A Dialogue, BETWEEN The Duchess of Portsmouth, and Madam Gwin, at parting.  Gw. 
IT grieves my heart, and yet I can't but Smile  
To see the Sovereign Planet of our Isle  
Homewards with such a glittering Train Advance,  
Who but an humble Meteor dropped from France.  Port. 
Two such great Lights cannot together shine:  
To give your Orb more Lustre I decline.  Gw. 
You never suffered Nell to come in Play  
Whilst you had left but one Meridian-Ray,  
And yet by Turns I did myself that Right,  
If you Enjoyed the Day, I Ruled the Night.  Port. 
'Tis not to ' advance your Interest I remove,  
To sway the Throne as Sovereign Queen of Love,  
The Brother-Stars Relieve Each others Reign  
When I appear your Moon's Eclipsed again.  Gw. 
Nay rather, let me like a snuff Expire,  
Than be again blasted by thy French fire,  
Go Portsm. keep to thy old Count Vandome,  
It is Nell's Birthright now to Reign at home.  Port. 
What, though I was his only Miss before  
I was your Kings, you had a thousand more,  
Who Fame Reports did Squeeze you o'er and o'er  
Before you came to be a Royal-Whore.  Gw. 
Let Fame that never yet Spoke well of Woman,  
Give out I was a Stroling Whore, and Common,  
Yet have I been to him since the first hour,  
As Constant as the Needle to the flower;  
Whilst you to your Eternal Praise and Fame  
To Foreign Scents betrayed the Royal-Game:  

Witness the Prior. on your Bosom lay,  
And in that posture did your Lust betray,  
For which now with a Pox you're sent away.   Port. 
I'll find a way in Spite of injured Fame  
To make thy Race obscure as is thy Name,  
Who like the Serpent made thy Lord to Sin  
For a Dry Orange, or a Russetin  
Which greedily the Monarch did Devour,  
Tho it nourished fatal seeds within the Core.  Gw. 
My Name thou Jesebel of Pride and Malice,  
Whose Father had a Hog-st●y for his Palace,  
In my clear Veins best British Blood does flow,  
Whilst thou like a French Tode-stool first did grow,  
And from a Birth as poor as thy Delight  
Sprung up a Mushrom-Dutchess in a Night,  
Nor did I ever with the Brats I bore,  
The Royal Standard Stein in Monstruous gore,  
Which makes thee fly to France, where thou must rot,  
Or cure the Ulcers which the Bath could not.  Port. 
Think not i'th' Respeit of this short Remove  
To sit sole Empress on the Throne of Love  
I was thy Rival once, and will Return  
To be thy Rival still, and thou my Scorn.  Gw. 
Alike I value your Return, or Stay.  
Wisely, while the Sun shined, you made your Hay.  
Was Dear at the Kingdoms cost maintained,  
Till you had every Vein and Sin Drained;  
And now so small a Portion does remain,  
There's little fear you'll ere come here again.  Port. 
Or if I stay it shall be at this Rate,  
To leave thee to the People's Curse and Hate,  
Who in my Absence will Revenge on thee  
The Punishments their Rage designed for me.  
Farewell; yet, when I think the Joys thou'lt feel  
When I am gone, my Ghost will haunt thee still.  Gw. 
The people's Hate much less their Curse I fear  
I do them Justice with less Sums a Year.  
I neither run in Court nor Cities' Score,  
I pay my Debes, Distribute to the Poor.  
Whilst thou with ill kept Treasure does Resort  
T' uphold thy splendour in the  Court.  
But France is for thy Lust too kind a Clime  
In afric with some Wolf or Tiger Lime:  
Or in the Indies make a new Plantation  
And Ease us of the Grievance of the Nation.   

London, Printed for J. S. 1682.