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rage,

But dares destruction eate these candid breasts, The Muses, & the Graces sugred neasts? Dares hungry death snatch of one cherry lipp? Or thirsty treason offer once to sippe One dropp of this pure Nectar, wch doth flow In azure channells warme through mounts of snow? The roses fresh, conserved from the And cruell ravishing of frosty age, Feare is afraid to tast of: only this, He humbly crav'd to banquett on a kisse. Poore meagre horror streightwaies was amaz'd, And in the stead of feeding stood, & gaz'd. Their appetites were gone at th' very sight; But yet their eyes surfett with sweet delight. Only the Pope a stomack still could find; But yett they were not powder'd to his mind. Forthwith each God stept from his starry throne, And snatch'd away the banquett. every one Convey'd his sweet delicious treasury To the close closet of æternity: Where they will safely keepe it, from the rude, And rugged touch of Pluto's multitude.

Upon the King's Coronation.

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Ound forth, cœlestiall Organs, lett heavens quire
Ravish the dancing orbes, make them mount higher
With nimble capers, & force Atlas tread
Upon his tiptoes, e're his silver head

Shall kisse his golden burthen. 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 heaven itselfe for stately Majesty.
Doe not deceive mee, eyes: doe I not see
In this blest earth heaven's bright Epitome,
Circled with pure refined glory? heere
I veiw 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?
Unmixt felicity with silver wings
Broodeth this sacred place. hither peace brings
The choicest of her olive-crownes, & praies
To have them guilded with his courteous raies.
Doe I not see a Cynthia, who may
Abash the purest beauties of the day?

To whom heavens lampes often in silent night
Steale from their stations to repaire their light.
Doe I not see a constellation,

Each little beame of wch would make a sunne?

I meane those three great starres, who well may scorn
Acquaintance with the Usher of the morne.

To gaze upon such starres each humble eye
Would be ambitious of Astronomie.
Who would not be a Phoenix, & aspire
To sacrifice himselfe in such sweet fire?
Shine forth, ye flaming sparkes of Deity,
Yee perfect emblemes of divinity.
Fixt in your spheres of glory, shed from thence,
The treasures of our lives, your influence.
For if you sett, who may not justly feare,
The world will be one Ocean, one great teare.

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Upon the King's Coronation.
Trange metamorphosis! It was but now

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With a black maske: the clouds with child by greife
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'd
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.

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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 yor 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 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.

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