An epistle to the King of Sweden from a lady of Great-Britain

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AN EPISTLE TO THE King of Sweden, FROM A LADY of GREAT-BRITAIN.

TO Thee rude Warrior, whom we once admir'd,

And thought thy Actions spoke Thee half inspir'd,

While Justice held the Ballance of thy Cause,

And ev'ry Language sounded thy Applause:

But since Ambition and Revenge prevails,

Thy Glories languish, and our Wonder fails;

To Thee a Woman sends with Gen'rous Care,

And Warns thy Rashness timely to beware.

FAME now a Tale of fresher Date has told,

Beyond thy mad Romantick Feats of Old:

Our Malecontents thy numerous Squadrons boast,

Describe thy Penants waving on our Coast,

And to the Fearful cry, Britannia's lost!

But we, who know the Genius of our Isle,

At their Report, and thy Invasion smile.

ARE not our Dames in every Climate fam'd?

Les Belles Angloises by ev'ry Nation nam'd?

Are not our Youth in foreign Fields admir'd▪

Alike by Valour and by Love inspir'd▪

And shall those Fair ones, who the Morning pass,

Consulting that dear Friend to Love, the Glass;

To set the Favourite, and the Patch to place;

To bow, and glance it, with becoming Grace

To melt the Hero's Heart and charm his Eyes,

Fall to thy Gothick Rage a Sacrifice?

No, to thy Terror learn, our British Youth

Are fam'd for Honour, Constancy and Truth:

Each wou'd as soon consent thy Cause to aid,

As yield the Fair to whom his Vows are paid.

Unlike the Passive Females of thy Land,

The Arbitrators of the War we stand.

At Flurt of Fan, our armed Legions fly,

And they who dare offend, must dare to die.

We know thy daring Heart is nurs'd in Blood,

Wild as the fiercest Savage of the Wood;

With Fame like this, in Northern Slaughter shine,

•ough as the frozen Bear, thy neighb'ring Sign:

But here thy brutal Force no Growns shall gain;

By Love, as well as Arms our Monarchs Reign;

Can we our GEORGE and His lov'd RACE disown,

To find thy barren Chastity a Throne?

No! in thy shaggy Rugg rude Slumbers take,

And dream of Conquests thou shalt never make;

At distance be thy Leathern Doublet worn,

Nor risque thy Life to purchase certain Scorn;

For now the Wormwood Dam'sels apprehend

The dismal Consequence of such a Friend:

Begin to tremble at the Truths they hear,

And vow their Champions shall for GEORGE declare:

They fear thy Tast shou'd lead young James astray,

And quite unman their Monarch ev'ry way:

In his Excuse they still would have to tell,

Tho' War's his Foe, He loves exceeding well;

The Proof from whence he sprung, is'not to Fight;

His Surgeon proves Hereditary Right.

BUT if by thy Example he should grow

Cold as thy Rocks of Ice, and Hills of Snow:

Shou'd he clean Linnen hold in dire Disgrace,

And sable Crape his Ivory Neck enchase:

Shou'd he, like thee, on Shives of coarsest Bread,

Rudely with dirty Thumbs his Butter spread;

Banish the generous Juice of Grapes away,

And with small acid Tiff his Thirst allay;

Swallow lean hasty Meals of Tastless Roots,

And Eat, and Drink, and Live and Reign in Boots;

Shou'd he, like thee regardless of the Fair,

Lye down to Sleep, and only wake to War;

Cou'd He in Arms, like Gallant Brunswick, Shine,

Yet wou'd His Female Friends His Cause decline,

Nor justifie a Right so slovenly Divine.

CONSULT thy Safety; send no Armies forth

Beyond the Confines of thy frozen North:

Since of our British Fair this Truth is told,

We love the Chaste, but we abhor the Cold:

But if thy daring Folly will proceed,

Fate drives thee forward, and thy Fall's decreed.

EACH lovely Toast her Hero's Soul inspires,

Urges the War, and wakes his Martial Fires:

Think but what Terrors will thy Spirits seize

When thou shalt face such Enemies as these;

See a Battalion lac'd with Point d'Espan,

And warm in glowing Velvets leads the Van:

With Warlike Air, th' embroider'd Chiefs appear,

And gracefully the Looms rich Labours wear:

In Modish Order, o'er their Sholders fly

Deville's Wiggs, or Lockman's smarter Tye;

The Gold-Clock'd Stocking draws the Gazer's Sight,

And Verdin's Red-top'd Shoe, stitch'd round with White:

Fine Meclin Laces round their Fingers play

From Snowy Shirts, at least chang'd twice a Day.

THESE well-dress'd Youths to thy Destruction move,

And Vict'ry waits upon the Wings of Love,

Our Sexes Softness is to thee unknown;

What by a Look, or one kind Kiss is done!

Thou, who a Stranger art to Love's Delight,

Can'st ne'er imagine how these Lovers Fight.

These are the Men, who on the Flandrian Plains

O'erthrew the Grand Monarch in Ten Campaigns:

Will these give way before Thy Vandal Host

And yield their former Labours all for lost?

No, these for Liberty, and Beauty draw,

And all around the Neighb'ring Tyrants awe:

These Cock, take Snuff, invoke the darling Fair,

And then dispatch the Foe endebonair.

AIM then no more, fond Prince, at George's Throne,

Wake from the flatt'ring Dream, and guard thy own,

In ev'ry Element alike we Reign,

And launch our ready Squadrons on the Main:

Our Champions, jocund o'er the flowing Bowl,

Reigns in their Wooden Worlds, from Pole to Pole;

Fearless of Danger, cut their conqu'ring Way,

And from invading Tyrants scour the Sea.

Safer thou might'st in Lakes of Sulphur sleep,

Than brave these dreadful Masters of the Deep:

Beneath their Cannons roar, thy Flaggs must fall,

ORFORD presides, and these are Brittons all.

These, bold as Lyons, will the Fight maintain,

Or drive thee back, or sink thee in the Main:

Tho' Boisterous as the Winds at Sea they roar,

They're gentle all, as Southern Gales on Shore.

Th' Engagement past, the tender Thoughts return,

And for the Fair in Love's foft Fires they burn;

In Beauty's dear Embraces lull'd they lie,

But when their Country calls, Her strongest Foes defie.

THESE hoist their Sails, and wait thy Coming o'er,

And if thou dar'st to touch Britannia's Shore,

Ne'er hope to see thy Native Sweden more.

How wilt thou dare these Hearts of Oak to meet

Shou'd Young Augustus deign to lead the Fleet?

Augustus! He! who striding o'er the Slain,

Hunted thy New Ally o'er Flandria's Plain:

The Boy, whose Cause forsaken now by all,

Calls for a Madman to prevent his Fall.

No Dastard Blood our Princes Veins disgrace,

Unlike the Princes of a Former Race,

Who wisely Slept or Blubber'd in Distress,

He'll Face the Battel, and will force Success.

FROM Great Plantagenet Augustus springs,

By His Example taught to Conquer Kings.

Methinks I see the Royal Warriour stand

Dealing amongst his Chiefs thy Forfeit Land;

While Thou shalt fall Unpity'd, and Forlorn,

All Europe's Terror once, but now all Europe's Scorn.

FINIS.

AN EPISTLE TO THE King of Sweden, FROM A LADY of GREAT-BRITAIN.

AN EPISTLE TO THE KING of SWEDEN FROM A LADY OF GREAT-BRITAIN.

LONDON: Printed for J. ROBERTS in Warwick-Lane, and ARABELLA MORRIS without Temple-Bar. MDCCXVII. Price 6d.

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Title statement

An epistle to the King of Sweden from a lady of Great-Britain

Centlivre, Susanna, 1667?-1723.

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ID [ota]

http://ota.ox.ac.uk/id/3868

ID [isbn10]

1106008677

ID [isbn13]

9781106008671

ID [TCP]

K032313.000

ID [BIBNO]

CW3304465439

ID [ECSS]

0386902000

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— An epistle to the King of Sweden from a lady of Great-Britain, Centlivre, Susanna, 1667?-1723.. 11,[1]p. ; 2⁰. London :: printed for J. Roberts, and Arabella Morris,. 1717.. [A lady = Susanna Centlivre.] [With a half-title.] [Reproduction of original from the British Library.] [Foxon, C93] [English Short Title Catalog, ESTCT26864.] [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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