TO MY LADY MORTON ON New-years-day, 1650. AT THE LOUVER IN PARIS.
Madam,
NEw years may well expect to finde
Welcom from you, to whom they are so kind,
Still as they passe, they court, and smile on you,
And make your beauty as themselves seem new:
To the fair Villars we Dalkith prefer,
And fairest Morton now as much to her;
So like the Sun's advance your titles show,
Which, as he rises, does the warmer grow.
But thus to stile you fair, your Sexes praise,
Gives you but Mirtle, who may challenge Bays:
From armed foes to bring a royal prize,
Shews your brave Heart Victorious, as your Eyes;
If Judith marching with the Generals head
Can give us passion when her storie's read,
What may the living doe which brought away,
Though a lesse bloody, yet a nobler prey?
Who from our flaming Troy, with a bold hand
Snatch'd her fair Charge, the Princess, like a brand,
A brand preserv'd to warm some Princes heart,
And make whole Kingdomes take her Brothers part;
So Venus from prevailing Greeks did shrowd
The hope of Rome, and sav'd him in a cloud;
This gallant act may cancell all our rage,
Begin a better, and absolve this age.
Dark shades become the portrayt of our time,
Here weeps Misfortune, and there triumphs Crime.
Let him that drawes it hide the rest in night,
This portion only may indure the light,
Where the kind Nimph changing her faultless shape
Becomes unhandsome, handsomly to scape,
When through the Guards, the River, and the Sea,
Faith, Beauty, Wit, and Courage, made their way.
As the brave Eagle does with sorrow see
The Forest wasted, and that lofty Tree,
Which holds her neast about to be ore'thrown,
Before the feathers of her young are grown,
She will not leave them, nor she cannot stay,
But bears them boldly on her wings away;
So fled the Dame, and o're the Ocean bore
Her Princely burthen to the Gallick shore.
Born in the storms of war, this royal fayr,
Produc'd like lightning in tempestuous ayr,
Though now she flyes her native Isle, less kinde,
Less safe for her, than either Sea or Winde,
Shall, when the blossom of her Beauty's blown,
See her great Brother on the British Throne,
Where peace shall smile, and no dispute arise,
But which Rules most, his Scepter, or her Eyes.
LONDON, Printed for Henry Herringman on the Lower walk of the New Exchange. 1661.