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Upon the birth of the Princesse Elizabeth.
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 Aaming 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 cælestiall 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 stile
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.
Or Jove a father 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 funerall Aames May draw their first breath from thy starry beames. The Phænix 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.
Ath aged winter, Aedg’d with feathered rainc,
To frozen Caucasus his Aight now tane?
Doth hee in downy snow there closely shrowd
His bedrid limmes, wrapt in a Aeecy 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 powre?
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
Wmeane 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 hast
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 :
Noe. none of these ravish't those virgin roses,
The Muses, & the Graces fragrant posies.
Wch, while they smiling sate upon his face,
They often kist, & in the sugred place
Left many a starry teare, to thinke how soone
The golden harvest of our joyes, the noone
Of all our glorious hopes should fade,
And be eclipsed with an envious shade.
Noe. 'twas old doting Death, who stealing by,
Dragging his crooked burthen, look't awry,
And streight his amorous syth (greedy of blisse)
Murdred the earth's just pride with a rude kisse.
A winged Herald, gladd of soe sweet a prey,
Snatch't upp the falling starre, soe richly gay,
And plants it in a precious perfum'd bedd,
Amongst those Lillies, wch his bosome bredd.
Where round about hovers with silver wing
A golden summer, an æternall spring.
Now that his root such fruit againe may beare,
Let each eye water't with a courteous teare.