To Her Royal Highness the Duchess of York, on her commanding me to send her some things that I had written.

TO you whose Dignity strikes us with aw,
And whose far greater Judgment gives us law,
Your Mind being more transcendent then your State,
For while but Knees to this, Hearts bow to that,
These humble Papers never durst come near,
Had not your pow'rful Word bid them appear;
In which such majesty, such sweetness dwells,
As in one act obliges and compells.
None can dispute commands vouchsaf'd by you.
What shall my fears then and confusion doe?
They must resign, and by their just pretence
Some value set on my obedience.
For in Religious Duties, 'tis confest,
The most Implicite are accepted best.
If on that score your Highness will excuse
This blushing tribute of an artless Muse,
She may (encourag'd by your least regard,
Which first did worth create, and then reward)
At modest distance with improved strains
That Mercy celebrate which now she gains.
But should you that severer justice use,
Which these too prompt Approches may produce,
As the swift Doe which hath escaped long,
Believes a Vulgar hand would be a wrong;
But wounded by a Prince falls without shame,
And what in life she loses, gains in fame:
So if a Ray from you chance to be sent,
Which to consume, and not to warm is meant;
My trembling Muse at least more nobly dies,
And falls by that a truer sacrifice.