MARIA to HENRIC, AND HENRIC to MARIA: OR, THE QUEEN to the KING IN HOLLAND, AND HIS Majesty's Answer;
TWO Heroical Epistles IN Imitation of the Stile and Manner of Ovid.
Written by a Young Lady.
LONDON, Printed for Joseph Knight, at the Pope's Head, in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange, 1691.
MARIA TO HENRIC.
MInutes grow tedious, time too slowly moves,
While
Henric's absent, and
Maria loves.
Each Hour's a Week, and ev'ry Day a Year,
And ev'ry of
Maria's Thoughts a Fear:
Not for Thy Faith, my Fears are all for Thee,
For that dear Heart that nothing holds but me.
May I demand, if Love e'er taught Thee yet,
To look on lazy Moments with Regret?
If Love has taught Thee his Account of Time?
If
Henric's Love be such a Love as mine?
If so, my Sighs are justify'd by thine;
[Page 2] If so, you cannot frown, and cannot chuse,
But all I sigh, and all I say excuse;
And wish, and speak, and doubt, and act with me,
If Love like mine in a Male Breast can be.
Female our Souls, all Masculine our Love,
Strong is your Sense, feebly your Passions move.
Here shrunk my Soul, till my kind careless Pen
Run on to
Henric's Name—I liv'd agen.
Henric more Noble than the rest of Men!
O happy Thought! O blest
Maria's Fate!
He loves, does all above the common Rate.
You bufy'd yet with all those great Affairs,
Counsels, Debates, and Policy of Wars;
Safety of Kingdoms, all the Mighty Things,
Worthy my
Henric, fit alone for Kings.
This some Relief to painful Absence gives,
Diverts the Pangs wherewith
Maria strives.
While You the foaming untam'd
Gallia chase,
And all Your Snares around the Tigress place;
Pleas'd thus to see her all at Your Command,
Whene'er You please to move Your Conqu'ring Hand:
Suffer not fond
Maria to complain,
That You forget Your own dear am'rous Chain.
On unfledg'd Victries in the Nest You smile,
And great Designs Your Love and Hours beguile:
Alone my business, and my all is You,
My self, my Wishes, all I have to do;
Your Name alone perswades me to endure;
That gives the Wound, and that applies the Cure:
But there's no Balsom priz'd by me above
The bright Idea of Your Noble Love.
But if Your Love (pardon the dubious Thought)
If You the gen'rous Flame from
Belgia brought;
Why could it not perswade You to delay?
Why could not parting Tears induce Your stay?
How cruel short the pleasing Interview!
Short as 'twas sweet, as short disgustful too.
Why was I born so Great, or You so Brave?
Were You less so, or were I but a Slave,
My servile Consort I in view might have?
Nor think he's now engag'd, a Conqu'rour now,
Dying, perhaps, with Vict'ry on his Brow,
Wounded, or sick, or e'en I know not how.
Lost
Mons, the worthy Cause, and
British Isle,
Forgive the Queen, that on Your Loss could smile;
Th' unwelcome News no sooner reach'd my Ear,
But straight I knew my
Henric was not there:
No Towns are ever lost when he's too near.
You often come indeed too near Your Foes,
Your Breast too oft, too daringly expose;
You are too much a Conquerour for me,
I love You better than the Victory:
Yet I love Conquest, and can wish it too;
But why, methinks, must all be done by You?
Let others take the Danger; Let them stake
Their Lives, and let them
Henric's Glory take—
Ha! What—What would my fondling Passion do?
Oh, that it might be Great! as Great as now;
And yet incapable to wrong You too!
What's State, Respect, or what's a Crown to me?
Poor Joys!—How poor's a Queen depriv'd of Thee?
My very Dreams, the softest Bliss I knew,
My Thoughts, my Dreams, are still employ'd with You,
Pleasing at first, now serve t'afflict me too.
My Bed I with sad Apprehensions shake,
With sudden Shrieks and Cries I start, and wake:
Attendants and officious Guards rush in,
When nothing but her
Henric wants the Queen;
Shipwrack'd with Doubts, and almost sunk by fear,
Least swelling
Neptune so embrace my Dear,
E'en You that took of me so little Care:
You that expos'd in a small Shallop lay,
Defying
Boreas and a Raging Sea;
By cruel, deadly Sheets of Ice enclos'd;
Hunger, and bold obtruding Death oppos'd:
Yet Your Prophetic Valour could inspire
Your glowing Breast with such Heroic Fire;
The Shell, that
Coesar and his Fortunes bore,
Was destin'd to attain, and reach'd the Shore;
Can You suppose with me to perish more?
Cease not to fear (said You) but blush to think,
That
Henric and his Fortunes here must sink.
Ye Gods!—The Gods were with Thee, and they saw:
These words were follow'd with sudden a Thaw:
And kind Heav'n cast Thee on thy Native Shore,
When nothing less was hop'd, You wish'd no more.
If I, of a more cow'rdly Sex, had seen
What mighty Perils shut my
Henric in;
Away had flown my hasty tim'rous Soul:
Nor could that Prophecie, so spoke, recall
My fleeting Breath, restoring as it was,
'T had been, to dying me, of little Force.
The fearful Tale, e'en while I knew You safe,
A strange cold shivering to my Senses gave,
Methought, and wrapt me in a chilly Wave.
Be kind, my Love, make haste—Be rather flow,
And be my kinder Love in being so.
Be kind, and cautious, let me not sustain
Those Dyings, and those Agonies again.
While I implore soft Winds, entreat the Sea
To be as gentle as my Sighs for Thee,
And careful as
Maria's Thoughts can be;
Safe as Thy Arms, serene as those You give
Your great Protection to, and wish to live.
Live You
Maria's, she that lives for You.
All Yours—Adiou, my Royal Love, Adieu.
The Answer. HENRIC TO MARIA.
HEalth to
Maria; may She ever be
Blefs'd by the Gods, as She's held dear byome.
This Letter bears You, and demands a Kiss,
While I, at distance, emulate the Blifs.
I had Your Lines which seem'd, me thought, to smile,
And as I read, I saw You in the Stile;
Gentle, endearing, as You us'd to be;
I had, methought, Your self in some Degree;
Yet a faint Copy of Thy Mind and Thee.
[Page 8] But as so far 'twas Yours, no Joys could here
So great, approach my Soul, or half so de
[...].
And yet, methinks, I'm almost angry too,
To have my Love suspected thus by You,
As not a Passion great like Yours, nor true.
Will You believe me? Or how must I swear,
My Passion's great, as You are kind and fair?
Oh, You mistake indeed! our Passions move
With all the Tenderness of Female Love.
Your Sex their Flames more artfully express,
While ours, pent in our Bosoms, scorch no less.
Reproach us not, we cannot love like you,
Because we know not how to say we do.
Your Letter seems to chide I would be gone,
And leave
Maria, and her Charms so soon:
Those were enough indeed t'oblige my stay,
But such Affairs as mine forbid delay;
'T would blast my Farne, and
Mars himself would frown
And even blush to hear a Gen'ral own,
He left his Joys, and Ease unwillingly;
And when oblig'd t'approach the Enemy,
It looks as if he were afraid to die.
But You, my gentle, kind, my bosom Foe,
Will urge me to offend my Honour so,
[Page 9] Too tenderly to be deny'd You press;
But shall a stubborn Martial Man confess
Maria was so charming, and so kind,
He went, and fondly left his Heart behind?
Oh, You'll reduce me to confessing too,
I hold not Conquest half so dear as You;
And hate the Field, the Glorious—Scene of War,
And all because
Maria is not there.
What is't You make me say? What make me do?
But would
Mars blush to be Your Captive so?
The great, the Gods—they nothing knew above,
Or more Heroic than to fight and love;
No Demy-God, or Hero, could be so,
Unless he could be prov'd a Lover too.
Proud as I am of the bright Chains I wear,
My Vows are jointly made to Love and War.
Love without Glory is too poor, too mean,
Unworthy
Henric and beneath the
Queen.
Combat, and not with gen'rous Love conjoin'd,
Is brutish, and beneath a Manly Mind.
If You love me—Love me, I know You do,
And You're oblig'd to love my Honour too;
You have been valiant, and with me could dare:
But how's Your Soul contracted by Your Fear?
[Page 10] Can You not be
Maria fair, and kind,
And yet retain the Beauties of Your Mind;
That Fortitude which so sublimely soar'd
Above the Vulgar, and I so ador'd?
Shall Your great Soul for my small Danger shake,
When sacred Fanes, and Altars are at Stake?
How is Your Courage fled? Love me not so,
You seem to wish me as my
Gallic Foe,
He'd have me always stay at home with You.
No, No, You love me not above my Fame,
Your Softness clouds the Lustre of Your Flame,
As bright as ever 'twas, and still the same.
Just so my Love's eclips'd by rude Affairs;
Such are the
Rhesian to the
Paphian Wars.
If Softness can admit Sublimity,
As instanc'd gloriously are both in Thee,
Let me a Lover and a Soldier be;
Your Tenderness had made me doubt You brave,
For which I ask the pardon I must have,
Because I find I was suspected too,
You saw me rough, and thought I lov'd not You.
Thus we make Judgments from the upper Coat,
And doubt, and talk, and sigh, and all by rote.
Disguis'd we rudely may a Prince intreat,
Because in that Array he seem'd not great.
[Page 11] Should we not then be well assur'd and know
His Quality before we treat him so?
If we consider'd well, and look'd within,
The seeming Beggar might be found a King.
Lord of my Passions was my Love, when You
Question'd, and thought it ev'n beggarly too.
But Oh! I long to view those Charms again,
That Face which mad-brain'd Multitudes can tame,
Monsters as fierce, cruel as th'
African.
I know
Maria has no more to do,
Than look to strike a Malefactour thrô;
But you've look'd all into a loving so,
That none will contradict Your Will they know.
Britannia under You's a happy State;
Rejoice,
Britannia, in so bless'd a Fate;
So 'twas
Elisa govern'd you; and so
My Queen, You, sweet
Maria govern too.
Your Eyes Command, all greedily fulfill,
What e'er th'injoin, that's ever nothing ill.
Your Eyes are both our Sceptres, I the Sword
Must brandish here, while You there give the Word;
And when You please to add a Smile or Frown,
The Wretch that hangs on Your melodious Tongue,
Is either strangely bless'd, or quite undone.
What a mad Caprice; of some
Gallic Fool,
Was't to exclude their Women all from Rule?
Not
Lewis, he was fair, and wise he's too,
Yet never govern'd with his Eyes like You.
Oh, had he now but such a Friend as mine,
He might go join the
Turk, his old Design,
And leave his
France to th' Management of's Queen.
Oh, how I long to see my Love appear,
As oft Sh'as done, like some auspicious Star,
And by her Glories chear the Men of War.
Which all in Ecstasie when-e'er Thou'rt seen,
With eager Voices cry,
Long live the Queen.
Oh, could She know; could I but here impart,
What hasty Thoughts and Wishes crowd my Heart;
She could not think her
Henric would be long,
Pursuing those Motives to a quick Return:
Till then,
Maria, calm Your troubl'd Mind,
And let this Paper
Nuncio welcome find.
FINIS.
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