Charles II. excelled.
[3] 'Prelate': Cardinal Wolsey.
[4] 'Antique pile': Westminster Abbey.
[5] 'House': House of Commons.
[6] 'Hall': Westminster Hall.
[7] 'Palace': St. James's Palace, where Charles II. was born.
[8] 'Birth appeared ': it seems a new star appeared in the heavens at
the birth of the king.

OF HER ROYAL HIGHNESS, MOTHER TO THE PRINCE OF ORANGE;[1]
AND OF HER PORTRAIT, WRITTEN BY THE LATE DUCHESS OF YORK, WHILE SHE
LIVED WITH HER.

Heroic nymph! in tempests the support,
In peace the glory of the British Court!
Into whose arms the church, the state, and all
That precious is, or sacred here, did fall.
Ages to come, that shall your bounty hear,
Will think you mistress of the Indies were;
Though straiter bounds your fortunes did confine,
In your large heart was found a wealthy mine;
Like the bless'd oil, the widow's lasting feast,
Your treasure, as you pour'd it out, increased. 10

While some your beauty, some your bounty sing,
Your native isle does with your praises ring;
But, above all, a nymph of your own train[2]
Gives us your character in such a strain,
As none but she, who in that Court did dwell,
Could know such worth, or worth describe so well.
So while we mortals here at heaven do guess,
And more our weakness, than the place, express,
Some angel, a domestic there, comes down,
And tells the wonders he hath seen and known. 20

[1] 'Prince of Orange': Mary, Princess of Orange, and sister to Charles
II.
[2] 'Train': Lady Anne Hyde, daughter of the Earl of Clarendon, and
afterwards Duchess of York, and mother of Queen Mary and Queen Anne.

UPON HER MAJESTY'S NEW BUILDINGS AT SOMERSET HOUSE.[1]

Great Queen! that does our island bless
With princes and with palaces;
Treated so ill, chased from your throne,
Returning you adorn the Town;
And, with a brave revenge, do show
Their glory went and came with you.

While peace from hence and you were gone,
Your houses in that storm o'erthrown,
Those wounds which civil rage did give,
At once you pardon, and relieve. 10

Constant to England in your love,
As birds are to their wonted grove,
Though by rude hands their nests are spoil'd,
There the next spring again they build.

Accusing some malignant star,
Not Britain, for that fatal war,
Your kindness banishes your fear,
Resolved to fix for ever here.[2]
But what new mine this work