Yet thinks it so. But even that too
(Infinite, since part of you)
New matter for our Muse supplies,
And so allows what it denies.

Say then, dread queen, how may we do
To mediate 'twixt yourself and you?
That so our sweetly-temper'd song
Nor be too short, nor seem too long,

Needs must your noble praises' strength,
That made it long, excuse the length.

To the Queen;

UPON HER NUMEROUS PROGENY: A PANEGYRIC.

Britain! the mighty Ocean's lovely bride!

Now stretch thyself (fair Isle) and grow; spread wide
Thy bosom, and make room. Thou art opprest
With thine own glories: and art strangely blest
Beyond thyself: for, lo! the gods, the gods
Come fast upon thee; and those glorious odds
Swell thy full glories to a pitch so high
As sits above thy best capacity.

Are they not odds? and glorious? that to thee
Those mighty genii throng, which well might be
Each one an age's labour, that thy days

Are gilded with the union of those rays

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Whose each divided beam would be a sun,
To glad the sphere of any nation?

Sure if for these thou mean'st to find a seat,
Th' 'ast need, O Britain! to be truly great.

And so thou art; their presence makes thee so:
They are thy greatness. Gods, where'er they go,
Bring their Heaven with them; their great footsteps place
An everlasting smile upon the face

Of the glad earth they tread on; while with thee
Those beams that ampliate mortality,

And teach it to expatiate, and swell

To majesty and fulness, deign to dwell;

Thou by thyself may'st sit (blest Isle), and see
How thy great mother Nature doats on thee:
Thee therefore from the rest apart she hurl'd,
And seem'd to make an Isle, but made a world.

Time yet hath dropt few plumes since Hope turned Joy,

And took into his arms the princely Boy,

Whose birth last blest the bed of his sweet mother,
And bade us first salute our prince, a brother.

The Prince and Duke of York.

Bright Charles! thou sweet dawn of a glorious day!
Centre of those thy grandsires (shall I say

Henry and James? or Mars and Phoebus rather?
If this were Wisdom's god, that War's stern father,
'Tis but the same is said, Henry and James
Are Mars and Phoebus under divers names).

O thou full mixture of those mighty souls
Whose vast intelligences tuned the poles

Of peace and war; thou for whose manly brow
Both laurels twine into one wreath, and woo
To be thy garland; see (sweet Prince), O see,
Thou, and the lovely hopes that smile in thee,
Are ta'en out, and transcribed by thy great Mother.
See, see thy real shadow; see thy brother,

Thy little self in less: trace in these eyne

The beams that dance in those full stars of thine.

From the same snowy alabaster rock

Those hands and thine were hewn ; those cherries mock

The coral of thy lips. Thou wert of all

This well-wrought copy the fair principal.

Lady Mary.

Justly, great Nature, didst thou brag and tell
How even th' hadst drawn that faithful parallel,
And matcht thy master-piece. O then, go on,
Make such another sweet comparison.

See'st thou that Mary there? O, teach her mother
To show her to herself in such another :

Fellow this wonder too, nor let her shine

Alone; light such another star, and twine
Their rosy beams, so that the morn for one
Venus, may have a constellation.

Lady Elizabeth.

These words scarce wakened Heaven, when, lo! our vows

Sat crowned upon the noble infant's brows.

Th' art paired, sweet princess: in this well-writ book

Read o'er thyself; peruse each line, each look.

And when th' hast summed up all those blooming blisses, Close up the book, and clasp it with thy kisses.

So have I seen (to dress their mistress May) Two silken sister-flowers consult, and lay Their bashful cheeks together; newly they

Peeped from their buds, showed like the garden's eyes Scarce waked like was the crimson of their joys, Like were the tears they wept, so like, that one Seemed but the other's kind reflection.

The New-born Prince.

And now 'twere time to say, sweet queen, no more.
Fair source of Princes, is thy precious store
Not yet exhaust? O no! Heavens have no bound,
But in their infinite and endless round
Embrace themselves. Our measure is not theirs ;
Nor may the poverty of man's narrow prayers
Span their immensity. More princes come :
Rebellion, stand thou by; Mischief, make room :
War, blood, and death (names all averse from Joy)
Hear this, we have another bright-eyed boy :

That word's a warrant, by whose virtue I

Have full authority to bid you die.

Die, die, foul misbegotten monsters! die : Make haste away, or e'er the World's bright eye Blush to a cloud of blood. O far from men Fly hence, and in your Hyperborean den Hide you for evermore, and murmur there Where none but Hell may hear, nor our soft air Shrink at the hateful sound. Meanwhile we bear, High as the brow of Heaven, the noble noise And name of these our just and righteous joys, Where Envy shall not reach them, nor those Ears Whose tune keeps time to aught below the spheres.

But thou, sweet supernumerary star,

Shine forth; nor fear the threats of boisterous War.
The face of things has therefore frowned a while
On purpose that to thee and thy pure smile
The World might owe an universal calm ;

While thou, fair halcyon, on a sea of balm

Shalt float; where, while thou lay'st thy lovely head,
The angry billows shall but make thy bed:
Storms, when they look on thee, shall straight relent;
And tempests, when they taste thy breath, repent

To whispers, soft as thine own slumbers be,
Or souls of virgins which shall sigh for thee.

Shine then, sweet supernumerary star,

Nor fear the boisterous names of blood and war:
Thy birthday is their death's nativity;

They've here no other business but to die.