THE Duchess of Mazarines' Farewell to ENGLAND.  
ANd must I then sweet England leave at last,  
With the remembrance of all pleasure past?  
Does Fate decree I must renew my dance,  
And wheel about from England now to France?  
'Tis vain, I see, for to be great or proud;  
We taste the Fate oft of the meaner Crowd.  
Though puffed with greatness, we oft make a bustle;  
Dame Fortune rudely does our greatness justle.  
Happy the Countrey-Swain, who courts the shades,  
Whose Privacies no sullen Fate invades.  
Happy that Rural Maid who sees alone  
Herself a Queen, and placed in Beauty's Throne,  

Whilst her admiring Shepherd bows his knee,  
And none like her in all the world can see;  
'Tis happier than all our Pageantry.   
Honour, the bugbear that affrights the Great,  
Makes us but slaves, and does of freedom cheat;  
Debars us much of pleasures, and of sport;  
Robs us of Substance, whilst we Shadows court.  

We stand on high, of all men to be seen:  
In this alone I do not love the mean;  
I'd be a Shepherdess, or else a Queen.   
The last exalted is above report,  
And th'other innocently cares not for't;  
Whilst nothing in the world can prove so strong,  
To keep us from the shot of an ill Tongue.  
Beauty's a shadow, vain and empty thing;  
I thought that mine might have subdued a King.  

Though fair I seemed in mine and others eyes,  
My own Duke me and Beauty did despise  
Whilst I was forced to wander in disguise.   
What various Chance my Fortunes did attend?  
Alas! when will my rolling Troubles end?  
As if with Fortune drunk, I reeling go,  
Or like a Ball that's bandied to and fro.  
Wave after Wave of Trouble follows still.  
And like a Slave I grind in Fortunes Mill.  
Forced by my Fate, to France I must return;  
And for sweet England's loss I truly mourn.  
Farewell, sweet Land, where Peace and Plenty flow,  
Where all things to ease wretched Souls do grow;  
Where all things fit to make Life sweet abound,  
And where I Pleasure, Ease, and Comfort found.  
Farewell, the best of Princes, and the chief,  
Whose Court has given me shelter and Relief:  
Whose Power has me defended like a shield,  
Whose bounteous hand has me, even me upheld.  
Farewell delightful Windsor, who on high  
Lifts up thy awful head, unto the sky:  
Beauty and Strength, Nature and Art agree,  
A Princes Royal Seat to frame in thee.  
Farewell, thou underliing Silver Thames;  
Oft have I sported with thy gliding streams,  
And oft myself committed to thy Charge,  
Triumphing sat in my delightful Barge;  
And oft to Whitehal with like pleasure came,  
As Egypt's Queen, when she on Cydnus swum.  
Farewell the Theatre, where I have seen  
The Tragic fall of many a lofty Queen:  
Where many a sad Intrigue acted I've known,  
Yet scarce could find one equal to my own;  
And where, if evil Fortune still pursue,  
I may hereafter be well Acted too.  
London farewel, thou City Fair and Great,  
The Head of England, CHARLES his Royal Seat:  
May Heaven still bless you, for your Sovereign's sake,  
And may you long with him sweet Peace partake.  
Where e'er I go, your goodness I shall tell,  
Your Bounty and your Love: England, farewell.   

Printed for Langley Curtiss. 1680.