Speeches spoken to the King and Queen, Dvke and Dvchesse of York, in Christ-Church Hall, Oxford, Sept. 29, 1663 Ireland, Thomas, Sir. 1663 Approx. 8 KB of XML-encoded text transcribed from 5 1-bit group-IV TIFF page images. Text Creation Partnership, Ann Arbor, MI ; Oxford (UK) : 2011-04 (EEBO-TCP Phase 2). A45961 Wing I295 ESTC R17248 12038086 ocm 12038086 52927

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 Early English books online. (EEBO-TCP ; phase 2, no. A45961) Transcribed from: (Early English Books Online ; image set 52927) Images scanned from microfilm: (Early English books, 1641-1700 ; 539:8) Speeches spoken to the King and Queen, Dvke and Dvchesse of York, in Christ-Church Hall, Oxford, Sept. 29, 1663 Ireland, Thomas, Sir. Charles II, King of England, 1630-1685. James II, King of England, 1633-1701. Catherine, of Braganza, Queen, consort of Charles II, King of England, 1638-1705. York, Anne Hyde, Duchess of, 1637-1671. 8, [1] p. Printed for Richard Royston ..., London : 1663. Attributed to Thomas Ireland. Cf. NUC pre-1956. Reproduction of original in Bodleian Library.

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SPEECHES SPOKEN TO THE King and Queen, DƲKE and DƲCHESSE of York, In CHRIST-CHURCH Hall, OXFORD, Sept. 29. 1663.

LONDON: Printed for Richard Royston, Bookſeller to His moſt Sacred Majeſty, 1663.
Speeches ſpoken to the King and Queen, DUKE and DUCHESSE of York, In Chriſt-Church Hall, Sept. 29. 1663.
I. To the KING. TIs He, 'tis He indeed, it muſt be ſo; None but that Child unto this Man could grow. Wonder of Fate! A KING out of a PRINCE Expos'd to deſperate perils ſo long ſince. What humane Wolf, or yet more kind Wild beaſt, Caſt from your own, hath took you to her breaſt, And brought you up; till by your Vertues known, None dar'd no longer keep you from your Throne? You came like Phoebus ſtriving from a Cloud, Increaſing brightneſs as he quits the ſhroud: And as he draws out by his Summer rayes The ſleeping Inſects to their ſeveral plays; With greater power your warmer influence calls Our dormant Houſhold-gods forth from their Walls: And I their Genius, in your abſence mute, Like Memnon's Statue, your approach ſalute. Let Roman quils the buſineſs undertake, Great Panegyricks of your Worth to make; I will not grieve you with repeated harms, Nor tire your Modeſty with praiſing charms: But greet the kind appearance of your face, Which both amazeth and revives this place; This place, where taken from our Parents charge On your Munificence we live at large; And to the Nobleſt born we boaſt and ſing, By mean men made, we're nouriſh'd by a KING: For which we humbly thank you, and confeſs, Our Aliment, our Learning, and our Dreſs Is all from you; And this great Structure ſtands Imperfect, to be finiſh'd by your Hands, And hath conſum'd numbers of golden ſhowrs, But ſeems not ſatisfy'd till fill'd with yours.
II. To the QUEEN. LEt me not live, Great powers my ſoul invade, I feel my ſelf thinning into a ſhade. What Glorie's that, that hovers by your ſide, And gives you the imbraces of a Bride? Have you been medling with Celeſtial fire, A Model of your own thus to inſpire? Or is She Siſter to Pygmalion's Wife, The ſecond Ivory that ere took life? Or is Aſtraea woo'd from Heaven again? Who then ſhall take exceptions at your Reign? Speak, Sir, What is She? for no other eye Can take the height of her Divinity. Or will you pleaſe, ſweet Splendor, let us know In part, what to the Gods for you we owe? Are you a real Star indeed, let down To beautifie this long-obſcured Crown? Or are you made of Nectar, which they ſay Once being ſpilt made ſuch a milky Way? But if you needs will mortal be, and ſhew The greater skill by being made below; Your Mother, ſure, upon Elixirs fed, The Eaſt blew all its perfumes to her Bed. Then were you wrap'd in Lilies, which ſo grew A Coverture o're your own whiter hue, A Whiteneſs not with ſafety to be ſeen, Which of a skin of Lilies makes a ſcreen, Wherein array'd you ſuffer a diſguiſe, And put on Snow in mercy to our eyes. The mould wherein your Soul is now inſhrin'd Is ſuch as Chymiſts ſeek, but ne're can find; Such as, when you die, it will firſt be told The Powder's found that can turn all things Gold: Or ſuch as, when the World was all a Main, Deucalion kept to make Mankind again. Such may it prove too, ſince the bliſs we need Is a young Prince from ſo refin'd a Seed. Whence ere it is your mighty Beauties ſpring, Their ſtreams loſe nought by running towards the KING, A ſtop in whoſe fair Breaſt their courſe beguiles, Where like a Sea of Milk they turn in ſmiles; As in Endymion's, when the Queen of Night Had in his boſom crowded all her light. Nor are our hopes exceeded by our prayers, Your Anceſtors make promiſe for your Heirs; His, who have made all Europe ſhake, and yours, Who could make Devils flie, or at leaſt Moors: Of Darkneſs, baniſh'd by a general chaſe, The Trophees are erected in your Face. Nature had kept her riches yet unſeen, Had not the Portuguez ſuch ſearchers been; Who to the fame of finding Worlds unknown, Have ſhew'd their art in You of making one. Well might the haughty Spaniard interpoſe With all his wealth to hinder ſuch a cloſe, As hoping no ſucceſs from his Alarms 'Gainſt Lisbon, when She lay in CHARLES his Arms; But that to rival all his power, in you CHARLES would be Maſter of the Indies too. But Heavens deſign'd by equal courſe of Fates The Fall and Reſtauration of your States: Your Father, and your Husband, long diſown'd, Were both by parallel wonders re-inthron'd; And two recover'd Kingdoms now combine To twiſt a never-diſcontinuing line, Supplying from Valour and from Beauties ſtore Kings to beget, and Queens to bring forth more.
III. To the DUKE of York. BUt to remove all fears, behold here ſtands A Prince that bears Protection in his Hands; Who in his Infancy to Conqueſt bent, Did in his Cradle apprehend a Tent; And ſince by mighty deeds of War hath ſhewn The Dons a Courage which they ne're durſt own; Whoſe Arm alone appearing their relief Made him at once their ſuccour and their grief; Who without him could not withſtand the Foe, Yet were aſham'd to be defended ſo. But what need I, Brave Prince, your Acts rehearſe, Which are become the Winds charge to diſperſe? Tritons and Sea-Nymphs ſound and ſing your Name, The Waves to every ſhore report your Fame: At your command the Surges riſe and fall, While Neptune acts but your Vice-Admiral.
IV. To the DUCHESSE. ANd Silver Thetis covering her face, To your Fair Ducheſs hath reſign'd her place.
Spoken to the KING and QƲEEN in Saint John's Library. YOur ſtation 'twixt theſe Globes doth prompt our pen To fanſie Princes plac'd 'twixt Gods & men; Here men, there Angels ply their different Spheres, Our Houſe of Commons, and your Houſe of Peers. May your laſt Progreſs here reach Neſtor's Summe, Till the Supreme Star-Chamber call you home: Whilſt Angels propagate, and you diſplay A little CHARLES his Waine, and Milky Way; Theſe Aſteriſms are only wanting yet To make White-Hall a Heaven, and Heaven complete. Perfection, Madam, from your ſelf muſt grow: Kings are Immortal, but Queens make them ſo.
THE END.

VERSES Spoken to the KING, QVEEN, and DƲTCHESSE of YORKE in St JOHN's Library in Oxford.