Upon the King's Coronation.
Trange metamorphosis! It was but now
The sullen heaven had vail'd its mournfull bro
With a black maske: the clouds with child by gre
Traveld th' Olympian plaines to find releife.
But at the last (having not soe much power
As to refraine) brought forth a costly shower
Of pearly drops, & sent her numerous birth
(As tokens of her greife) unto the earth.
Alas, the earth, quick drunke with teares, had reel
From of[f] her center, had not Jove upheld
The staggering lumpe: each eye spent all its store
As if heereafter they would weepe noe more.
Streight from this sea of teares there does appeare
Full glory flaming in her owne free sphere.
Amazed Sol throwes of[f] his mournfull weeds,
Speedily harnessing his fiery steeds,
Up to Olympus stately topp he hies,
From whence his glorious rivall hee espies.
Then wondring starts, & had the curteous night
With held her vaile, h' had forfeited his sight.
The joyfull sphæres with a delicious sound
Afright th' amazed aire, & dance a round
To their owne Musick, nor (untill they see
This glorious Phoebus sett) will quiet bee.
Each aery Siren now hath gott her song,
To whom the merry lambes doe tripp along
The laughing meades, as joyfull to behold
Their winter coates cover'd with flaming gold.
Such was the brightnesse of this Northerne starre,
It made the Virgin Phoenix come from farre
To be repaird: hither she did resort,
Thinking her father had remov'd his court.
The lustre of his face did shine soe bright,
That Rome's bold Eagles now were blinded quite,
The radiant darts, shott from his sparkling eyes,
Made every mortall gladly sacrifice
A heart burning in love; all did adore
This rising sunne, their faces nothing wore,
But smiles, & ruddy joyes, & at this day
All melancholy clowds vanisht away.
Upon the birth of the Princesse Elizabeth.
BR
Right starre of Majesty, oh shedd on mee, A precious influence, as sweet as thee. That with each word, my loaden pen letts fall, The fragrant spring may be perfum'd withall. That Sol from them may suck an honied shower, To glutt the stomack of his darling flower. With such a sugred livery made fine,
They shall proclaime to all, that they are thine.
Lett none dare speake of thee, but such as thence
Extracted have a balmy eloquence.
But then, alas, my heart! oh how shall I
Cure thee of thy delightfull tympanie?
I cannot hold, such a springtide of joy
Must have a passage, or 'twill force a way.
Yet shall my loyall tongue keepe this command:
But give me leave to ease it with my hand.
And though these humble lines soare not soe high,
As is thy birth; yet from thy flaming eye
Drop downe one sparke of glory, & they'l prove
A præsent worthy of Apollo's love.
My quill to thee may not præsume to sing:
Lett th' hallowed plume of a seraphick wing
Bee consecrated to this worke, while I
Chant to my selfe with rustick melodie.
Rich, liberall heaven, what, hath yo' treasure store
Of such bright Angells, that you give us more?
Had you, like our great Sunne, stamped but one
For earth, t' had beene an ample portion.
Had you but drawne one lively coppy forth,
That might interpret our faire Cynthia's worth,
Y' had done enough to make the lazy ground
Dance, like the nimble spheres, a joyfull round.
But such is the coelestiall Excellence,
That in the princely patterne shines, from whence
The rest pourtraicted are, that 'tis noe paine
To ravish heaven to limbe them o're againe.
Wittnesse this mapp of beauty; every part
Of wch doth show the Quintessence of art.
See! nothing's vulgar, every atome heere
Speakes the great wisdome of th' artificer.
Poore Earth hath not enough perfection,
To shaddow forth th' admired paragon.
Those sparkling twinnes of light should I now stil
Rich diamonds, sett in a pure silver foyle;
Or call her cheeke a bed of new-blowne roses;
And say that Ivory her front composes;
Or should I say, that with a scarlet wave
Those plumpe soft rubies had bin drest soe brave;
Or that the dying lilly did bestow
Upon her neck the whitest of his snow;
Or that the purple violets did lace
That hand of milky downe: all these are base;
Her glories I should dimme with things soe grosse,
And foule the cleare text with a muddy glosse.
Goe on then, Heaven, & limbe forth such another
Draw to this sister miracle a brother;
Compile a first glorious Epitome
Of heaven, & earth, & of all raritie;
And sett it forth in the same happy place,
And I'le not blurre it with my Paraphrase.
O Dea syderei seu tu stirps alma Tonantis &c.
BRight Goddesse, (whether Jove thy father be;
Jove a will be made by thee) Oh crowne these praie'rs (mov'd in a happy hower) But with one cordiall smile for Cloe. that power Of Loue's all-daring hand, that makes me burne, Makes me confess't. Oh, doe not thou with scorne, Great Nymph, o'relooke my lownesse. heav'n you know And all their fellow Deities will bow Even to the naked'st vowes. thou art my fate; To thee the Parcæ have given up of late My threds of life. if then I shall not live By thee; by thee yet lett me die. this give, High beauties soveraigne, that my funeral flames May draw their first breath from thy starry beames. The Phoenix selfe shall not more proudly burne, That fetcheth fresh life from her fruitfull urne.
An Elegy upon the Death of Mr. Stanninow,
Fellow of Queenes Colledge.
H
Ath aged winter, fledg'd with feathered raine, To frozen Caucasus his flight now tane? Doth hee in downy snow there closely shrowd His bedrid limmes, wrapt in a fleecy clowd? Is th' earth disrobed of her apron white, Kind winter's guift, & in a greene one dight? Doth she beginne to dandle in her lappe Her painted infants, fedd with pleasant pappe, Wch their bright father in a pretious showre From heavens sweet milky streame doth gently pow Doth blith Apollo cloath the heavens with joye, And with a golden wave wash cleane away Those durty smutches, wch their faire fronts wore, And make them laugh, wch frown'd, & wept before If heaven hath now forgot to weepe; ô then W meane these showres of teares amongst us men These Cataracts of griefe, that dare ev'n vie With th' richest clowds their pearly treasurie? If winters gone, whence this untimely cold, That on these snowy limmes hath laid such hold? What more than winter hath that dire art found, These purple currents hedg'd with violets round. To corrallize, wch softly wont to slide In crimson waveletts, & in scarlet tide? If Flora's darlings now awake from sleepe, And out of their greene mantletts dare to peepe : O tell me then, what rude outragious blast Forc't this prime flowre of youth to make such has To hide his blooming glories, & bequeath His balmy treasure to the bedd of death? 'Twas not the frozen zone; One sparke of fire, Shott from his flaming eye, had thaw'd it's ire, And made it burne in love: 'Twas not the rage, And too ungentle nippe of frosty age: 'Twas not the chast, & purer snow, whose nest Was in the modest Nunnery of his brest:
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