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He that brought peace all discord could atone;
His name is music of itself alone.
Now while the sacred oil anoints your head,
And fragrant scents, begun from you, are spread
Through the large dome, the people's joyful sound,
Sent back, is still preserv'd in hallow'd ground;
Which in one blessing mix'd descends on you,
As heighten’d spirits fall in richer dew.
Not that our wishes do increase your store ;
Full of yourself, you can admit no more:
We add not to your glory, but employ
Our time, like angels, in expressing joy.
Nor is it duty, or our hopes, alone
Create that joy, but full fruition:
We know those blessings which we must possess,
And judge of future by past happiness.
No promise can oblige a prince so much
Still to be good, as long to have been such.
A noble emulation heats your breast,
And your own fame now robs you of your rest.
Good actions still must be maintain'd with good,
As bodies nourish'd with resembling food.
You have already quench'd Sedition's brand ;
And Zeal, which burnt it, only warms the land.
The jealous sects, that dare not trust their cause
So far from their own will as to the laws, -
You for their umpire and their synod take,
And their appeal alone to Cæsar make.
Kind Heav'n so rare a temper did provide,
That Guilt repenting might in it confide.
Among our crimes oblivion may be set;
But 'tis our King's perfection to forget.
Virtues, unknown to these rough northern elimes,
From milder heavens you bring, without their crimes.
Your calmness does no after-storms provide,
Nor seeming patience mortal anger hide.
When empire first from families did spring,
Then every father govern'd as a king;
But you, that are a sovereign prince, allay
Imperial pow'r with your paternal sway.
From those great cares when ease your soul unbends,
Your pleasures are design'd to poble ends:
Born to command the mistress of the seas,
Your thoughts themselves in that blue empire please,
Hither in summer evenings you repair
To take the fraicheur of the purer air:
Undaunted here you ride, when Winter raves,
With Cæsar's heart, that rose above the waves.
More I could sing, but fear my numbers stays;
No loyal subject dares that courage praise.
In stately frigates most delight you find,
Where well-drawn battles fire your martial mind.
What to your cares we owe is learn'd from hence,
When ev'n your pleasures serve for our defence.
Beyond your court flows in the admitted tide,
Where in new depths the wondering fishes glide :
Here in a royal bed the waters sleep;
When tir'd at sea, within this bay they creep:
Here the mistrustful fowl no harm suspects,
So sate are all things which our King protects.
From your lov'd Thames a blessing yet is due,
Second alone to that it brought in yon;
A queen, near whose chaste womb, ordain’d by Fato,
The souls of kings unborn for bodies wait.
It was your love before made discord cease;
Your love is destin'd to your country's peace,
Both Indies, rivals in your bed, provide
With gold or jewels to adorn your bride.
This to a mighty King presents rich ore,
While that with incense does a god implore.
Two kingdonis wait your doom, and, as you choose,
This must receive a crown, or that must lose.
Thus from your royal oak, like Jove's of old,
Are answers sought, and destinies foretold;
Propitious oracles are begg'd with vows,
And crowns that grow upon the sacred boughs.
Your subjects, while you weigh the nation's fate,
Suspend to both their doubtful love or hate;
Choose only, Six, that so they may possess,
With their own peace, their children's liappiness.
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR M.DC.LXII.
As needy gallants, in the scrivener's hands,
Court the rich knaves that gripe their mortgag'd
The first fat buck of all the season's sent, [lands,
And keeper takes no fee in compliment;
The dotage of some Englishmen is such,
To fawn on those who ruin them, the Dutch.
They shall have all, rather than make a war
With those who of the same religion are.
The Straits, the Guinea-trade, the herrings too;
Nay, to keep friendship, they shall pickle you.
Some are resolv'd not to find out the cheat,
But, cuckold-like, love them that do the feat.
What injuries soe'er upon us fall,
Yet still the same religion answers all.
Religion wheedled us to Civil war, [spare.
Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would
Be gull’d no longer; for you'll tind it true,
They have no more religion, faith! than you.
Interest's the god they worship in their State,
And we, I take it, have not much of that.
Well monarchies may own religion's name,
But states are atheists in their very frame.
They share a sin; and such proportions fall,
That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all.
Think on their rapine, falsehood, cruelty,
And that what once they were, they still would be.
To one well-born the affront is worse and more,
When he's abus'd and baffled by a boor.
With an ill grace the Dutch their wischiefs do;
They've both ill nature and ill manners too.
Well may they boast themselves an ancient nation,
For they were bred ere manners were in fashion;
And their new Commonwealth has set them free
Only from honour and civility.
Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,
Than did their lumber State mankind bestride.
Their sway became 'em with as ill a mien,
As their own paunches swell above their chin.
Yet is their empire no true growth but humour,
And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour.
As Cato did in Afric fruits display,
Let us before our eyes their Indies lay;
All loyal English will like him conclude,
Let Cæsar live, and Carthage be subdued.