A POEM UPON His Sacred Majesty, His Uoyage for Holland: By way of DIALOGUE, BETWEEN Belgia and Britannia.  
By Mrs. D' ANVERS.  

LICENCED,  
December 23. 1690. J. F.   
LONDON, Printed for Tho. Bever, at the Hand and Star, near Temple Barr, in Fleetstreet, MDCXCI.   

TO THE High and Mighty PRINCESS MARY Queen of Great Britain. etc. ALICIA D'ANVERS Humbly Dedicates this POEM.  BRITANNIA. 
WRetched Britannia! Hapless, and undone!  
How have my Follies called this Vengeance down,  
And angered Heaven to so severe a Frown?  
Shall a Cursed Nicety of Honour's Law,  
Tug from these Fondling Arms, my Dear Nassaw?  
Councils, or hated business, call thee hence!  
To Love, and Me, nothing's a just pretence.  
Injurious War! Curse on the very Word;  
Unkind Bellona, if thou'st called my Lord,  
Shield that dear Bosom from the Ungentle Sword.  
Gods!— Should Britannia find that Rival there;  
What ill remains? What is there left to fear?  
Had not rough Sounds, and Groans of Dying Foes,  
Charmed thy brave Youth, I had ignored these Woes.  
Now less beloved, and fewer Charms I wear  
Than Wounds, or Death itself received in War;  
Ah me! Why was he born a Conqueror?  BELGIA. 
What D●mon fills thy be 〈◊〉 ding Soul with Fears  
Nymph, What has raised th● Storm 〈◊〉 Sighs and ●ears  BRITANNIA. 
O 〈…〉 you demand 'tis a Discourteous part,  
To give the Wound, and wonder at the Smart.  
Have you not rend my Heart, and stabbed my Soul,  
And all my Joys with my dear Albion stole?  
By you at once of Love, and Guard bereft,  
And to the Triumphs of Proud Gallia, left  
Cruel— yet to such Griefs you'd add Restraint,  
And check the Echoes of my loud Complaint.  BELGIA. 
Thou Ravest, Fond Maid, such Idle Dreams as these  
Assist thy Impatience to overthrow, thy Peace:  
Gave I not first thy Albion to thy Arms,  
Bold, and Undaunted, full of Martial Charm  
In Armour were his first Approaches made,  
And Warlike Sounds the only Serenade:  
Your Infant Loves by War more Sinewy grew,  
While Mars on Albion smiled, no less than you.  
Here could I tell the Everlasting Story,  
Of my Nassaw, and Noble Albion's Glory.  
Had not the dazzling lustre of his Name,  
Already filled the wondering World with Fame.  
To you, 'twere but Impertinence to prove,  
The sole Inducement of Your Heart to Love;  
Can you forget what Charms in Honour dwells?  
Honour, Divinest of all Magic Spells!  
By which my Dastard Soul's secured from fear,  
And the hoarse Sounds of War delight my Ear.  
Suppose our loved Nassaw, by fierce Alarms  
(The Voice of Glory) summoned to his Arms.  
My Tears were an unpardonable Wrong,  
What General e'er was harmed, who Honour won?  
Must such fond Sorrows injure Albion?  
Have I less Love than you? Is he less mine?  
Yet I can hold a Grief like yours a Crime;  
I'd scorn to own, nay Blush, to think a Sin,  
You've indulged your Heart so fond in,  
Methinks you're bold indeed, who dare Repine  
At the Commission of the Powers Divine;  
Since they are pleased to honour Albion so,  
While Heaven directs as Generalissimo,  
But e'er I push these Martial Thoughts too far,  
Which I perceive so ungrateful to Your Ear.  
Lest your mad Passion by mistake be ●and,  
Know I've not called your Albion to Command,  
But to Consult, and to secure your ease,  
His business!— Belgia and Britannia's Peace—  
And can his Absence, such well managed Hours,  
Admit of such Ungrateful Sighs as yours?  
Blush at the foolish Fondness of a Bride—  BRITANNIA. 
Blush at the wild Excursions of your Pride.  
My Albion! Could my Albion come from you,  
Be my kind Lord, and not ungentle too  
Well, my Stepmother, now too late I've seen,  
What all Your Actions, and Your Drifts have been.  
Why were my Praises spoke to Albion,  
Called Fair, and Loved, and Courted, and Undone?  
Malicious Gallia could but Curse my Joys  
Which Belgia gave, and she alone destroys,  
Now the Fantastic Ape, Laughs, shows her Teeth,  
While the dull Crowd resounds my kill Grief;  
But since my Tears must buy you Gallia's Smile,  
No more let me be called the Happy Isle:  
My Tears— Alas! your Cruelties are more,  
You'd quench her thirsty Vengeance with my Gore.  
No sooner shall my dear Nassaw be gone,  
Neatly retired, by yvor Pretences home,  
But Gallia claps her Poniard in my side,  
And clears the way for a more Beauteous Bride.  
Fonder— More Foolish Belgia, to suppose  
That my Remove shall not increase your Foes.  
Mine shall despise thee, for the Inhuman Deed,  
But for thy Crimes, Why should my Albion bleed?  
For whom you spread your Macha villian Snares,  
And fill with dull (to me dull) State Affairs,  
Frown not, my Albion, though I disapprove,  
The kindness of my dear mistaken Love,  
I shake not for my worthless self so much,  
As I can die to think thy dangers such.  
Can Belgia boast in thee a larger share?  
She may— but not her Love with mine compare  
Should Albion fall her Honour's Sacrifice,  
Could her harsh Voice adorn his Obsequies,  
Like the soft Mournings of my tender Cries?  BELGIA 
Then my harsh Voice offends your Curious Ear,  
In your fair Eyes, I'm Ridiculed, 〈◊〉 ear,  
But since you've been pleased to 〈…〉 front me so,  
No fears of mine forbid to let you know,  
That you Britannia have been found of late,  
Soft to a Scorn, Nice, and Effeminate,  
From your Brave Ancestors degenerate.  BRITANNIA. 
Hold Angry Matron, hold, What have I done?  
Pardon the hasty Errors of my Tongue,  BELGIA. 

'Tis your Erroneous Zeal for Albion,  
Which, I believe has offered me the wrong;  
But your blind Love for him shall never be  
Pretence, thus to reproach, and injure me.  
Britannia, the just Gods, as well as thee,  
Could ne'er forget so black a Perjury;  
Would I please Gallia with thy Overthrow,  
Could Hell contrive, and break so strict a Vow?  
You heard when I against the Strumpet swore,  
Then let her Name offend my Ear no more:  
Nor is this all, you're bolder yet, and dare  
Censure the Love I to your Albion bear,  
You're Young, and Smooth, and scorn these rough old Hands,  
Which wrapped his tender Sides in Swaddling Bands;   

'tis true, proud Nymph, what you disdain to own,  
These Withered Breasts gave Suck to Albion.  
While on my Careful Knee Heaven's Darling sat,  
By this Knee raised to a more Glorious Fate,  
The Child with Laurels played, and smiled on Bays;  
While in his Ear I sung his future praise.  
This hoarse rough Voice, which you so much despise,  
Oft brought kind Morpheus to his half-closed Eyes,  
Shall not a Nurse, and Tender Mother too,  
Feel Pangs of Love as sharp, and strong as you.  
Shall Nuptial Vows, or Fair Britannia's Charms  
For ever lock my Albion in her Arms.  
Lock him for ever from these Longing Eyes,  
Belgia (ye Gods!) with Expectation dies.  
Why have I Wished, and Sighed so long in vain?  
Partakes Nassaw of his soft Bride's Disdain,  
And fears to see this Wrinkled Face again?  
He has gazed upon thy Winning Face so long,  
Till I'm scorned as much by Albion,—  
But see he comes, spite of thy Wrath he'll come.  
Nassaw, now to the Gods I'll trust again,  
Those Gods I never trusted yet in vain;  
When poor Hibernia called him to her aid,  
(Whose ghastly Wounds, made Mars himself afraid)  
'Twas those kind Gods returned the Mortal Blow,  
Heaven will not spare him yet— ay Belgia know  
There's greater things for Albion yet to do:  
But hold— Britannia, you've forgot, I find,  
How dear a Pledge your Lord has left behind;—  
Thou Smil'st again, How fast thy Sorrow dies,  
Sorrow, the Fair Britannia's worst Disguise!  
Fresh Beauties in thy Cheeks themselves display!  
What can the Lovely change pretend to say?   BRITANNIA. 
That I no more can for his Absence mourn,  
Who leaves so dear a Pledge of his Return,  
Belgia 'twas cruel, and your fault indeed,  
To let my Soul so long with Sorrows bleed,  
You've wronged my Heart, (Belg.) Then there was wrong for wrong,  
Give me your hand, be Friends, and let's a'done.  
FINIS.