To Her Grace, the duchess of Albemarle.

Poetry seems on earth, Madam, in the condition of the philosopher’s music in the heavens, placed in a vast solitude where there is nothing to hear it but some few angels that move those heavens.

The earth wants no inhabitants, but whilst those inhabitants want sense it is as solitary as the heavens and a poet sings like a bird in the desert. Yet there are some angels and excellent spirits below and in the first rank of them is Your Grace.

What angels are, we know not, but when we would make them visible to our thoughts, we dress them up in such qualities as nature and fortune have bestowed on Your Grace: excellent wisdom, great power, boundless generosity and profound humility and they, to requite our good thoughts of them, when they make themselves visible to our eyes assume such beauty as yours. Then since we bestow on them all the excellencies of your mind and they borrow all the beauties of your body, we may very well lend Your Grace their name.

And in this, Madam, I do not flatter you, but myself. I do not advance you above what you are, but I raise myself among those who were honoured to be the entertainers of angels, but with this difference: they knew not their guests and so were to be pardoned their unleavened bread and their fatted calves, else a foolish beast had been an absurd treat for a creature, who was all mind and that mind all wisdom.

But all the world knows Your Grace's delicate spirit and therefore my hospitality becomes my crime. I set before Your Grace unpleasant fruit, that blossomed in a stormy time and so had much ado to grow and never could be ripe.

The sun seldom shines on a poet’s orchard. We talk much of shades and we always live in them. If we soar, it is but to sing like larks and though our notes are heard, ourselves are invisible and our nests are always on the ground. Our wit, like the pine tree, affects desolate places, barren rocks and steep mountains and to shoot high in the air and meet those winds which shake its fruit to the earth, where toads creep over it and beasts devour it. That a poet at no time, but especially at this miserable time, is fit to entertain any but himself.

We cannot think our soft songs should be heard, when church music grumbles with loud and unpleasant discords and the whole state seems out of tune.

But, Madam, I have for my excuse, I design not so much an entertainment as a sacrifice. And I am very safe, since I agree with the whole kingdom in faith and worship. I think there are no dissenters that will not fully join with me in paying all manner of honours to the duchess of Albemarle, a princess whose excellencies of mind are as great and eminent as her quality.

Many tests are made to try men’s faith. I think the honour men have for Your Grace is the best test to prove their understandings. This is an ill time to erect images for worship and the porch of a trifling play an ill place for so glorious a thing as the image of Your Grace.

It is true, I have very often seen great persons lie in such porches, begging the charity of well-disposed passengers to give their names a poor subsistence. It is a sad sight to see persons of honour in so wretched a condition that they have no dwelling for their names, but are forced to lodge them in the hovels of miserable scribblers and on the straw of a little flattery. I shall not presume to place the worst statue of Your Grace among such poor company. I only beg leave to be my own porter and stand at the gate of my work in your Grace’s livery, that if any enter, they may not dare to sully the apartments that belong to your grace and where you may sometimes be pleased to walk.

And that Your Grace may be encouraged sometimes to walk in them, they are adorned with an image of a virtue to which Your Grace is nearly allied both by blood and marriage.

Loyalty, a virtue of which the duke of Newcastle, your grandfather and the duke of Albemarle, the father of your illustrious Lord, were the most glorious examples that ever were or ever shall be in the world. They were the two Hercules pillars of honour and loyalty, beyond which none can travel. Beyond them, all is sky, air and sea, bright notion, empty imagination and fluctuating fancy.

The duke of Newcastle was a pillar like that of Seth, erected before the great flood of rebellion, withstood all the fury of it and when it could no longer support the throne, it supported itself and lifted up its head above the waves, when the waves covered the highest mountains and our palaces far under water were become the habitations of monsters. This pillar outlasted the flood and on it were engraved all that could be done by arms and all that could be written by wit. And to that eternal monument of wit, valour and loyalty, the muses and the heroes of all ages shall repair, to pay their grateful devotions, to read their instructions and consecrate their wreaths.

The duke of Albemarle was a pillar, which nature and fortune erected by wo n derful art under the waters, when there seemed not the least foundation for such a work and the work impossible. Few saw it, till it was finished, then it appeared to all and the throne was established upon it. Then did the waters sink to their proper places, the infernal lakes and springs whence they came. Then men began to plant vineyards and to rejoice in the increase of the earth and the fruit of their labours.

On these two columns, shining with gold, but more excellent in the glorious works engraved on them, stood the palace of the British sun.

And now, Madam, it cannot be displeasing to your grace, to look sometimes on the image of that virtue to which you are so nearly allied and from which you derive such a vast inheritance of glory. And truly at this time both image and substance seem to need protection, when some are endeavouring to reduce again the substance to an image.

But that is too sad a note to dwell upon; I shall leave it and humbly beg that poetry, though here poorly clad, may have leave to lie at your gates, because it is of the same nation and kindred with that fair quality which the duke of Newcastle took into his bosom and crowned.

Then, when the world shall see how Your Grace delights to honour it, that destruction shall never reach it, now and always intended it by the mighty empire of fools.

Then shall my muse, though often sleeping, as often stumbling and always in the dark, be secure under the roof of Your Grace’s favour and walk boldly and pleasantly with such a light shining round it, as the title I beg of

Madam,

Your Grace’s most obedient, humble servant,

John Crowne.