An epistle to Mrs. Wallup: now in the train of Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales. As it was sent to her to the Hague. Written by Mrs. Susanna Centlivre. Centlivre, Susanna, 1667?-1723. 6 600dpi bitonal TIFF page images and SGML/XML encoded text University of Michigan Library Ann Arbor, Michigan 2007 October 004770618 N1081 CW124703547 K000663.000 CW3324703547 ECGR 0101502500

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 An epistle to Mrs. Wallup: now in the train of Her Royal Highness, the Princess of Wales. As it was sent to her to the Hague. Written by Mrs. Susanna Centlivre. Centlivre, Susanna, 1667?-1723. 8p. ; 2⁰. printed, and sold by R. Burleigh, and A. Boulter, London : 1715. Verse. With a half-title. Reproduction of original from the Harvard University Houghton Library. Foxon, C92 English Short Title Catalog, ESTCN1081. Electronic data. Farmington Hills, Mich. : Thomson Gale, 2003. Page image (PNG). Digitized image of the microfilm version produced in Woodbridge, CT by Research Publications, 1982-2002 (later known as Primary Source Microfilm, an imprint of the Gale Group).

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 eng

AN EPISTLE TO Mrs. WALLUP, Now in the TRAIN of Her Royal Highneſs, The Princeſs of WALES.

AN EPISTLE TO Mrs. WALLUP, Now in the TRAIN of Her Royal Highneſs, The Princeſs of WALES. As it was ſent to her to the HAGUE. Written by Mrs. SUSANNA CENTLIVRE.

LONDON: Printed, and Sold by R. Burleigh in Amen-Corner, and A. Boulter without Temple-Bar, 1715. (Price 6 d.)
AN EPISTLE, &c. MADAM, What Muſe can ſpeak, what Pen diſplay Britannia's Pomp upon that happy Day, When Royal George our City dain'd to Grace, And from impending Slav'ry freed her Race? His grateful Subjects round his Chariot hung, Long live the King was heard from ev'ry Tongue: Tranſporting Raptures all their Senſe employ, And Babes unborn, by Inſtinct leap'd for Joy; Ev'n thoſe whom Death ſtood ready to releaſe, Bleſt the Deliverer, and dy'd in Peace. As Roman Sages charg'd their Sons to tell That at their Deaths they left Auguſtus well: So ſhall thoſe Patriots who with Care and Toil, Reſcu'd the Charters of our Britiſh Iſle, At Fate's firſt Summons willingly obey, And to their weeping Wives and Children ſay, Ceaſe, ceaſe your Tears, no more of Grief be ſhown, We leave you Free, and George upon the Throne. This Madam, we may write, but who can tell What mighty Tranſports in your Boſom dwell, To ſee the Scepter by that Hero ſway'd, To whom long ſince your ardent Vows were paid. When your unweary'd Zeal thrice croſt the Sea, Nor fear'd what Dangers might obſtruct your Way: Not led by Int'reſt, or Intrigues of State, (Avarice and Pride! Faults of the meanly great:) No private End by you was underſtood, But all your Wiſhes were the Publick Good. Oh may the Princeſs you ſo oft have prais'd, And great Ideas of her Vertues rais'd, Give you that Preference due to your Deſert, And place you foremoſt in her Royal Heart. The Princeſs, ſaid I? Oh that charming Name, She comes! Who can th' exulting Joy ſuſtain? The Heroes did ſuch mighty Tranſports give, We ſcarce can view the Heroine, and Live. Oh Happy Britain! Oh propitious Day! That ſhall this Lady to thy Iſle convey: From her may ſuch a Race of Princes flow, 'Till Heralds barren of new Titles grow. Come Royal Dame, and bleſs our longing Eyes, Fulfil our Hopes, conſummate all our Joys. Your Glorious Offspring let Britannia ſee, And make her happy, as you made her free. Thoſe Babes are for our Church's Safety given, The Darling Hoſtages 'twixt her and Heaven. Britannia's Court ſhall in full Luſtre ſhine, As heretofore in Bright Maria's time: Maria's Name ſtill ſounds in Britiſh Ears, Like Muſick tun'd from the Celeſtial Spheres. With thouſand Beauties was Maria grac'd, A thouſand Vertues in her Soul were plac'd; Such was her Form, and ſuch her mighty Mind, That ſcarcely Angels cou'd be more refin'd: She wanted only Immortality, To make the Angel with the Saint agree. The Sun which ſet in fair Maria's Eyes, In Carolina's does triumphant riſe, In her you'll find Maria's Loſs retriev'd, That Charming Queen for whom ſo much we griev'd. As when ſome happy Nuptial Knot's unty'd, And Death uncourteous does the Pair divide, The poor Wife, o'erpower'd by the Stroke of Fate, Mourns like a Turtle her departed Mate, Stretch'd on the Breathleſs Trunk her Tears ſhe vents, And utters to the Lifeleſs Clay Complaints: To draw her thence all Arguments are try'd, Nothing can raiſe her from her Husband's Side, Till ſome one Friend more lucky than the reſt, Lays the ſurviving Infant on her Breaſt: She views each Feature, dwells on ev'ry Grace, And in the Child ſurveys the Father's Face; Then the dear Relick ſnatches to her Arms, And all the Mother inſtantly returns. So, when the beautious, fair Maria dy'd, Sorrow o'erwhelm'd us like a riſing Tyde, Till Godlike WILLIAM ſtudying our Repoſe, Fix'd the Succeſſion, and reliev'd our Woes. Whate'er th' Almighty gives to bleſs Mankind, We, or in Spring, or in the Autumn find, The Spring revives what Winter has decay'd, And in New Livery all the Earth's array'd. But tho' the Spring a Thouſand Sweets diſcloſe, Th' Indian Jeſſamine, and Syrian Roſe; The various Product of each fertile Soil, 'Tis the Rich Autumn Crowns the Peaſant's Toil. So, tho' we ſee a New-Created Spring, And ev'ry Joy reviving in the KING; YOU in the PRINCESS will our Harveſt bring. FINIS.