'T is not a passions first accesse
Readie to multiply,
But like Loves calmest State it is
Possest with victorie.
It is like Love to Truth reduc'd
All the false value's gone,
Which were created, and induc'd
By fond imagination.
'T is either Fancie, or 't is Fate,
To love you more then I ;
I love you at your beauties rate,
Lesse were an Injurie.
Like unstamp'd Gold, I weigh each grace,
So that you may collect,
Th' intrinsique value of your face,
Safely from my respect.
And this respect would merit love,
Were not so faire a sight
Payment enough; for, who dare move
Reward for his delight.
On the Kings Birth-day.
ROWSE up thy selfe, my gentle Muse,
Though now our greene conceits be gray,
And yet once more doe not refuse
To take thy Phrygian Harp, and play
In honour of this cheerefull Day:
Long may they both contend to prove,
That best of Crownes is such a love.
Make first a Song of Joy, and Love,
Which chastly flames in royall eyes,
Then tune it to the Spheares above,
When the benignest Stars doe rise,
And sweet Conjunctions grace the skies.
Long may, &c.
To this let all good hearts resound,
Whilst Diadems invest his head;
Long may he live, whose life doth bound
More then his Lawes, and better led
By high Example, then by dread.
Long may, &c.
Long may he round about him see
His Roses, and his Lillies blowne:
Long may his only Deare, and Hee
Joy in Ideas of their owne,
And Kingdomes hopes so timely sowne.
Long may they both contend to prove,
That best of Crownes is such a love.
To my L. the King,
On the Christning
His second Sonne JAMES.
THAT thou art lov'd of God, this worke is done,
Great King, thy having of a second Sonne:
And by thy blessing, may thy People see
How much they are belov'd of God, in thee;
Would they would understand it! Princes are
Great aides to Empire, as they are great care
To pious Parents, who would have their blood
Should take first Seisin of the publique good,
As hath thy JAMES; cleans'd from originall drosse,
This day, by Baptisme, and his Saviours crosse :
Grow up, sweet Babe, as blessed, in thy Name,
As in renewing thy good Grandsires fame;
Me thought, Great Brittaine in her Sea, before,
Sate safe enough, but now secured more.
At land she triumphs in the triple shade,
Her Rose, and Lilly, intertwind, have made.
Oceano secura meo, securior umbris.
On the Lady Anne Pawlet,
Marchion: of Winton.
WHAT gentle Ghost, besprent with April deaw,
Hayles me, so solemnly, to yonder Yewgh?
And beckning wooes me, from the fatall tree
To pluck a Garland, for her selfe, or mee?
I doe obey you, Beautie! for in death,
You seeme a faire one! O that you had breath,
To give your shade a name! Stay, stay, I feele
A horrour in mee! all my blood is steele !
Stiffe! starke! my joynts 'gainst one another knock!
Whose Daughter? ha? Great Savage of the Rock?
Hee's good, as great. I am almost a stone!
And e're I can aske more of her shee's gone!
Alas, I am all Marble! write the rest
Thou wouldst have written, Fame, upon my brest:
It is a large faire table, and a true,
And the disposure will be something new, When I, who would the Poët have become,
At least may beare th' inscription to her Tombe. Shee was the Lady Jane, and Marchionisse
Of Winchester; the Heralds can tell this.
Earle Rivers Grand-Child-serve not formes, good Fame,
Sound thou her Vertues, give her soule a Name.
Had I a thousand Mouthes, as many Tongues,
A voyce to raise them from my brazen Lungs,
I durst not aime at that: The dotes were such
Thereof, no notion can expresse how much
Their Carract was! I, or my trump must breake,
But rather I, should I of that part speake!
It is too neere of kin to Heaven, the Soule,
To be describ'd! Fames fingers are too foule
To touch these Mysteries! We may admire
The blaze, and splendor, but not handle fire!
What she did here, by great example, well,
T'inlive posteritie, her Fame may tell!
And, calling truth to witnesse, make that good
From the inherent Graces in her blood!
Else, who doth praise a person by a new,
But a fain'd way, doth rob it of the true.
Her Sweetnesse, Softnesse, her faire Courtesie,
Her wary guardes, her wise simplicitie,
Were like a ring of Vertues, 'bout her set,
And pietie the Center, where all met.
A reverend State she had, an awfull Eye,
A dazling, yet inviting, Majestie:
What Nature, Fortune, Institution, Fact
Could summe to a perfection, was her Act!
How did she leave the world? with what contempt?
Just as she in it liv'd! and so exempt
From all affection! when they urg'd the Cure
Of her disease, how did her soule assure
Her suffrings, as the body had beene away!
And to the Torturers (her Doctors) say,
Stick on your Cupping-glasses, feare not, put
Your hottest Causticks to, burne, lance, or cut:
'T is but a body which you can torment,
And I, into the world, all Soule, was sent! Then comforted her Lord! and blest her Sonne! Chear'd her faire Sisters in her race to runne! With gladnesse temper'd her sad Parents teares! Made her friends joyes, to get above their feares! And, in her last act, taught the Standers-by, With admiration, and applause to die! Let Angels sing her glories, who did call Her spirit home, to her originall!
Who saw the way was made it! and were sent
To carry, and conduct the Complement
'Twixt death and life! Where her mortalitie
Became her Birth-day to Eternitie!
And now, through circumfused light, she lookes
On Natures secrets, there, as her owne bookes:
Speakes Heavens Language! and discovereth free
To every Order, ev'ry Hierarchie!
Beholds her Maker! and, in him, doth see
What the beginnings of all beauties be;
And all beatitudes, that thence doe flow:
Which they that have the Crowne are sure to know! Goe now, her happy Parents, and be sad
If you not understand, what Child you had.
you dare grudge at Heaven, and repent
T'have paid againe a blessing was but lent,
And trusted so, as it deposited lay
At pleasure, to be call'd for, every day!
If you can envie your owne Daughters blisse,
And wish her state lesse happie then it is!
If you can cast about your either eye,
And see all dead here, or about to dye!
The Starres, that are the Jewels of the Night,
And Day, deceasing! with the Prince of light,
The Sunne! great Kings! and mightiest Kingdomes fall! Whole Nations! nay Mankind! the World, with all
That ever had beginning there, to 'ave end!
With what injustice should one soule pretend
escape this common knowne necessitie,
When we were all borne, we began to die;
And, but for that Contention, and brave strife
The Christian hath t'enjoy the future life,
Hee were the wretched'st of the race of men:
But as he soares at that, he bruiseth then
The Serpents head: Gets above Death, and Sinne,
And, sure of Heaven, rides triumphing in.
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