While you fo fmoothly turn and rowl our sphere,
That rapid motion does but reft appear.
For, as in nature's fwiftnefs, with the throng
Of flying orbs while ours is borne along,
All feems at reft to the deluded eye,
Mov'd by the foul of the fame harmony,
So, carried on by your unwearied care,
We reft in peace, and yet in motion share.
Let envy then thofe crimes within you see,
From which the happy never must be free;
Envy, that does with mifery refide,
The joy and the revenge of ruin'd pride.
Think it not hard, if at so cheap a rate
You can fecure the conftancy of fate,

Whofe kindness fent what does their malice feem,
By leffer ills the greater to redeem.

Nor can we this weak shower a tempest call,
But drops of heat, that in the fun-fhine fall.
You have already wearied fortune so,
She cannot farther be your friend or foe;
But fits all breathlefs, and admires to feel
A fate fo weighty, that it stops her wheel.
In all things elfe above our humble fate,
Your equal mind yet fwells not into state,
But, like fome mountain in thofe happy ifles,
Where in perpetual fpring young nature smiles,
Your greatness shews: no horror to affright,
But trees for fhade, and flowers to court the fight:
Sometimes the hill fubmits itself a while

In small descents, which do its height beguile;

And fometimes mounts, but fo as billows play, Whofe rife not hinders, but makes short our way. Your brow, which does no fear of thunder know, Sees rowling tempefts vainly beat below; And, like Olympus' top, th' impreffion wears Of love and friendship writ in former years. Yet, unimpair'd with labours, er with time, Your age but feems to a new youth to climb. Thus heavenly bodies do our time beget, And measure change, but share no part of it. And ftill it fhall without a weight increase, Like this new-year, whofe motions never cease. For fince the glorious courfe you have begun Is led by Charles, as that is by the sun, It must both weightlefs and immortal prove, Because the centre of it is above.

A

SATIRE on the DUTCH,
Written in the Year 1662.

S needy gallants, in the scrivener's hands,
Court the rich knaves that gripe their mortgag'd
lands;

The first fat buck of all the feafon's fent,
And keeper takes no fee in compliment;
The dotage of fome Englishmen is fuch,
To fawn on thofe, who ruin them, the Dutch.
They fhall have all, rather than make a war
With thofe, who of the fame religion are.
The Straits, the Guiney-trade, the herrings too;
Nay, to keep friendship, they fhall pickle you.

Some are refolv'd not to find out the cheat,

But, cuckold-like, love them that do the feat.
What injuries foe'er upon us fall,

Yet ftill the fame religion answers all.

Religion wheedled us to civil war,

Drew English blood, and Dutchmen's now would spare.
Be gull'd no longer; for you'll find it true,
They have no more religion, faith! than you.
Intereft'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 ftates are atheifts in their very frame.
They share a fin; and fuch proportions fall,
That, like a stink, 'tis nothing to them all.
Think on their rapine, falfhood, cruelty,
And that what once they were, they ftill would be.
To one well-born th' affront is worse and more,
When he's abus'd and baffled by a boor.
With an ill grace the Dutch their mifchiefs do;
They 've both ill nature and ill manners too.
Well may they boaft themselves an ancient nation
For they were bred ere manners were in fafhion:
And their new commonwealth has fet them free
Only from honour and civility.
Venetians do not more uncouthly ride,

Than did their lubber ftate mankind beftride.
Their fway became them with as ill a mien,
As their own paunches fwell above their chin.
Yet is their empire no true growth but humour,
And only two kings' touch can cure the tumour.

As

As Cato, fruits of Afric did display;
Let us before our eyes their Indies lay:
All loyal English will like him conclude;
Let Cæfar live, and Carthage be subdued.

To her Royal Highness the DUTCHESS of YORK, on the memorable Victory gained by the DUKE over the HOLLANDERS, June the 3d, 1665. and on her Journey afterwards into the North.

MADAM,

WHEN, for our fakes, your hero you refign'd

To fwelling feas, and every faithless wind;

When you releas'd his courage, and set free

A valour fatal to the enemy;

You lodg'd your country's cares within your breaft
(The manfion where foft love fhould only reft:
And, ere our foes abroad were overcome,
The nobleft conqueft you had gain'd at home.
Ah, what concerns did both your fouls divide!
Your honour gave us what your love denied :
And 'twas for him much easier to fubdue
Thofe foes he fought with, than to part from you.
That glorious day, which two fuch navies faw,
As each unmatch'd might to the world give law.
Neptune, yet doubtful whom he should obey,
Held to them both the trident of the fea :

The winds were hufh'd, the waves in ranks were caft,
As awfully as when God's people past:

Thofe,

Those, yet uncertain on whose fails to blow,
Thefe, where the wealth of nations ought to flow.
Then with the duke your highness rul'd the day :
While all the brave did his command obey,
The fair and pious under you did pray.
How powerful are chafte vows! the wind and tide
You brib'd to combat on the English fide.
Thus to your much-lov'd lord you did convey
An unknown fuccour, fent the nearest way.
New vigour to his wearied arms you brought,
(So Mofes was upheld while Israel fought)
While, from afar, we heard the cannon play,
Like diftant thunder on a fhiny day.
For abfent friends we were afham'd to fear,
When we confider'd what you ventur'd there.
Ships, men, and arms, our country might reftore;
But fuch a leader could fupply no more.
With generous thoughts of conquest he did burn,
Yet fought not more to vanquish than return.
Fortune and victory he did pursue,

To bring them as his flaves to wait on you.
Thus beauty ravish'd the rewards of fame,
And the fair triumph'd when the brave o`ercame.
Then, as you meant to spread another way
By land your conquefts, far as his by fea,
Leaving our fouthern clime, you march'd along
The ftubborn North, ten thousand Cupids ftrong.
Like commons the nobility resort,

In crowding heaps, to fill your moving court:

To