Sol in opposition to Saturn. OR A a short return to a late Tragedy call'd The Duke of Guise.
HAil Royal Prince! our happy Morning Star;
The Genius of our peace, the Soul of War:
High by descent, by vertue higher yet,
Which make the people crovvd to kiss thy Feet.
Fame blow thy Trumpet! and let the mighty sound,
Of
Monmouth, from the
Antartick Pole rebound.
Fame blow again! until the blast be heard,
As far as Noble
Iames, is lov'd or fear'd.
Blow! till the Universe doth answer give,
Till
Monmouth is the bravest Prince alive.
Oh that
I could proportionate my Rhime,
Unto the praise of Vertue so Sublime:
But were I ne'r so skilful, such desert,
Doth ev'n Anticipate the Poets Art.
Hyperbolies in such exalted Theams,
But low, inferiour, sickly Whimsies seems.
His Name doth higher Elogies contain,
Then can be reacht by all
Apollo's train.
The highest Tune that ever Poet sung,
Wou'd such an Elevated Subject wrong.
If so my Muse forbare, lay by thy Lyre,
The worth thou canst not reach learn to admire.
Brave Noble Prince! such worth can never be,
Design'd for everlasting Obloquy.
Tho' from black Mouths, Malignant Vapours rise;
And for the present hide thee from our Eyes.
Yet thou shalt shine, and all those Clouds disperse:
Thy rayes again, shall glad the Universe:
Infer no wretched thought from frowning Fate,
Tho' Vertuous men may be Unfortunate:
The Sun is oft Eclipst, through little Stars,
And As unenvy'd, no Misfortune Fears.
While Envy lives, true worth will be defam'd,
She'l bark, although she be for barking damn'd.
Brave Gen'rous Prince! has Vertue learn'd to Sing,
Under the lash of every Libels Sting.
Be not offended with the silly Stage,
Nor the Effects of a blind Horses Rage.
Let
Pegasus alone, her Race she'l run,
And spight of thee, attain Damnation.
Yet let his anger thy compassion move,
Methinks his Passion has the looks of
Love.
True Adversaries seldom warning give,
Like that which in this Play, thou dost receive.
Not that I'll wrong him in this Patrons sence,
Nor spoil his Fortune, by his small pretence.
We'l rather say, to make amends for that,
His Plot doth Item what sport he'd be at.
[Page] Rejoyce Great Prince! and may thy wretched Foes,
Proceed their worst intentions to disclose.
Fear not their malice, nor their threats despise,
But let apparent folly, make thee wise.
Finish the Vertuous Race thou hast begun,
And future toils, with former Vigour run
To keep those Lawrels, thou'st already won.
'Tis true they've brought forth only
Thorns as yet,
But thereby Fate runs more and more in debt.
Who knows what is for such desert prepar'd?
Did vertue ever go without reward?
Despair not
Iames, for ev'ry Vertue is,
A Pledge of Temporal, or Eternal bliss.
Vertue is Earnest of some good to come,
Though oft that good be bought with Martyrdome:
Though Providence be slow it can't be rude
It ne're was guilty of Ingratitude.
Thou know'st not what'by
Heaven is design'd,
For the Exercise of thy heroick mind.
Who knows but
Monmouth yet may th' Vict'ry have,
Ore Papists, who wou'd his Native Land inslave.
Who knows for what thou art preserv'd, for we
Heavens Love perceive in thy delivery,
From the
Italians Savage cruelty.
Who knows what Honours thou may'st yet regain?
The Sun must in the Morning rise again,
Who knows what Storms thy Lustre may dispell,
What mischief stop, and what heart burnings quell,
'Mongst Romish
Tory's earnest to rebell?
Such Vertues ought not to be buried quick,
To gratifie the Cath'lick Shismatick.
Such Talents ought not to be hid, but spread,
Vertue like Faith is fruitful if not dead.
Thy Countries Peace, and Liberty they Claim,
Thy Lords renown, the Centre of thy Fame:
Wert thou ambitious, thou hadst yet been high,
But this thy fall doth prove thy Loyalty.
Disdain those Mungrels that would run thee dovvn,
True Courage in adversity is shovvn.
As in a Storm the Sun doth light some parts,
So doth thy presence chear all Loyal Hearts.
But as for them vvho envy deart thy life,
May they live curst and die vvithout relief.
May they die beggers and an offspring leave,
To vvhom Eternal infamy may cleave.
May all their hopes to desparation turn,
Live their ovvn shame, and die the peoples scorn:
On one another, vent your svvelling Gall,
And may intestine Malice eat you all.
May every Viper die by its ovvn sting,
And Tory Poets their ovvn Dirges sing.
But Heaven preserve great
Monmouth from their rage,
Let him live safe tho' Murther'd on the Stage.
Let Poets club their spleen, and Fops their pence,
May Heaven patronise his innocence.
LONDON Printed for H. Iones, 1683.