AN EPITHALAMIUM UPON THE MARRIAGE OF Capt. William Bedloe.  

Ille ego qui quondam gracili modulatus Avena,  
Arma virumque Cano.—   

I, he, who Sung of Humble Oats before,  
Now sing a Captain and a Man of WAR.   

GOddess of Rhyme, that didst inspire  
The Captain with Poetic fire,  
Adding fresh Laurels to that brow  
Where those of Victory did grow,  
And statelyer ornaments may flourish now.  
If thou art well recovered since  
The Excommunicated Prince:  
For that Important Tragedy,  
Would have killed any Muse but Thee;  
Hither with speed, oh! hither move,  
Pull buskins off, and since to love  
The ground is holy that you tread in,  
Dance barefoot at the Captain's Wedding.   

See where he comes, and by his side  
His Charming fair Angelic Bride:  
Such, or less lovely was the Dame  
So much Renowned, Fulvia by name,  
With whom of old Tully did join,  
Then when his Art did undermine,  
The Horrid Popish Plot of Catiline.  
Oh fairest Nymph of all great Britain  
(Though the● my Eyes I never set on)  
Blush not on thy great Lord to smile,  
The second Saviour of our Isle;  
What nobler Captain could have led,  
Thee to thy longed-for marriage bed:  
For know that thy all-daring Will is  
As stout a Hero as Achilles;  
And as great things for thee has done,  
As Palmerin or th' Knight of th' Sun,  
And is himself a whole Romance alone.  
Let conscious Flanders speak, and be,  
The Witness of his Chivalry.  
Yet that's not all, his very word  
Has slain as many as his sword:  
Though common Bulleys with their Oaths  
Hurt little till they come to blows,  
Yet all his Mouth-Granadoes kill  
And save the pains of drawing steel.  
This Hero thy resistless charms  
Have won to fly into thy arms,  
For think not any mean design  
Or the inglorious itch of coin,  
Can ever have his breast controlled,  
Or make him be a slave to Gold;  
His Love's as freely given to Thee  
As to the King his Loyalty.  
Then oh receive thy mighty prize  
With open arms and wishing eyes,  
Kiss that dear face where may be seen  
His worth and parts that sculk within,  
That face that justly styled may be  
As true a Discoverer as Herald  
Think not he ever false will prove,  
His well known truth secures his love;  
Do you awhile divert his cares  
From his important grand affairs:  
Let him have respite now awhile  
From kindling the mad rabble's zeal.  
Zeal that is hot as fire, yet dark and blind  
Shows plainly where its birthplace we may find,  
In hell, where tho' dire flames for ever glow  
Yet 'tis the place of utter darkness too.  
But to his bed be sure be true  
As he to all the World and you,  
He all your plots will else betray  
That your She- machiavil can lay.  
He all designs you know has found,  
Tho hatched in Hell, or under ground;  
Did oft to us such secrets show  
As scarce the Plotters themselves knew,  
Yet if by chance you hap to sin  
And love while Honour's napping should creep in.  
Yet be discreet and do not boast  
Oth' treason by the common post.  
So shalt thou still make him love on  
All virtues in Discretion.  
So thou with him shalt shine, and be  
As great a Patriot as He;  
And when, (as now in Christmas all  
For a new pack of Cards do call,)  
Another Popish Pack comes out  
To please the Cits, and charm the rout;  
Thou mighty Queen shalt a whole Suit Command,  
A Crown upon thy Head, and Sceptre in thy Hand.   
FINIS.