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EPISTLE from a Lady in ENGLAND,



By the Same.

TO , ,

O thee, dear rover, and thy vanquish'd friends,

The health she wants, thy gentle Chloe sends ;
Though much you suffer, think I suffer more,
Worse than an exile on my native shore.
Companions in your master's Right you roam,
Unenvy'd by your haughty foes at home ;
For-ever near the royal out-law's side,
You share 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 passive doctrine, and the right divine)
Say, what new succours does the chief prepare ?
The strength of armies ? or the force of pray’r ?




Does he from heav'n or earth his hopes derive ?
From faints departed? or from priests alive?
Nor saints nor priests can Brunfwick's troops withstand,
And beads drop useless through the zealot's hand;
Heav'n to our vows may future kingdoms owe,
But skill and courage win the crowns below.

Ere to thy cause, and thee, my heart inclin'd,
Or love to party had seduc'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 public cares possessid,
The church, the church, for-ever breaks my rest.
The post-boy on my pillow I explore,
And lift the news of every foreign shore,
Studious to find new friends, and new allies;
What armies march from Sweden in disguise ;
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 stray,
Cross 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 still Avignon, and the pleasing coaft
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, though foild in arms, despair,
Whilst on his side he reckons half the fair:
In Britain's lovely ise a shining throng
War in his cause, a thousand beauties strong.
Th’unthinking victors vainly boast their pow'rs;
Be theirs the musket, while the tongue is ours.
We reason with such Auency 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, though late, thy sacred brow may boast;
Heav'n seems through us thy empire to decree,
Those who win hearts, have giv'n their hearts to thee.

Haft thou not heard that, when profusely gay,
Our well-dress'd rivals grace their sov'reign's day,
We stubborn damsels met the public view
In loathsome wormwood, and repenting rue ?
What whig but trembled, when our spotless band
In virgin roses whiten'd half the land !
Who can forget what fears the foe possess’d,
When oaken boughs mark'd every loyal breast !



Less scar'd near Medway's stream the Norman stood,
When cross the plain he spy'd a marching wood,
'Till, near åt hand, a gleam of swords betray'd
The youth of Kent beneath its wand'ring shade.

Thofe, who the succours of the fair despise,
May find that we have nails as well as eyes.
The female bands, O prince by Fortune crossid,
At least more courage than thy men may boast;
Our sex has dar'd the mug-house chiefs to meet,
And purchase 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 borne, 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 discontented statesman's thought.
Though red with stripes, and recent from the thong,
Sore smitten for the love of sacred song,
The tuneful sisters still pursue their trade,
Like Philomela darkling in the shade.
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 sovereign draws.
The Pope himself, surrounded with alarms,
To France his bulls, to Corfu fends his arms,
And though he hears his darling fon's complaint,
Can hardly spare one tutelary faint ;
But lists them all to guard his own abodes,
And into ready money coins his gods.
The dauntless Swede, pursu'd by vengeful foes,
Scarce keeps his own hereditary fnows;
Nor must the friendly roof of kind Lorrain
With feasts regale our garter'd youth again:
Safe, Bar-le-duc, within thy silent grove
The pheasant now may perch, the hare may rove:
The knight, who aims unerring from afar,
Th' advent'rous knight, now quits the fylvan war :
The brinded boars may Number un-dismay'd,

secure beneath the chesnut shade.
Inconstant Orleans (still we mourn the day
That trusted Orleans with imperial sway)
Far o'er the Alps our helpless monarch sends,
Far from the call of his desponding friends.
Such are the terms to gain Britannia's grace !
And such the terrors of the Brunswick race!


Or grunt

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