And forth She looks, and notes the foremost Train;
And grieves to view some there She wish'd not there.
Seeing the Chief not come, stays, looks again;
And yet she sees not Him that should appear.
Then back She stands; and then desires, as fain
Again to look, to see if He were near.

At length a Glitt'ring Troop far off She spies;
Perceives the Throng, and hears the Shouts and Cries.

Lo yonder! now at length He comes, saith She:
Look, my Good Women, where he is in Sight.
Do you not see him? Yonder; that is He!
Mounted on that White Courser, all in White;
There where the thronging Troops of People be.
I know Him by his Seat: He sits upright.

Lo, now He bows! Dear Lord, with what sweet Grace
How long have I long'd to behold that Face!

Ọ what Delight my Heart takes by mine Eye!
I doubt me when He comes but something near,
I shall set wide the Window-What care I
Who doth see Me, so Him I may see clear?
Thus doth false Joy delude her wrongfully
(Sweet Lady) in the Thing She held so dear
For, nearer come, She finds She had mistook,
And Him She mark'd was Henry Bolingbroke.

Then Envy takes the Place in her Sweet Eyes, Where Sorrow had prepar'd her self a Seat; And Words of Wrath, from whence Complaints should rise, Proceed from eager Looks, and Brows that threat: "Traytor, saith She; is't thou, that in this wise "To brave thy Lord and King art made so great? "And have mine Eyes done unto me this Wrong, "To look on thee? For this stay'd I so long?

"Ah! have they grac'd a perjur'd Rebel so? "Well; for their error I will weep them out, "And hate the Tongue defil'd, that prais'd my Foe; "And loath the Mind, that gave me not to doubt. "What? Have I added Shame unto my Woe? "I'll look no more-Ladies, look you about

"And tell me if my Lord be in this Train;

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Lest my betraying Eyes should err again.

And in this Passion turns her self away. The rest look all, and careful note each Wight; Whilst She, impatient of the least Delay, Demands again: And what; not yet in Sight? Where is my Lord: What; gone some other way? I muse at this-O God, grant all go right: Then to the Window goes again at last, And sees the Chiefest Train of all was past;

And sees not Him her Soul desir'd to see : And yet Hope spent makes her not Leave to look. At last her Love-quick Eyes, which ready be, Fastens on one; whom tho' She never took Could be her Lord; yet that sad Chear which Ile Then shew'd, his Habit and his woful Look, The Grace he doth in base Attire retain, Caus'd her She could not from his Sight refrain.

"What might He be, She said, that thus alone "Rides pensive in this Universal Joy? "Some I perceive, as well as we, do moan: "All are not pleas'd with ev'ry Thing this Day. "It may be, He laments the Wrong is done "Unto my Lord, and grieves; as well he may. "Then He is some of ours; and we of Right "Must pity him, that pities our sad Plight.

"But stay: Is't not my Lord Himself I see? "In truth, if 'twere not for his Base Array, "I verily should think that it were He: "And yet his Baseness doth a Grace bewray. "Yet God forbid-Let me deceived be: "And be it not my Lord, altho' it may: "Let my Desire make Vows against Desire; "And let my Sight approve my Sight a Liar.

"Let me not see Him but Himself, a King: "For so He left me-So He did remove. "This is not He-This feels some other Thing; "A Passion of Dislike, or else of Love.

"O yes, 'tis He!-That Princely Face doth bring "The Evidence of Majesty to prove :

"That Face I have conferr'd which now I see, "With that within my Heart, and they agree.

Thus as She stood assur'd, and yet in Doubt
Wishing to see, what seen She griev'd to see;
Having Belief, yet fain would be without;
Knowing, yet striving not to know 'twas He:
Her Heart relenting; yet her Heart so stout,
As would not yield to think what was, could be;
Till quite condemn'd by open Proof of Sight,
She must confess, or else deny the Light.

For whether Love in him did sympathize,
Or Chance so wrought to manifest her Doubt;
Ev'n just before where She thus Secret pries,
He stays, and with clear Face looks all about.
When She 'Tis, O! too true-I know his Eyes:
Alas! it is my own Dear Lord-cries out :
And with that Cry sinks down upon the Floor;
Abundant Grief lack'd Words to utter more.

At length, when past the first of Sorrows worst, When calm'd Confusion better Form affords ; Her Heart commands, her Words should pass out first, And then her Sighs should interpoint her words; The whiles her Eyes out into Tears should burst. This Order with her Sorrow She accords; Which orderless, all Form of Order brake; So then began her Words, and thus She spake :

"What! dost thou thus return again to me? "Are these the Triumphs for thy Victories? "Is this the Glory thou dost bring with thee, "From that Unhappy Irish Enterprise? "And have I made so many Vows to see "Thy Safe Return, and see thee in this wise? "Is this the look'd-for Comfort thou dost bring; "To come a Captive, that went'st out a King?

"And yet, Dear Lord, tho' thy ungrateful Land "Hath left thee thus; yet I will take thy Part. "I do remain the same, under thy Hand; "Thou still dost rule the Kingdom of my Heart: "If all be lost, that Government doth stand; "And that shall never from thy Rule depart. "And so thou be, I care not how thou be: "Let Greatness go, so it go without thee.

"And Welcome come, how-so unfortunate; "I will applaud what others do despise.

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I love thee for thy Self, not for thy State: "More than thy Self is what without thee lies; "Let that more go, if it be in thy Fate; "And having but thy Self, it will suffice. "I married was not to thy Crown, but Thee; "And Thou, without a Crown, all one to Me.

"But what do I here lurking idly moan, "And wail apart; and in a single Part

"Make several Grief? Which should be both in one;
"The Touch being equal of each other's Heart.
"Ah! no, Sweet Lord, thou must not moan alone;
"For without me thou art not all thou art;

"Nor my Tears without thine are fully Tears,

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For thus unjoin'd, Sorrow but half appears.

"Join then our Plaints, and make our Grief full Grief; "Our State being one, let us not part our Care: "Sorrow hath only this poor bare Relief, "To be bemoan'd of such as woful are.

"And should I rob thy Grief, and be the Thief, "To steal a private Part, and sev'ral Share; Defrauding Sorrow of her perfect Due?

"No, no, my Lord; I come to help thee rue.

Then forth She goes a close concealed Way,
(As grieving to be seen not as She was ;)
Labours t' attain his Presence all She may;
Which, with most hard ado was brought to pass.
or that Night understanding where He lay,
With earnest 'treating She procur'd her Pass,
To come to him. Rigor could not deny
Those Tears, (so poor a Suit) or put her by.

Entring the Chamber, where he was alone,
(As one whose former Fortune was his Shame)
Loathing th' upbraiding Eye of any one
That knew him once, and knows him not the same:
When having giving express Command that none
Should press to him; yet hearing some that came,
Turns angrily about his grieved Eyes;
When lo! his sweet afflicted Queen he spies.

Strait clears his Brow, and with a borrow'd Smile; "What! my Dear Queen! Welcome, my Dear, he says: And (striving his own Passion to beguile,

And hide the Sorrow which his Eye betrays)

Could speak no more; but wrings her Hands the while :
And then-Sweet Lady! And again he stays.
Th' Excess of Joy and Sorrow both affords
Affliction none, or but poor niggard Words.

She that was come with a resolved Heart,

And with a Mouth full stor'd, with Words well chose;
Thinking, this Comfort will I first impart

Unto my Lord, and thus my Speech dispose
Then thus I'll say; thus look; and with this Art,
Hide mine own Sorrow, to relieve his Woes.
When being come, all this prov'd nought but Wind;
Tears, Looks, and Sighs, do only tell her Mind.

Thus both stood silent, and confused so,
Their Eyes relating how their Hearts did mourn:
Both big with Sorrow, and both great with Woe,
In Labour with what was not to be born;
This mighty Burthen wherewithal they go,
Dies undeliver'd, perishes unborn.

Sorrow makes Silence her best Orator,

Where Words may make it less, not shew it more.

But He, whom longer Time had learn'd the Art
T'endure Affliction, as a usual Touch,

Strains forth his Words, and throws Dismay apart,
To raise up her, whose Passions now were such
As quite oppress'd her over-charged Heart,
(Too small a Vessel to contain so much ;)

And cheers, and moans, and feigned Hopes doth frame,
As if himself believ'd, or hop'd the same.

And now the while these Princes sorrowed,
Forward Ambition (come so near her End)
Sleeps not, nor slips th' Occasion offered,
T'accomplish what it did before intend.
A Parliament is forthwith summoned
In Richard's Name; whereby they might pretend
A Form to grace Disorder, and a Show
Of Holy Right, the Right to overthrow.