How large a legacy was left to you, (Too great for any subject to retain) He wisely tied it to the crown again; Yet, passing through your hands, it gathers more, As streams, through mines, bear tincture of their ore. While emp'ric politicians use deceit, Hide what they give, and cure but by a cheat; You boldly shew that skill which they pretend, And work by means as noble as your end; Which should you veil, we might unwind the clue, As men do nature, till we came to you. And, as the Indies were not found before Those rich perfumes, which, from the happy shore, The winds upon their balmy wings conveyed, Whose guilty sweetness first their world betrayed; So, by your counsels, we are brought to view A rich and undiscovered world in you. By you our monarch does that fame assure, Which kings must have, or cannot live secure: For prosperous princes gain their subjects' heart, Who love that praise in which themselves have part. By you he fits those subjects to obey, As heaven's eternal monarch does convey His power unseen, and man, to his designs, By his bright ministers, the stars, inclines. Our setting sun, from his declining seat, Shot beams of kindness on you, not of heat; And, when his love was bounded in a few That were unhappy, that they might be true, Made you the favourite of his last sad times, That is a sufferer in his subjects' crimes: Thus, those first favours you received, were sent, Like heaven's rewards, in earthly punishment: Yet fortune, conscious of your destiny, E'en then took care to lay you softly by, And wrapped your fate among her precious things, Kept fresh to be unfolded with your king's. Shewn all at once, you dazzled so our eyes, As new-born Pallas did the gods surprise, When, springing forth from Jove's new-closing wound, She struck the warlike spear into the ground; Which sprouting leaves did suddenly inclose, And peaceful olives shaded as they rose. How strangely active are the arts of peace, Whose restless motions less than war's do cease! Peace is not freed from labour, but from noise; And war more force, but not more pains employs. Such is the mighty swiftness of your mind, That, like the earth, it leaves our sense behind, While you so smoothly turn and roll our sphere, That rapid motion does but rest appear. For, as in nature's swiftness, with the throng Of flying orbs while ours is borne along, All seems at rest to the deluded eye, Moved by the soul of the same harmony; So, carried on by your unwearied care, We rest in peace, and yet in motion share. Let envy, then, those crimes within you see, From which the happy never must be free; (Envy, that does with misery reside, The joy and the revenge of ruined pride.) Think it not hard, if, at so cheap a rate,