A New Poem.  
To condole the going away of his Excellency the Ambassador, from the Emperor of Fez. and Morocco, to his own Country.  
24. July .1682. A most silly copy of Verses.  By a person of Quality. 

SIR, my Muse bid you welcome when you come,  
And now's concerned at your going home;  
Love always tending to a noble eye,  
Like to a Shepherd looking on the Sky.  
Your comely person, and ingenious parts  
Has by a Magick-Spell conjured up hearts:  
So they did appear, and show their faces,  
Towards you, when in your Pomp and Laces.  
Th' Morocco Ambassador th' Nation did cry,  
Was a man truly worthy of Glory;  
That where he went wanted no Servants at all,  
People would be with him, both low or tall;  
They thought they could not do too much for him,  
A man as liberal as a flowing Spring,  
Resolving to see this Ambassador great,  
The like they know it has not been of late.  
Stay, Stay, Dearest Sir, a little longer,  
If you do, our love too will grow stronger:  
Therefore we wish your Excellence good Health,  
Peace, and Enjoyment, and great store of Wealth,  
And a good Voyage, kind and pleasant Gales,  
That so your Ship may avoid the mighty Whales,  
And escape all dangers, that Aeolu● can  
Show to a Gent, or any other man;  
Whereby with pleasure, and with greater joy,  
You may rejoice without the least annoy,  
And when into your own Country do come,  
Trumpets and Music, and also too th' Drum;  
Shall bid you welcome to your own dear Land,  
And the King himself take you by the hand,  
Saying, Dear Brother, your welcome to me,  
Your absence made my happiness, my misery.  
But since you're come, I'll now cheer up again,  
So shines th' Sun after a Shower of Rain.  
I'm come, I've made a Peace with England's King,  
In which, we both were pleased in every thing.  
I had the favour both of Court and City,  
And was beloved of all th' men called witty;  
And like Dove, I bring th' Olive-branch of Peace,  
A Pledge from the great Monarch of the World;  
So we shall have a continual Truce  
With England, and its gay Flower De Luce;  
For which you have th' thanks of each English heart,  
Paid to you as a man of Mighty Art;  
But after this, so soon for to be gone,  
It troubles us, though much of him have won;  
And even could desire to live no more,  
Since true Love's gone, from off the English Shoar;  
Telling us, whether our joys he great or small,  
Are fleeting, as they are Terrestrial.  
Fortune is shown upon a Globe of brass  
And each worldly joy's like a piece of glass;  
Of small substance, wanting a noble weight,  
It rides below, it's but of little height,  
Of smaller value, and of lesser prize,  
Therefore, wit is all in all when 'tis wise.  
Since all things uncertain and inconstant be,  
Like to the bird when on the Wing we see,  
Flies from the Oak, unto the Cherry Tree,  
And constant in nothing but in inconstancy.  
Therefore in all things we must be content;  
Since that our Friends are to us still but lent,  
And by th' Powers above to us are sent,  
Showing the wings of pleasure, are its punishment.  
This Nature teaches from her motions high,  
And yields to us by her most beauteous eye;  
The day by constant motion moves into Night,  
Tacks but about, and throws upon us Light;  
So by a repetition of Atoms doth return,  
That bright thing where first that it begun.  
The Swallow Travels, and hither doth come;  
When Winter rises he then too goeth home:  
And th' fairest Flower withereth away,  
For Nature does not always work but play.  
So man is sometimes here, and sometimes there,  
Shows but himself, and so doth disappear.  
A lively Emblem of the things above,  
'Tis so below, for the Creations Love.  
The business is, mutation doth appear  
In Men, bruits, birds, and Planets of the Year.  
Thus every thing is given to revolution,  
By common instinct, and by Worldly motion;  
Friends and Relations all vanish away,  
As Country men when drunk, they want make Hay,  
But tumble and toss this way and th' other,  
Any where to see a neighbour or a brother;  
To drown sadness, and their melancholy,  
Yet on th' next day they became more jolly.  
Th' Moral teaches how fickle's man's abode,  
Like the Ant on the Grass, or Snake upon the Road;  
Till got to his own Country, and dear home,  
And arrived in bright friendship's Dining-Room;  
In th' Jerusalem above, in that place,  
Where Angels and true Lovers see their face,  
And lie basking themselves on that bright shore  
In joy, and great pleasure, for evermore.   
W. W.