splendour on the less
But only fools, and they of vast estate,
Th' extremity of modes will imitate,
The dangling knee-fringe and the bib-cravat.
Yet if some pride with want may be allow'd,
We in our plainness may be justly proud:
Our royal Master will'd it should be so;
Whate'er he's pleased to own can need no show:
That sacred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his stamp, makes basest metals pass.
'Twere folly now a stately pile to raise,

To build a playhouse while you throw down plays;

PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford, 1674. Spoken by Mr. Hart.

PORTS, your subjects, have their parts assign'd
Tunbend and to divert the sovereign's mina:
When tired with following Nature, you think fit
To seek repose in the cool shades of Wit,
And, from the sweet retreat, with joy survey
What rests, and what is conquer'd, of the way,
Here, free yourself from envy, care, and strife,
You view the various turns of human life;
Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you go,
And undebauch'd the vice of cities know.
Your theories are here to practice brought,
As in mechanic operations wrought;
And man, the little world, before you set,
As once the sphere of crystal show'd the great,
Bless'd sure are you above all mortal kind
If to your fortunes you can suit your mind;
Content to see, and shun those ills we show,
And crimes on theatres alone to know.
With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit,
That Shakspeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonson's

claim

May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear,
For Muses so severe are worshipp'd here,
That, conscious of their faults, they shun the eye,
And, as profane, from sacred places fly,
Rather than see th' offended God and die.
We bring no imperfections but our own;
Such faults as made are by the makers shown:
And you have been so kind, that we may boast
The greatest judges still can pardon most.
Poets must stoop when they would please our pit,
Debased even to the level of their wit;

Disdaining that which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must make :
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like eagles mount your Jove is higher,
So far your knowledge all their power transcends
As what should be beyond what is extends.

IV.

PROLOGUE to CIRCE. BY DR. DAVENANT, 1675. WERE you but half so wise as you're severe, Our youthful poet should not need to fear; To his green years your censures you would suit, Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit. The sex that best does pleasure understand Will always choose to err on th' other hand: They check not him that's awkward in delight, But clap the young rogue's cheek and set him right. Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd upon his prey, The youth may prove a man another day. Your Ben, and Fletcher, in their first young flight, Did no Volpone nor no Arbaces write; But hopp'd about, and short excursions made From bough to bough, as if they were afraid, And each was guilty of some slighted maid. Shakspeare's own Muse her Pericles first bore; The Prince of Tyre was elder than the Moor. 'Tis miracle to see a first good play; All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day. A slender poet must have time to grow, And spread and burnish as his brothers do. Who still looks lean sure with some pox is curst; But no man can be Falstaff-fat at first,

Then damn not but indulge his rude essays,
Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise,
That he may get more bulk before he dies;
He's not yet fed enough for sacrifice.
Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,
de may grow up to write and you to judge.

V.

PROLOGUE to CÆSAR BORGIA. By Mr. N. LEE, 1680.

TH' unhappy man who once has trail'd a pen,
Lives not to please himself but other men';
Is always drudging, wastes his life and blood,
Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.
What praise soe'er the poetry deserve,
Yet every fool can bid the poet starve.
That fumbling lecher to revenge is bent,
Because he thinks himself or whore is meant.
Name but a cuckold, all the City swarms;
From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms.
Were there no fear of Antichrist or France,
In the bless'd time poor poets live by chance.
Thither you come not here, or, as you grace
Some old acquaintance, drop into the place,
Careless and qualmish, with a yawning face.
You sleep o'er wit, and by my troth you may;
Most of your talents lie another way.
You love to hear of some prodigious tale,
The bell that toll'd alone, or Irish whale.
News is your food, and you enough provide,
Both for yourselves and all the world beside.
One theatre there is of vast resort,

Which whilom of Requests was call'd the Court,
But now the great Exchange of News 'tis hight,
And full of hum and buz from noon till night:
Up stairs and down you run, as for a race,

And each man wears three nations in his face:
So big you look, though claret you retrench,
That, arm'd with bottled ale, you huff the French:
But all your entertainment still is fed
By villains in your own dul! island bred.
Would you return to us, we dare engage
To show you better rogues upon the stage.
You know no poison but plain ratsbane here:
Death's more refined and better bred elsewhere.
They have a civil way in Italy,

By smelling a perfume to make you die;
A trick would make you lay your snuff-box by.
Murder's a trade so known and practised there
That 'tis infallible as is the Chair:

But, mark their feast, you shall behold such pranks;
The Pope says grace, but 'tis the Devil gives

thanks.

VI.

PROLOGUE to SOPHONISBA.

At Oxford, 1680.
THESPIS, the first professor of our art,
At country-wakes sung ballads from a cart,
To prove this true, if Latin be no trespass,
Dicitur et plaustris vexisse poemata Thespis.
But Eschylus, says Horace, in some page,
Was the first mountebank that trode the stage:
Yet Athens never knew your learned sport
Of tossing poets in a tennis-court.
But 'tis the talent of our English nation
Still to be plotting some new reformation:
And few years hence, if anarchy goes on,
Jack Presbyter shall here erect his throne.
Knock out a tub with preaching once a day,
And every prayer be longer than a play.
Then all your Heathen wits shall go to pot
For disbelieving of a Popish-plot;
Your poets shall be used like infidels,
And worst the author of the Oxford Bells:
Nor should we 'scape the sentence to depart,
Even in our first original, a cart.

No zealous brother there would want a stone
To maul us cardinals, and pelt Pope Joan :
Religion, learning, wit, would be supprest,
Rags of the Whore, and trappings of the Beast:
Scot, Suarez, Tom of Aquin, must go down,
As chief supporters of the Triple crown;
And Aristotle's for destruction ripe;
Some say he called the soul an Organ-pipe,
Which, by some little help of derivation,
Shall then be proved a pipe of inspiration.

VII.

A PROLOGUE.

IF yet there be a few that take delight
In that which reasonable men should write,
To them alone we dedicate this night;
The rest may satisfy their curious itch
With city Gazettes or some factious speech,
Or whate'er libel, for the public good,
Stirs up the Shrove-tide crew to fire and blood.
Remove your benches, you apostate pit,
And take above twelve pennyworth of wit;
Go back to your dear dancing on the rope,
Or see what's worse, the Devil and the Pope.
The plays that take on our corrupted stage
Methinks resemble the distracted age;
Noise, madness, all unreasonable things,
That strike at sense as rebels do at kings.
The style of Forty-one our poets write,
And you are grown to judge like Forty-eight.
Such censures our mistaking audience make,
That 'tis almost grown scandalous to take.
They talk of fevers that infect the brains;
But nonsense is the new disease that reigns.
Weak stomachs, with a long disease oppress'd,
Cannot the cordials of strong wit digest;
Therefore thin nourishment of Farce ye choose,
Decoctions of a barley-water Muse;

A meal of Tragedy would make you sick,
Unless it were a very tender chick:

Some scenes in sippets would be worth your time; Those would go down; some love that's poach'd in rhyme.

If these should fail

We must lie down, and after all our cost,
Keep holyday, like watermen in frost,
While you turn players on the world's great stage,
And act yourselves the farce of your own age.

VIII.

PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford, 1681.
THE famed Italian Muse, whose rhymes advance
Orlando and the Paladins of France,
Records that, when our wit and sense is flown,
'Tis lodged within the circle of the moon
In earthen jars, which one, who thither soar'd,
Set to his nose, snuff'd up, and was restored.
Whate'er the story be the moral's true;
The wit we lost in Town we find in you.
Our poets their fled parts may draw from hence,
And fill their windy heads with sober sense.
When London votes with Southwark's disagree,
Here may they find their long-lost loyalty.
Her busy senates, to tn old cause inclined,
May snuff the votes their fellows left behind :
Your country neighbours, when their grain grows
dear,

May come and find their last provision here;
Whereas we cannot much lament our loss,
Who neither carried back nor brought one cross.
We look'd what representatives would bring,
But they help'd us just as they did the King.
Yet we despair not; for we now lay forth
The Sibyls' books to those who know their worth,
And though the first was sacrificed before,
T'hese volumes doubly will the price restore.
Our poet bade us hope this grace to find,
To whom by long prescription you are kind.
He whose undaunted Muse, with loyal rage,
Has never spared the vices of the age,
Here finding nothing that his spleen can raise,
Is forced to turn his satire into praise.

IX.

PROLOGUE to his ROYAL HIGHNESS upon his first appearance at the Duke's Theatre, after his return from Scotland, 1682.

IN those cold regions which no summers cheer,
Where brooding Darkness covers half the year,
To hollow caves the shivering natives go,
Bears range abroad, and hunt in tracks of snow;
But when the tedious twilight wears away,
And stars grow paler at th' approach of day,
The longing crowds to frozen mountains run,
Happy who first can see the glimm'ring sun;
The surly savage offspring disappear,
And curse the bright successor of the year.
Yet though rough bears in covert seek defence,
White foxes stay with seeming innocence;
That crafty kind with daylight can dispense.