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

VERSES SPOKEN AT THE Appearance of the King and Queen, DUKE and DUCHESS of York, In  Hall, OXFORD, Sept: 29. 1663.  
By TH: IRELAND St. Ch: Changed:   printer's or publisher's device 
ACADEMIA OXONIESIS  
OXFORD, Printed by H. Hall, for R. Davis according to the Authors own Copies, being more Correct than those printed at London, without his consent, or knowledge. 1663.   

Verses spoken at the Appearance of the King and Queen, DUKE and DUCHESS of YORK, In Christ-Church Hall, Septemb. 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,  
Man dared no longer keep you from the Throne?   

You come 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 these 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;  
This place, where taken from our Parents charge  
On your Munificence we live at large;  
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;  
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.   

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 wood 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.    


II. To the QUEEN.  
OR will you please, sweet Splend or, 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 can die, it will first be told  
The Powders 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 your 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 she, 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 Spainard 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 Heaven's 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 KING and QUEEN concerning 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.    


iv To the DUKE.  
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.  
And Silver Thetis covering her face,  
To your Fair Duchess hath resigned her place.    
THE END   

Spoken to the KING and QUEEN in St John's Library.  

Bird's have found Language, Elephants a Knee  
To Compliment the approach of Majesty:  
None so much statue but (like Memnon's) plays  
Anthems to welcome such illustrious rays.   

Your presence, Madam, here doth parallel  
Our Baptists desert to a Boscobel.  
Our Mother glories that your smiles upon her  
Create her Virgin Muses maids of Honour.  
Your station 'twixt these Globes doth prompt our pen  
To fancy Princes placed 'twixt Gods and 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.    

To her Highness the DUCHESS of YORK in the same place.  

IF Duty without Compliment may stand,  
And they who can but kneel, may kiss your Hand:  
If Muse's Country Girls their skill may try,  
Though't spoil an Honour to a Courtesy:  
we'd rally all our forces to express  
Your Noblest Welcome in a plain address:  
Mars we'd assign your Guard, but that we are  
Assured, your DUKES a greater God of War:  
The Graces to attend you we'd call forth,  
But that th' are all ingross'd in your own worth;  
And Venus with her Cupid too should come,  
But that you have a sweeter Prince at home:  
Thus Poets Dream, and Muse's fancy less  
Than what Fates judge you worthy to possess:   

Our Pegasus with duty winged we show,  
Others may higher fly, none stoop so low.   
The END.