Thus mourn the Muses! on the hearse
Not strewing tears, but lasting verse,
Which so preserve the hero’s name,
They make him live again in fame.
Chloris, in lines so like his own,
Gives him so just and high renown,
That she th’afflicted world relieves,
And shows that still in her he lives;
Her wit as graceful, great, and good;
Allied in genius, as in blood.
His loss supplied, now all our fears
Are, that the nymph should melt in tears.
Then, fairest Chloris! comfort take,
For his, your own, and for our sake,
Lest his fair soul, that lives in you,
Should from the world for ever go.
 ‘Mrs. Wharton’: the daughter, and co-heiress with the Countess of
Abingdon, of Sir Henry Lee, of Ditchley, in Oxfordshire.
 ‘In blood’: the Earl of Rochester’s mother was Mrs. Wharton’s grand
What revolutions in the world have been,
How are we changed since we first saw the Queen!
She, like the sun, does still the same appear,
Bright as she was at her arrival here!
Time has commission mortals to impair,
But things celestial is obliged to spare.
May every new year find her still the same
In health and beauty as she hither came!
When Lords and Commons, with united voice,
Th’ Infanta named, approved the royal choice;
First of our Queens whom not the King alone,
But the whole nation, lifted to the throne.
With like consent, and like desert, was crown’d
The glorious Prince that does the Turk confound.
Victorious both! his conduct wins the day,
And her example chases vice away;
Though louder fame attend the martial rage,
’Tis greater glory to reform the age.
 ‘Royal choice’: a royal message,
announcing the king’s intention to
marry the Infanta of Portugal, was delivered in Parliament in May
 ‘Prince’: John Sobieski, king of Poland.
Venus her myrtle, Phoebus has his bays;
Tea both excels, which she vouchsafes to praise.
The best of Queens, and best of herbs, we owe
To that bold nation which the way did show
To the fair region where the sun does rise,
Whose rich productions we so justly prize.
The Muse’s friend, tea does our fancy aid,
Repress those vapours which the head invade,
And keeps that palace of the soul serene,
Fit on her birth-day to salute the Queen.
The modern Nimrod, with a safe delight
Pursuing beasts, that save themselves by flight,
Grown proud, and weary of his wonted game,
Would Christians chase, and sacrifice to fame.