SPEECHES SPOKEN TO THE King and Queen, DƲKE and DƲCHESSE of York, In CHRIST-CHURCH Hall, OXFORD, Sept. 29. 1663.
LONDON: Printed for Richard Royston, Bookseller to His most Sacred Majesty, 1663.
Speeches spoken to the King and Queen, DUKE and DUCHESSE of York, In Christ-Church Hall, Sept. 29. 1663.
I. To the KING.
TIs He, 'tis He indeed, it must be so;
None but that Child unto this Man could grow.
Wonder of Fate! A KING out of a PRINCE
Expos'd to desperate perils so long since.
What humane Wolf, or yet more kind Wild beast,
Cast from your own, hath took you to her breast,
And brought you up; till by your Vertues known,
None dar'd no longer keep you from your Throne?
You came like Phoebus striving from a Cloud,
Increasing brightness as he quits the shroud:
And as he draws out by his Summer rayes
The sleeping Insects to their several plays;
With greater power your warmer influence calls
Our dormant Houshold-gods forth from their Walls:
And I their Genius, in your absence mute,
Like Memnon's Statue, your approach salute.
Let Roman quils the business undertake,
Great Panegyricks of your Worth to make;
I will not grieve you with repeated harms,
Nor tire your Modesty with praising charms:
But greet the kind appearance of your face,
Which both amazeth and revives this place;
This place, where taken from our Parents charge
On your Munificence we live at large;
And to the Noblest born we boast and sing,
By mean men made, we're nourish'd by a KING:
For which we humbly thank you, and confess,
Our Aliment, our Learning, and our Dress
Is all from you; And this great Structure stands
Imperfect, to be finish'd by your Hands,
And hath consum'd numbers of golden showrs,
But seems not satisfy'd till fill'd with yours.
II. To the QUEEN.
LEt me not live, Great powers my soul invade,
I feel my self thinning into a shade.
What Glorie's that, that hovers by your side,
And gives you the imbraces of a Bride?
Have you been medling with Celestial fire,
A Model of your own thus to inspire?
Or is She Sister to Pygmalion's Wife,
The second Ivory that ere took life?
Or is Astraea woo'd from Heaven again?
Who then shall take exceptions at your Reign?
Speak, Sir, What is She? for no other eye
Can take the height of her Divinity.
Or will you please, sweet Splendor, let us know
In part, what to the Gods for you we owe?
Are you a real Star indeed, let down
To beautifie this long-obscured Crown?
Or are you made of Nectar, which they say
Once being spilt made such a milky Way?
But if you needs will mortal be, and shew
The greater skill by being made below;
Your Mother, sure, upon Elixirs fed,
The East blew all its perfumes to her Bed.
Then were you wrap'd in Lilies, which so grew
A Coverture o're your own whiter hue,
A Whiteness not with safety to be seen,
Which of a skin of Lilies makes a screen,
Wherein array'd you suffer a disguise,
And put on Snow in mercy to our eyes.
The mould wherein your Soul is now inshrin'd
Is such as Chymists seek, but ne're can find;
Such as, when you die, it will first be told
The Powder's found that can turn all things Gold:
Or such as, when the World was all a Main,
Deucalion kept to make Mankind again.
Such may it prove too, since the bliss we need
Is a young Prince from so refin'd a Seed.
Whence ere it is your mighty Beauties spring,
Their streams lose nought by running towards the KING,
A stop in whose fair Breast their course beguiles,
Where like a Sea of Milk they turn in smiles;
As in Endymion's, when the Queen of Night
Had in his bosom crowded all her light.
Nor are our hopes exceeded by our prayers,
Your Ancestors make promise for your Heirs;
His, who have made all Europe shake, and yours,
Who could make Devils flie, or at least Moors:
Of Darkness, banish'd by a general chase,
The Trophees are erected in your Face.
Nature had kept her riches yet unseen,
Had not the Portuguez such searchers been;
Who to the fame of finding Worlds unknown,
Have shew'd their art in You of making one.
Well might the haughty Spaniard interpose
With all his wealth to hinder such a close,
As hoping no success from his Alarms
'Gainst Lisbon, when She lay in CHARLES his Arms;
But that to rival all his power, in you
CHARLES would be Master of the Indies too.
But Heavens design'd by equal course of Fates
The Fall and Restauration of your States:
Your Father, and your Husband, long disown'd,
Were both by parallel wonders re-inthron'd;
And two recover'd Kingdoms now combine
To twist a never-discontinuing line,
Supplying from Valour and from Beauties store
Kings to beget, and Queens to bring forth more.
III. To the DUKE of York.
BUt to remove all fears, behold here stands
A Prince that bears Protection in his Hands;
Who in his Infancy to Conquest bent,
Did in his Cradle apprehend a Tent;
And since by mighty deeds of War hath shewn
The Dons a Courage which they ne're durst own;
Whose Arm alone appearing their relief
Made him at once their succour and their grief;
Who without him could not withstand the Foe,
Yet were asham'd to be defended so.
But what need I, Brave Prince, your Acts rehearse,
Which are become the Winds charge to disperse?
Tritons and Sea-Nymphs sound and sing your Name,
The Waves to every shore report your Fame:
At your command the Surges rise and fall,
While Neptune acts but your Vice-Admiral.
IV. To the DUCHESSE.
ANd Silver Thetis covering her face,
To your Fair Duchess hath resign'd her place.
Spoken to the KING and QƲEEN in Saint John's Library.
YOur station 'twixt these Globes doth prompt our pen
To fansie Princes plac'd 'twixt Gods & men;
Here men, there Angels ply their different Spheres,
Our House of Commons, and your House of Peers.
May your last Progress here reach Nestor's Summe,
Till the Supreme Star-Chamber call you home:
Whilst Angels propagate, and you display
A little CHARLES his Waine, and Milky Way;
These Asterisms are only wanting yet
To make White-Hall a Heaven, and Heaven complete.
Perfection, Madam, from your self must grow:
Kings are Immortal, but Queens make them so.
THE END.
VERSES Spoken to the KING, QVEEN, and DƲTCHESSE of YORKE in St JOHN's Library in Oxford.