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Tore not off his Mother's veil.
To th' Church he did allow her dress,
True Beauty, to true Holiness.
Peace, which he loved in life, did lend
Her hand to bring him to his end.
When Age and Death called for the score
No surfeits were to reckon for.
Death tore not-therefore-but sans strife
Gently untwined his thread of life.
What remains then but that thou
Write these lines, Reader, in thy brow,
And by his fair example's light
Burn in thy imitation bright.
So while these lines can but bequeath
A life perhaps unto his death;
His better Epitaph shall be
His life still kept alive in thee.
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. 1 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
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.
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.
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.