SPEECHES SPOKEN TO THE King and Queen, DUKE and DUCHESS of York, In  Hall, OXFORD, Sept. 29. 1663.  
LONDON: Printed for Richard Royston, Bookseller to His most Sacred Majesty, 1663.   

Speeches spoken to the King and Queen, DUKE and DUCHESS of York, In Christ-Church Hall, Sept. 29. 1663.  


I. To the KING.  
'tIs He, 'tis He indeed, it must be so;  
None but that Child unto this Man could grow.  
Wonder of Fate! A KING out of a PRINCE  
Exposed to desperate perils so long since.  
What humane Wolf, or yet more kind Wild beast,  
Cast from your own, hath took you to her breast,  
And brought you up; till by your Virtues known,  
None dared no longer keep you from your Throne?  
You came like Phoebus striving from a Cloud,  
Increasing brightness as he quits the shroud:  
And as he draws out by his Summer rays  
The sleeping Infects to their several plays;  
With greater power your warmer influence calls  
Our dormant Household-gods forth from their Walls:  
And I their Genius, in your absence mute,  
Like Memnon's Statue, your approach salute.  
Let Roman quills the business undertake,  
Great Panegyrics of your Worth to make;  
I will not grieve you with repeated harms,  
Nor tyre your Modesty with praising charms:  
But greet the kind appearance of your face,  
Which both amazeth and revives this place;  
This place, where taken from our Parents charge  
On your Munificence we live at large;  
And to the Noblest born we boast and sing,  
By mean men made, we're nourished by a KING:  
For which we humbly thank you, and confess,  
Our Aliment, our Learning, and our Dress  
Is all from you; And this great Structure stands  
Imperfect, to be finished by your Hands,  
And hath consumed numbers of golden showers,  
But seems not satisfied till filled with yours.    


II. To the QUEEN.  
LEt me not live, Great powers my soul invade,  
I feel myself thinning into a shade.  
What glory's that, that hovers by your side,  
And gives you the embraces of a Bride?  
Have you been meddling with Celestial fire,  
A Model of your own thus to inspire?  
Or is She Sister to Pygmalion's Wife,  
The second Ivory that ere took life?  
Or is Astraea wooed from Heaven again?  
Who then shall take exceptions at your Reign?  
Speak, Sir, What is She? for no other eye  
Can take the height of her Divinity.   

Or will you please, sweet Splendour, let us know  
In part, what to the Gods for you we owe?  
Are you a real Star indeed, let down  
To beautify this long-obscured Crown?  
Or are you made of Nectar, which they say  
Once being spilt made such a milky Way?  
But if you needs will mortal be, and show  
The greater skill by being made below;  
Your Mother, sure, upon Elixirs fed,  
The East blew all its perfumes to her Bed.  
Then were you wrapped in Lilies, which so grew  
A Coverture o'er your own whiter hue,  
A Whiteness not with safety to be seen,  
Which of a skin of Lilies makes a screen,  
Wherein arrayed you suffer a disguise,  
And put on Snow in mercy to our eyes.  
The mould wherein your Soul is now enshrined  
Is such as Chemists seek, but ne'er can find;  
Such as, when you die, it will first be told  
The Powder's found that can turn all things Gold:  
Or such as, when the World was all a Main,  
Deucalion kept to make Mankind again.  
Such may it prove too, since the bliss we need  
Is a young Prince from so refined a Seed.  
Whence ere it is your mighty Beauty's spring,  
Their streams lose nought by running towards the KING,  
A stop in whose fair Breast their course beguiles,  
Where like a Sea of Milk they turn in smiles;  
As in Endymion's, when the Queen of Night  
Had in his bosom crowded all her light.  
Nor are our hopes exceeded by our prayers,  
Your Ancestors make promise for your Heirs;  
His, who have made all Europe shake, and yours,  
Who could make Devils fly, or at least Moors:  
Of Darkness, banished by a general chase,  
The Trophies are erected in your Face.  
Nature had kept her riches yet unseen,  
Had not the Portuguez such searchers been;  
Who to the fame of finding Worlds unknown,  
Have showed their art in You of making one.  
Well might the haughty Spaniard interpose  
With all his wealth to hinder such a close,  
As hoping no success from his Alarms  
'Gainst Lisbon, when She lay in CHARLES his Arms;  
But that to rival all his power, in you  
CHARLES would be Master of the Indies too.  
But Heavens designed by equal course of Fates  
The Fall and Restauration of your States:  
Your Father, and your Husband, long disowned,  
Were both by parallel wonders re-inthroned;  
And two recovered Kingdoms now combine  
To twist a never-discontinuing line,  
Supplying from Valour and from Beauty's store  
Kings to beget, and Queens to bring forth more.    


III. To the DUKE of York.  
BUt to remove all fears, behold here stands  
A Prince that bears Protection in his Hands;  
Who in his Infancy to Conquest bend,  
Did in his Cradle apprehend a Tent;  
And since by mighty deeds of War hath shown  
The Dons a Courage which they ne'er durst own;  
Whose Arm alone appearing their relief  
Made him at once their succour and their grief;  
Who without him could not withstand the Foe,  
Yet were ashamed to be defended so.  
But what need I, Brave Prince, your Acts rehearse,  
Which are become the Winds charge to disperse?  
Tritons and Sea-Nymphs sound and sing your Name,  
The Waves to every shore report your Fame:  
At your command the Surges rise and fall,  
While Neptune acts but your Vice-Admiral.    


iv To the DUCHESS.  
ANd Silver Thetis covering her face,  
To your Fair Duchess hath resigned her place.    

Spoken to the KING and QVEEN in Saint John's Library.  

YOur station 'twixt these Globes doth prompt our pen  
To fancy Princes placed 'twixt Gods & men;  
Here men, there Angels ply their different Spheres,  
Our House of Commons, and your House of Peers.  
May your last Progress here reach Nestor's Sum,  
Till the Supreme Star-Chamber call you home:  
Whilst Angels propagate, and you display  
A little CHARLES his Wain, and Milky Way;  
These Asterisms are only wanting yet  
To make White-Hall a Heaven, and Heaven complete.  
Perfection, Madam, from yourself must grow:  
Kings are Immortal, but Queens make them so.    
THE END.   

VERSES Spoken to the KING, QVEEN, and DUCHESS of YORK in St JOHN's Library in Oxford.