Poems by the most deservedly admired Mrs. Katherine Philips, the matchless Orinda ; to which is added Monsieur Corneille's Pompey & Horace, tragedies ; with several other translations out of French.

On the numerous Access of the English to wait upon the King in Flanders.

HAsten, Great Prince, unto thy British Isles, Or all thy Subjects will become Exiles. To thee they flock, thy Presence is their home, As Pompey's Camp, where e're it mov'd, was Rome. They that asserted thy Just Cause go hence To testifie their joy and reverence; And those th•••• did not, now, by wonder taught, Go to confess and expiate their fault. So that if thou dost stay, thy gasping Land It self will empty on the Belgick sand: Where the affrighted Dutchman does profess He thinks it an Invasion, not Address. As we unmonarch'd were for want of thee, So till thou come we shall unpeopled be. None but the close Fanatick will remain, Who by our Loyalty his ends will gain: And he th' exhausted Land will quickly find As desolate a place as he design'd. For England (though grown old with woes) will see Her long deny'd and Sovereign Remedy. So when old Jacob could but credit give That his prodigious Joseph still did live, (Joseph that was preserved to restore Their lives that would have taken his before) It is enough, (said he) to Egypt I Will go, and see him once before I die.