Of Her Royal Highness Mother to the Prince of Orange, and of Her Portraict written by the late Dutchess of York while She lived with Her.

HEroick Nymph, in Tempests the Support,
In Peace the Glory of the British Court,
Into whose Arms the Church, the State, and all
That precious is, or Sacred here, did fall.
Ages to come, that shall your Bounty hear,
Will think you Mistriss of the Indies were:
Thô streighter Bounds your Fortune did consine,
In your large Heart was found a wealthy Mine;
Like the bles't Oil, the Widow's lasting Feast,
Your Treasure, as you pour'd it out, increas't.
While some your Beauty, some your Bounty sing,
Your native Isle do's with your Praises ring:
But above all, a Nymph of your own Train,
Gives us your Character in such a strain,
As none but She, who in that Court did dwell,
Could know such Worth, or Worth describe so well:
So while we Mortals here at Heav'n do guess,
And more our Weakness than the Place express;
Some Angel, a Domestick there, comes down,
And tells the Wonders he hath seen and known.