To my Lord E., Eldest Son to the Marquess of H.

Pardon, my Lord, if a poor Poet, one
That is not, nor deserves not to be known,
Presume not only (hardn'd in his Crime)
To greet your safe Return with dogrel Rhime,
But wish your future Years may this atone,
And Bless no other Country but your own;
Which, as it griev'd to want your Lustre here,
Envy'd it's shining in another Sphere.

Many there are that travel Foreign parts,
They say, to know the Manners, Men and Arts;
But 'stead of leaving their own dross behind,
Bring back a dross, too course to be refin'd,
Affected Body and affected Mind:
For such Accomplishments what need we roam,
Thanks to our Stars, these may be had at home.
But you, my Lord, have nobler Conduct shown,
And brought from the French Court what will adorn our own;
A Vertuous Wife! a thing so rare to see,
Ev'n Holy Writ mentions but two or three:
To her own Native Soil she bids adieu
For dear Religion, and her Dearer You;
Nor has she lost, but in your Arms will find
Sublimer Blessings than she leaves behind:
For early y'ave the chase of Fame begun,
Nor are, but by a Father's name outdone,
He, when three parts of four in darkness lay,
Broke the thick Scales and made us see the day,
And drove our Fears and Iealousies away;
False Fears and Iealousies, those useful things
That Knaves insinuate when they'd ruin Kings:
His Noble Image we in You may find,
Lively in Person, livelier in your mind,
For both have climb'd the Mountains top, there sit,
He Judge of Wisdom, You the Judge of Wit.