An epistle to Mrs. Wallup: now in the train of Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales. As it was sent to her to the Hague. Written by Mrs. Susanna Centlivre.

Table of contents

- [halftitle]

- [titlepage]

AN EPISTLE, &c.

MADAM, What Muse can speak, what Pen display

Britannia's Pomp upon that happy Day,

When Royal George our City dain'd to Grace,

And from impending Slav'ry freed her Race?

His grateful Subjects round his Chariot hung,

Long live the King was heard from ev'ry Tongue:

Transporting Raptures all their Sense employ,

And Babes unborn, by Instinct leap'd for Joy;

Ev'n those whom Death stood ready to release,

Blest the Deliverer, and dy'd in Peace.

As Roman Sages charg'd their Sons to tell

That at their Deaths they left Augustus well:

So shall those Patriots who with Care and Toil,

Rescu'd the Charters of our British Isle,

At Fate's first Summons willingly obey,

And to their weeping Wives and Children say,

Cease, cease your Tears, no more of Grief be shown,

We leave you Free, and George upon the Throne.

This Madam, we may write, but who can tell

What mighty Transports in your Bosom dwell,

To see the Scepter by that Hero sway'd,

To whom long since your ardent Vows were paid.

When your unweary'd Zeal thrice crost the Sea,

Nor fear'd what Dangers might obstruct your Way:

Not led by Int'rest, or Intrigues of State,

(Avarice and Pride! Faults of the meanly great:)

No private End by you was understood,

But all your Wishes were the Publick Good.

Oh may the Princess you so oft have prais'd,

And great Ideas of her Vertues rais'd,

Give you that Preference due to your Desert,

And place you foremost in her Royal Heart.

The Princess, said I? Oh that charming Name,

She comes! Who can th' exulting Joy sustain?

The Heroes did such mighty Transports give,

We scarce can view the Heroine, and Live.

Oh Happy Britain! Oh propitious Day!

That shall this Lady to thy Isle convey:

From her may such a Race of Princes flow,

'Till Heralds barren of new Titles grow.

Come Royal Dame, and bless our longing Eyes,

Fulfil our Hopes, consummate all our Joys.

Your Glorious Offspring let Britannia see,

And make her happy, as you made her free.

Those Babes are for our Church's Safety given,

The Darling Hostages 'twixt her and Heaven.

Britannia's Court shall in full Lustre shine,

As heretofore in Bright Maria's time:

Maria's Name still sounds in British Ears,

Like Musick tun'd from the Celestial Spheres.

With thousand Beauties was Maria grac'd,

A thousand Vertues in her Soul were plac'd;

Such was her Form, and such her mighty Mind,

That scarcely Angels cou'd be more refin'd:

She wanted only Immortality,

To make the Angel with the Saint agree.

The Sun which set in fair Maria's Eyes,

In Carolina's does triumphant rise,

In her you'll find Maria's Loss retriev'd,

That Charming Queen for whom so much we griev'd.

As when some happy Nuptial Knot's unty'd,

And Death uncourteous does the Pair divide,

The poor Wife, o'erpower'd by the Stroke of Fate,

Mourns like a Turtle her departed Mate,

Stretch'd on the Breathless Trunk her Tears she vents,

And utters to the Lifeless Clay Complaints:

To draw her thence all Arguments are try'd,

Nothing can raise her from her Husband's Side,

Till some one Friend more lucky than the rest,

Lays the surviving Infant on her Breast:

She views each Feature, dwells on ev'ry Grace,

And in the Child surveys the Father's Face;

Then the dear Relick snatches to her Arms,

And all the Mother instantly returns.

So, when the beautious, fair Maria dy'd,

Sorrow o'erwhelm'd us like a rising Tyde,

Till Godlike WILLIAM studying our Repose,

Fix'd the Succession, and reliev'd our Woes.

Whate'er th' Almighty gives to bless Mankind,

We, or in Spring, or in the Autumn find,

The Spring revives what Winter has decay'd,

And in New Livery all the Earth's array'd.

But tho' the Spring a Thousand Sweets disclose,

Th' Indian Jessamine, and Syrian Rose;

The various Product of each fertile Soil,

'Tis the Rich Autumn Crowns the Peasant's Toil.

So, tho' we see a New-Created Spring,

And ev'ry Joy reviving in the KING;

YOU in the PRINCESS will our Harvest bring.

FINIS.

AN EPISTLE TO Mrs. WALLUP, Now in the TRAIN of Her Royal Highness, The Princess of WALES.

AN EPISTLE TO Mrs. WALLUP, Now in the TRAIN of Her Royal Highness, The Princess of WALES. As it was sent to her to the HAGUE. Written by Mrs. SUSANNA CENTLIVRE.

LONDON: Printed, and Sold by R. Burleigh in Amen-Corner, and A. Boulter without Temple-Bar, 1715. (Price 6 d.)

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Title statement

An epistle to Mrs. Wallup: now in the train of Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales. As it was sent to her to the Hague. Written by Mrs. Susanna Centlivre.

Centlivre, Susanna, 1667?-1723.

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University of Oxford Text Archive
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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3318

ID [isbn10]

1106003179

ID [isbn13]

9781106003171

ID [TCP]

K000663.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3324703547

ID [ECGR]

0101502500

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Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Source

— An epistle to Mrs. Wallup: now in the train of Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales. As it was sent to her to the Hague. Written by Mrs. Susanna Centlivre., Centlivre, Susanna, 1667?-1723.. 8p. ; 2⁰. London :: printed, and sold by R. Burleigh, and A. Boulter,. 1715.. [Verse.] [With a half-title.] [Reproduction of original from the Harvard University Houghton Library.] [Foxon, C92] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN1081.] [Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).]

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