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AN

EPISTLE

FROM. A

Lady in England,

TO A

Gentleman at Avignon.

By Mr. TICKELL.

o Thee, dear Rover, and thy vanquish'd Friends,

The Health, fhe wants, thy gentle CHLOE

fends:

Tho' much You fuffer, think I fuffer more.

Worfe than an Exile on my Native Shore.

Companions

Companions in your Master's Fight you roame,
Unenvy'd by your haughty Foes at home;
For-ever near the Royal Outlaw's fide

You fhare his Fortunes, and his Hopes divide,

On glorious Schemes, and Thoughts of Empire dwell,
And with Imaginary Titles fwell,

Say (for thou know'ft I own his facred Line, The Paffive Doctrine, and the Right Divine) Say, what new Succours do's the Chief prepare? The Strength of Armies? Or the Force of Pray'r? Do's he from Heav'n or Earth his Hopes derive? From Saints Departed? Or from Priests Alive? Nor Saints nor Priests can Brunswick's Troops withstand, And Beads drop useless thro' the Zealot's Hand; Heav'n to our Vows may Future Kingdoms owe, But Skill and Courage win the Crowns below.

E're to thy Cause, and Thee, my Heart inclin'd,
Or Love to Party had feduc'd my Mind,
In Female Joys I took a dull Delight,

Slept all the Morn, and Punted half the Night:
But now, with Fears and publick Cares poffeft,
The Church, the Church, for-ever breaks my Reft,
The Poft-Boy on my Pillow I explore,

And fift the News of ev'ry Foreign Shore,
Studious to find new Friends, and new Allies;
What Armies march from Sueden in Disguise;

*How

How Spain prepares her Banners to unfold,

And Rome deals out her Blessings, and her Gold:
Then o'er the Map my Finger, taught to ftray,
Crofs many a Region marks the winding Way;
From Sea to Sea, from Realm to Realm I rove,
And grow a mere Geographer by Love.

But ftill Avignon, and the pleafing Coast

That holds Thee banish'd, claims my Care the most;
Oft on the well-known Spot I fix my Eyes,
And Span the Distance that between us lies.

Let not our James, tho' foil'd in Arms, Despair,
Whilft on his Side he reckons half the Fair:
In Britain's lovely Ifle a fhining Throng
War in his Caufe, a thoufand Beauties ftrong.
Th' unthinking Victors vainly boaft their Pow'rs;
Be Theirs the Mufquet, while the Tongue is Ours.
We Reason with fuch Fluency and Fire,

The Beaux we baffle, and the Learned tire;

Against her Prelates plead the Church's Cause,
And from our Judges vindicate the Laws.

Then mourn not, hapless Prince, thy Kingdoms loft,
A Crown, tho' late, thy facred Brow may boast;
Heav'n feems thro' Us thy Empire to decree,.

Those who win Hearts, have giv'n their Hearts to Thee,

Haft thou not heard that, when profufely gay Our well-dreft Rivals grac'd their Sov'raign's Day,

We

We stubborn Damfels met the publick View
In loathfome Wormwood, and repenting Rue?
What Whig but trembled, when our spotlefs Band
In Virgin Rofes whiten'd half the Land!

Who can forget what Fears the Foe possest,
When Oaken Boughs mark'd ev'ry loyal Breaft!
Lefs fcar'd near Medway's Stream the Norman ftood,
When crofs the Plain he fpy'd a marching Wood,
'Till, near at hand, a Gleam of Swords betray'd
The Youth of Kent beneath it's wand'ring Shade.

Thofe, who the Succours of the Fair defpife,
May find that we have Nails as well as Eyes.
Thy Female Bands, O Prince! by Fortune croft,
At least more Courage than thy Men may boast:
Our Sex has dar'd the Mug-House Chiefs to meet,
And purchas'd Fame in many a well-fought Street.
From Drury-Lane, the Region of Renown,
The Land of Love, the Paphos of the Town,
Fair Patriots fallying, oft have put to Flight,
With all their Poles, the Guardians of the Night,
And bore, with Screams of Triumph, to their Side
The Leader's Staff in all its painted Pride.

Nor fears the Hawker in her warbling Note,
To vend the difcontented Statesman's Thought.

Tho' red with Stripes, and recent from the Thong,
Sore fmitten for the Love of facred Song,

The

The tuneful Sifters ftill pursue their Trade,
Like Philomela darkling in the Shade, on
Poor Trott attends, forgetful of a Fare,
And Hums in Concert o'er his Empty Chair,

Mean while, regardless of the Royal Cause,
His Sword for James no Brother Sov'raign draws.
The Pope himself, fürrounded with Alarms, 20
To France his Bulls, to Corfu fends his Arms;
And tho' He hears his Darling Son's Complaint
Can hardly fpare one Tutelary Saint,

But lifts them all to guard his own Abodes,
And into Ready Money coỳns his Gods.
The dauntless Suede purfu'd by vengeful Foes,
Scarce keeps his own Hereditary Snows;
Nor muft the friendly Roof of kind Lorrain,
With Feafts regale our Garter'd Youth again:
Safe, Bar-le-duc, within thy filent Grove,

The Pheasant now may perch, the Hare may rove:
The Knight, who aims unerring from afar,

Th' Advent'rous Knight, now quits the Sylyan War:
Thy brinded Boars may flumber undismay'd,
Or

grunt fecure beneath the Chesnut-Shade. Inconftant Orleans (still we mourn the Day That trufted Orleans with Imperial Sway)

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Far o'er the Alps our helpless Monarch fends, gl Far from the Call of his defponding Friends; b'nt.

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