MARIA to HENRIC, AND HENRIC to MARIA: OR, THE QUEEN to the KING IN HOLLAND, AND HIS Majesty's Answer;  
TWO Heroical Epistles IN Imitation of the Style and Manner of Ovid.  
Written by a Young Lady.  
LONDON, Printed for Joseph Knight, at the Pope's Head, in the Lower Walk of the New Exchange, 1691.   

MARIA TO HENRIC.  

Minute's grow tedious, time too slowly moves,  
While Henric's absent, and Maria loves.  
Each Hour's a Week, and every Day a Year,  
And every of Maria's Thoughts a Fear:  
Not for Thy Faith, my Fears are all for Thee,  
For that dear Heart that nothing holds but me.   

May I demand, if Love e'er taught Thee yet,  
To look on lazy Moment's with Regret?  

If Love has taught Thee his Account of Time?  
If Henric's Love be such a Love as mine?  
If so, my Sighs are justified by thine;   
If so, you cannot frown, and cannot choose,  
But all I sigh, and all I say excuse;  
And wish, and speak, and doubt, and act with me,  
If Love like mine in a Male Breast can be.  
Female our Souls, all Masculine our Love,  
Strong is your Sense, feebly your Passions move.  

Here shrunk my Soul, till my kind careless Pen  
Run on to Henric's Name— I lived again.  
Henric more Noble than the rest of Men!   
O happy Thought! O blest Maria's Fate!  
He loves, does all above the common Rate.   

You bufyed yet with all those great Affairs,  
Counsels, Debates, and Policy of Wars;  
Safety of Kingdoms, all the Mighty Things,  
Worthy my Henric, fit alone for Kings.  
This some Relief to painful Absence gives,  
Diverts the Pangs wherewith Maria strives.   

While You the foaming untamed Gallia chase,  
And all Your Snares around the Tigress place;  
Pleased thus to see her all at Your Command,  
Whenever You please to move Your Conquering Hand:  
Suffer not fond Maria to complain,  
That You forget Your own dear amorous Chain.   

On unfledged Victries in the Nest You smile,  
And great Designs Your Love and Hours beguile:  
Alone my business, and my all is You,  
Myself, my Wishes, all I have to do;  
Your Name alone persuades me to endure;  
That gives the Wound, and that applies the Cure:  
But there's no Balsam prized by me above  
The bright Idea of Your Noble Love.   

But if Your Love (pardon the dubious Thought)  
If You the generous Flame from Belgia brought;  
Why could it not persuade You to delay?  
Why could not parting Tears induce Your stay?  
How cruel short the pleasing Interview!  
Short as 'twas sweet, as short disgustful too.  

Why was I born so Great, or You so Brave?  
Were You less so, or were I but a Slave,  
My servile Consort I in view might have?   

Nor think he's now engaged, a Conqueror now,  
Dying, perhaps, with victory on his Brow,  
Wounded, or sick, or even I know not how.    

Lost Mons, the worthy Cause, and British Isle,  
Forgive the Queen, that on Your Loss could smile;  

Th' unwelcome News no sooner reached my Ear,  
But strait I knew my Henric was not there:  
No Towns are ever lost when he's too near.   
You often come indeed too near Your Foes,  
Your Breast too oft, too daringly expose;  
You are too much a Conqueror for me,  
I love You better than the Victory:  
Yet I love Conquest, and can wish it too;  
But why, methinks, must all be done by You?  
Let others take the Danger; Let them stake  
Their Lives, and let them Henric's Glory take—  

Ha! What— What would my fondling Passion do?  
Oh, that it might be Great! as Great as now;  
And yet incapable to wrong You too!    

What's State, Respect, or what's a Crown to me?  
Poor Joys!— How poor's a Queen deprived of Thee?  
My very Dreams, the softest Bliss I knew,  
My Thoughts, my Dreams, are still employed with You,  
Pleasing at first, now serve t'afflict me too.  
My Bed I with sad Apprehensions shake,  
With sudden Shrieks and Cries I start, and wake:  
Attendants and officious Guards rush in,  
When nothing but her Henric wants the Queen;  

Shipwrecked with Doubts, and almost sunk by fear,  
Lest swelling Neptune so embrace my Dear,  
Even You that took of me so little Care:    

You that exposed in a small Shallop lay,  
Defying Boreas and a Raging Sea;  
By cruel, deadly Sheets of Ice enclosed;  
Hunger, and bold obtruding Death opposed:  
Yet Your Prophetic Valour could inspire  
Your glowing Breast with such Heroic Fire;  

The Shell, that Caesar and his Fortunes bore,  
Was destined to attain, and reached the Shore;  
Can You suppose with me to perish more?   
Cease not to fear (said You) but blush to think,  
That Henric and his Fortunes here must sink.  
Ye Gods!— The Gods were with Thee, and they saw:  
These words were followed with sudden a Thaw:  
And kind Heaven cast Thee on thy Native Shore,  
When nothing less was hoped, You wished no more.   

If I, of a more cow'rdly Sex, had seen  
What mighty Perils shut my Henric in;  
Away had flown my hasty timorous Soul:  
Nor could that Prophecy, so spoke, recall  
My fleeting Breath, restoring as it was,  
IT had been, to dying me, of little Force.  

The fearful Tale, even while I knew You safe,  
A strange cold shivering to my Senses gave,  
Methought, and wrapped me in a chilly Wave.    

Be kind, my Love, make haste— Be rather flow,  
And be my kinder Love in being so.  
Be kind, and cautious, let me not sustain  
Those Die, and those Agonies again.  

While I implore soft Winds, entreat the Sea  
To be as gentle as my Sighs for Thee,  
And careful as Maria's Thoughts can be;   
Safe as Thy Arms, serene as those You give  
Your great Protection to, and wish to live.  
Live You Maria's, she that lives for You.  
All Yours— Adiou, my Royal Love, Adieu.    

The Answer. HENRIC TO MARIA.  

HEalth to Maria; may She ever be  
Blefsed by the Gods, as She's held dear byome.  
This Letter bears You, and demands a Kiss,  
While I, at distance, emulate the Blifs.  
I had Your Lines which seemed, me thought, to smile,  
And as I read, I saw You in the Style;  

Gentle, endearing, as You used to be;  
I had, methought, Yourself in some Degree;  
Yet a faint Copy of Thy Mind and Thee.   
But as so far 'twas Yours, no Joys could here  
So great, approach my Soul, or half so de●●.   


And yet, methinks, I'm almost angry too,  
To have my Love suspected thus by You,  
As not a Passion great like Yours, nor true.   
Will You believe me? Or how must I swear,  
My Passion's great, as You are kind and fair?  
Oh, You mistake indeed! our Passions move  
With all the Tenderness of Female Love.  
Your Sex their Flames more artfully express,  
While ours, penned in our Bosoms, scorch no less.  
Reproach us not, we cannot love like you,  
Because we know not how to say we do.   

Your Letter seems to chide I would be gone,  
And leave Maria, and her Charms so soon:  
Those were enough indeed t'oblige my stay,  
But such Affairs as mine forbidden delay;  
IT would blast my Farne, and Mars himself would frown  
And even blush to hear a Gen'ral own,  

He left his Joys, and Ease unwillingly;  
And when obliged t'approach the Enemy,  
It looks as if he were afraid to die.    

But You, my gentle, kind, my bosom Foe,  
Will urge me to offend my Honour so,  
Too tenderly to be denied You press;  
But shall a stubborn Martial Man confess  
Maria was so charming, and so kind,  
He went, and fond left his Heart behind?  
Oh, You'll reduce me to confessing too,  
I hold not Conquest half so dear as You;  
And hate the Field, the Glorious— Scene of War,  
And all because Maria is not there.  
What is't You make me say? What make me do?  
But would Mars blush to be Your Captive so?  
The great, the Gods— they nothing knew above,  
Or more Heroic than to fight and love;  
No Demy-God, or Hero, could be so,  
Unless he could be proved a Lover too.   

Proud as I am of the bright Chains I wear,  
My Vows are jointly made to Love and War.  
Love without Glory is too poor, too mean,  
Unworthy Henric and beneath the Queen.  
Combat, and not with generous Love conjoined,  
Is brutish, and beneath a Manly Mind.   

If You love me— Love me, I know You do,  
And You're obliged to love my Honour too;  
You have been valiant, and with me could dare:  
But how's Your Soul contracted by Your Fear?  
Can You not be Maria fair, and kind,  
And yet retain the Beauties of Your Mind;  
That Fortitude which so sublimely soared  
Above the Vulgar, and I so adored?  
Shall Your great Soul for my small Danger shake,  
When sacred Fanes, and Altars are at Stake?  

How is Your Courage fled? Love me not so,  
You seem to wish me as my Gallic Foe,  
He'd have me always stay at home with You.    


No, No, You love me not above my Fame,  
Your Softness clouds the Lustre of Your Flame,  
As bright as ever 'twas, and still the same.   
Just so my Love's eclipsed by rude Affairs;  
Such are the Rhesian to the Paphian Wars.  

If Softness can admit Sublimity,  
As instanced gloriously are both in Thee,  
Let me a Lover and a Soldier be;   
Your Tenderness had made me doubt You brave,  
For which I ask the pardon I must have,  
Because I find I was suspected too,  
You saw me rough, and thought I loved not You.  
Thus we make Judgements from the upper Coat,  
And doubt, and talk, and sigh, and all by rote.  
Disguised we rudely may a Prince entreat,  
Because in that Array he seemed not great.  
Should we not then be well assured and know  
His Quality before we treat him so?  
If we considered well, and looked within,  
The seeming Beggar might be found a King.  
Lord of my Passions was my Love, when You  
Questioned, and thought it even beggarly too.   


But Oh! I long to view those Charms again,  
That Face which mad-brained Multitudes can tame,  
Monsters as fierce, cruel as th' African.   
I know Maria has no more to do,  
Than look to strike a Malefactor through;  
But 've looked all into a loving so,  
That none will contradict Your Will they know.  
Britannia under You's a happy State;  
Rejoice, Britannia, in so blessed a Fate;  
So 'twas Elisa governed you; and so  
My Queen, You, sweet Maria govern too.  
Your Eyes Command, all greedily fulfil,  
What e'er th'injoin, that's ever nothing ill.  
Your Eyes are both our Sceptres, I the Sword  
Must brandish here, while You there give the Word;  

And when You please to add a Smile or Frown,  
The Wretch that hangs on Your melodious Tongue,  
Is either strangely blessed, or quite undone.    

What a mad Caprice; of some Gallic Fool,  
Was't to exclude their Women all from Rule?  
Not Lewis, he was fair, and wise he's too,  
Yet never governed with his Eyes like You.  

Oh, had he now but such a Friend as mine,  
He might go join the Turk, his old Design,  
And leave his France to th' Management of's Queen.    


Oh, how I long to see my Love appear,  
As oft Sh'as done, like some auspicious Star,  
And by her Glories cheer the Men of War.   
Which all in Ecstasy whenever thou'rt seen,  
With eager Voices cry, Long live the Queen.  
Oh, could She know; could I but here impart,  
What hasty Thoughts and Wishes crowd my Heart;  
She could not think her Henric would be long,  
Pursuing those Motives to a quick Return:  
Till then, Maria, calm Your troubled Mind,  
And let this Paper Nuncio welcome find.   
FINIS.