AN EPISTLE TO Mr. Benjamin Bridgwater, Occasioned by the DEATH Of the late Queen Mary.  
By Mr. TUTCHIM.  
LONDON: Printed for Richard Baldwin, near the Oxford-Arms-Inn, in Warwick-Lane. 1694.   

AN EPISTLE, etc.  

OFT have I vowed, and to the Muses swore,  
In these dull Times, I'd trouble Rhyme no more:  
But since, dear Ben! I've waited long in vain,  
To see the Happy Offspring of your Brain  
Bless our dull World in unaccustomed Lays,  
Singing your own, and great Maria's Praise;  
In spite of Nature and my Vows I'll Write,  
And once again the glowing Embers light.   

Not that the Muses can have Honours done,  
By their Unskilful and their Youngest Son;  
Or that Maria's Praise by him set forth,  
Can form a Statue equal to Her Worth:  
Provokeed by this, if you the Theme embrace,  
I have my Aim, and dead Maria Praise:  
Then sit no longer, groaning like the Stream,  
Sad as the Times, and gloomy as our Theme.  
Your Quiver broke, your fatal Bow unstrung,  
And your loved Harp upon the Willows hung,  
With one, in Artful Notes Her Praise disclose;  
And with the other, kill Maria's Foes;  
Those worst of Monsters, would asperse Her Name,  
Tread on Her Ashes, and destroy Her Fame,  
Justly deserve, when they good Gifts refuse,  
Should feel the Fury of an incensed Muse:  
Pour then your charming Thunder on their Head,  
With pointed satire strike the Monsters dead.   

These base Ingrates, no Act of Grace can bind,  
Perverse in Judgement, and disturbed in Mind;  
Impatient to recover what they've lost,  
Tho' at their Country's Ruin and their Cost;  
Do Tyrant Laws before our Rights prefer,  
And would call home their perjured Wanderer.  
Strange, that this foolish unperforming Herd  
Of Traitorous Villains, for ill Deeds preferred,  
Should talk of Bondage, of hard Fate complain,  
Beneath the Blessings of a gentle Reign;  
Think ill of Ease; in being Free, oppressed:  
A truebred Tory will be still a Beast.   

Censure me not, I common paths refuse,  
For indignation will transform a Muse;  
I know our Loss commands another Style,  
And not to Mourn's the same as to Revile;  
Could Tears have Bribed th'impartial hand of Death,  
Detained our Joy, prolonged Maria's Breath,  
I'd wished for Her and my dear Country's good,  
Each Eye a fountain, and each Tear a flood:  
But since She's gone, let us our deuce prepare  
For Him, was once the Partner of Her care,  
Now left forlorn, His other Self being gone,  
Like Hercules must bear the World alone.   

Methinks I hear the Genius of our Isle  
Prompt him to Foreign Wars and Glorious Toil,  
Soft as the Murmurs of the Winds express  
Her solid Councils in such words as these:  
Weep, weep no more! Maria's softer Charms!  
When War and Honour call you to your Arms;  
Let dastard Lewis for a loss retreat,  
All sense of Sorrow is beneath the Great,  
Your numerous Army marshaled on the Strand  
In expectation cry, will Caesar Land?  
A long, long Winter, we his absence mourn,  
But sure, ye Gods! He must, He must return!  
Their glittering Swords and trembling Spears they wield,  
And Fate stands wishing till you take the Field:  
Tho' Trophies may reward your Soldier's pains,  
Your single presence half a Conquest gains;  
Then to your Armies and your Honours go,  
And be our just Palladium from the Foe,  
Defeat their Squadrons, from destruction save  
Those Crowns, those Kingdoms, which your People gave;  
As at Seneffe such always be your fate,  
Let French as Irish on your Triumphs wait,  
From Conquered Fields the Golden Prize you bore,  
Without the Charms a cursed Medea wore,  
Still for your Brows shall fresher Laurels grow,  
While Thames shall flourish, and the Boyne shall flow:  
Your early Valour in your tender Years  
Matured by Age more Beautiful appears;  
And Heroes Fame at Death much brighter shines,  
Thus Shadows lengthen as the Sun declines.  
You to the Gods have ever been most dear,  
Destined for Business, and designed for War,  
By Belgia loved, and Albion much adored,  
One sings her King, the other sings her Lord;  
Thus Rival Kingdoms for your Aid contend,  
And every Senate wishes you its Friend,  
What e'er the Cowards say, you always have  
The Prayers, the Vows, the Wishes of the Brave;  
True to our Laws Tyrannic sway you damn,  
In War a Lion, and in Peace a Lamb:  
Such were our Ancient Britain's famed of old,  
Prudently Good, and desperately Bold.   

Thus far the Hero; for his Fame will grow,  
As to the Seas the Rivers onwards flow;  
But great MARIA we can Sing no more,  
Blest with a Gale, sh'as reached the other Shoar,  
Happy those Mortals who are sailed before;  
So much for Virtue and for Sense renowned,  
By willing People's just Applauses Crowned,  
What Artless Bard would tread her Sacred Ground?   

To you, Dear Ben, the glorious Theme I leave,  
You can her Fame Eternal Honours give;  
Thus some good Patriot conscious of his Worth,  
Provokes some bold, some abler Champion forth;  
Who with his Sword so often dipped in Blood,  
Slaughters vast Numbers for his Country's Good.   
FINIS.