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BEAUTY'S ENEMY. 1660.
Vpon the Death of M. Princess of Orange,
by the Small Pox.
HEnce, hence, vain Fancies! 'tis a Sin to be
A witty praiser of a Misery.
Like those hard Wits, who name the Scars
Upon her Face, Ennamel, and bright Stars.
They crown their brows with Cypress boughs, and make
Garlands of Flow'rs, which they from Coffins take.
Then should the Iews, those hands have kist with joy,
That did their Temple, and themselves destroy.
Her Eyes, amidst her torments, sparkled beams:
Thus martyr'd Saints smil'd in their hottest flames.
Nor can the Parallel be well deny'd;
Since 'its too true, she Beauty's Martyr dy'd.
Fatal Disease! thy Spite too oft is sent,
Like Sequestrators, on the Eminent.
Thy Crimes, like those of their damn'd Masters, show;
Like them thou ruin'st England with a blow.
Great Charles his loss, and hers were near ally'd;
In them the Monarchs of both Sexes dy'd.
Most cruel Death! could not one wound suffice?
Must she as many have as Heav'n has Eyes?
Each Spot upon her Face a Comet show'd,
Which did, alas, this fatal ruine bode!
So do those purple streaks, that often stand
Upon Aurora's Cheeks, tell storms at hand.
This fatal Mask, that thus beclouds her Eyes,
Is no deformity, but a disguise.