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If thou art well recover'd fince
*6 The Excommunicated Prince *
For that important tragedy
Would have kill'd any Muse but thee;
Hither with speed, Oh! hither move;
Pull bufkins off, and, since to love
The ground is holy that you tread in,
Dance bare-foot at the Captain's wedding.

See where he comes, and by his fide
His charming fair angelic bride :
Such, or less lovely, was the dame
So much renown'd, Fulvia by name,
With whom of old Tully did join,
Then when his art did undermine
The horrid Popish plot of Catiline.
Oh fairest nymph of all Great Britain !
(Though thee my eyes I never set on)
Blush rot on thy great lord to smile,
The second saviour of our ille ;
What nobler Captain could have led
Thee to thy long'd-for marriage-bed:
For know that thy all-daring Will is
As stout a hero as Achilles ;
And as great things for thee has done,
As Palmerin or th' Knight of th’ Sun,
And is himself a whole romance alone.
Let conscious Flanders speak, and be
The witness of his chivalry.

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* A Tragedy, by Captain Bedloe, 165r.

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Yet

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Yet that 's not all, his very word
Has slain as many as his sword :
Though common bullies with their oaths.
Hurt little till they come to blows,
Yet all his mouth-granadoes kill,
And save the pains of drawing steel.
This hero thy resistless charms
Have won to fly into thy arms ;
For think not any mean design,
Or the inglorious itch of coin,
Could ever have his breast control'd,
Or make him be a slave to gold;
His love 's as freely given to thee
As to the king his loyalty.
Then, oh, receive thy mighty prize
With open arms and wishing eyes,
Kiss that dear face, where may be seen
His worth and parts that skulk within
That face, that justly styl’d may be.
As true a discoverer as he.
Think not he ever false will prove,
His well-known truth secures his love;
Do you a while divert his cares
From his important grand affairs :
Let him have refpite now a while,
From kindling the mad rabble's zeal :
Zeal, that is hot as fire, yet dark and blind,
Shews plainly where its birth-place we may find,
In hell, where though dire Alames for ever glow,
Yet 'tis the place of utter darkness too.

But

But to his bed be sure be true
As he to all the world and you,
He all your plots will else betray
All ye She-Machiavels can lay.
He all designs, you know, has found,
Though hatch'd in hell or under ground;
Oft to the world such secrets shew
As scarce the plotters themselves knew;
Yet, if by chance you hap to sin,
And Love, while Honour 's napping, should creep in,
Yet be discreet, and do not boast
O'th' treason by the common post.
So shalt thou still make him love on;
All virtue 's in discretion.
So thou with him shalt shine, and be
As great a patriot as he ;
And when, as now in Christmas, all
For a new pack of cards do call,
Another Popish pack comes out
To please the cits, and charm the rout:
Thou, mighty queen, shalt a whole fuit command,
A crown upon thy head, and sceptre in thy hand!

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'T WAS Love conducted through the British main,

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On a more high design the royal Dane,
Than when of old with an invading hand
His fierce forefathers came to spoil the land :
And love has gain'd him by a nobler way,
A braver conquest and a richer prey.

For battles won, and countries sav'd renown'd,
Shaded with laurels, and with honours crown'd,
From fields with slaughter strew'd, the hero came,
His arms neglected, to pursue his flame.
Like Mars returning from the noble chace
Of flying nations through the plains of Thrace,
When, deck'd with trophies and adorn'd with spoils,
He meets the goddess that rewards his toils !
But, oh! what transports did his heart invade
When first he faw the lovely, royal maid !
Fame, that so high did her perfections raise,
Seem'd now detraction, and no longer praise !
All that could noblest minds to love engage,
Or into softness melt the soldier's rage,

AH

All that could spread abroad refiftless fire,
And

eager wishes raife, and fierce desire,
All that was charming, all that was above
Ev'n poets fancies, though refin’d by love,
All native beauty dreft by every grace
Of fweetest youth fat shining in her face !
Where, where is now the generous fury gone,
That through thick troops urg'd the wing'd warrior on?
Where now the spirit that aw'd the listed field;
Created to command, untaught to yield?
It yields, it yields, to Anna's gentle fway,
And thinks it above triumphs to obey.
See at thy feet, illustrious princess, thrown
All the rich spoils the mighty hero won !
His fame, his laurels, are thy beauties due,
And all his conquests are outdone by you:
Ah! lovely nymph, accept the noble prize,
A tribute fit for thofe victorious eyes!.
Ah! generoas maid, país not relentless by,
Nor let war's chief by cruel beauty die!
Though unexperienc'd youth fond scruples moves
And blushes rife but at the name of love ;
Though over all thy thoughts and every fenfe
The guard is plac'd of virgin innocence ;
Yet from thy father's generous blood we know
Respect for valour in thy breaft does glow;
'Tis but agreeing to thy royal birth,
To smile on virtue and heroic worth,
Love, in such noble feeds of honour sown,
The chafteit virgin need not blush to own.

Whom

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