UPON THE KING'S CORONATION.1
Sound forth, cælestiall organs, let heauen's quire
Ravish the dancing orbes, make them mount higher
With nimble capers, & force Atlas tread
Vpon his tiptoes, e're his siluer head
Shall kisse his golden curthen. Thou glad Isle,
That swim'st as deepe in joy, as seas, now smile ;
Lett not thy weighty glories, this full tide
Of blisse, debase thee; but with a just pride
Swell : swell to such an height, that thou maist vye
With heauen itselfe for stately majesty.
Doe not deceiue mee, eyes : doe I not see
In this blest earth heauen's bright epitome,
Circled with pure refined glory? heere
I view a rising sunne in this our sphere,
Whose blazing beames, maugre the blackest night,
And mists of greife, dare force a joyfull light.
The gold, in wch he flames, does well præsage
A precious season, & a golden age.
Doe I not see joy keepe his revels now,
And sitt triumphing in each cheerfull brow?
i Charles I. See our Essay on this and kindred poems, and their relation to the Latin royal poems. G.