This day inlarges every narrow mind, Makes the Poor bounteous, and the Miser kind; Poets that have not wealth in wisht excesse, I hope may give like Priests, which is to blesse. And sure in elder times the Poets were Those Priests that told men how to hope and feare, Though they most sensually did write and live, Yet taught those blessings, which the Gods did give, But you (my King) have purify’d our flame, Made wit our virtue which was once our shame; For by your own quick fires you made ours last, Reform’d our numbers till our songs grew chast. Farre more thou fam’d _Augustus_ ere could doe With’s wisdome, (though it long continued too) You have perform’d even in your Moon of age; Refin’d to Lectures, Playes, to Schooles a stage. Such vertue got[,] why is your Poet lesse A Priest then his who had a power to blesse? So hopefull is my rage that I begin To shew that feare which strives to keep it in: And what was meant a blessing soars so high That it is now become a Prophesie. Your selfe (our _Plannet_ which renewes our year) Shall so inlighten all, and every where, That through the Mists of error men shall spy In the dark North the way to Loyalty; Whilst with your intellectuall beames, you show The knowing what they are that seeme to know. You like our Sacred and indulgent Lord, When the too-stout Apostle drew his sword, When he mistooke some secrets of the cause, And in his furious zeale disdain’d the Lawes, Forgetting true Religion doth lye On prayers, not swords against authority. You like our substitute of horrid fate That are next him we most should imitate, Shall like to him rebuke with wiser breath, Such furious zeale, but not reveng’d with death. Like him the wound that’s giv’n you strait shall heal, Then calm by precept such mistaking zeal. _In praise of a deformed woman._ 1. I love thee for thy curled haire, As red as any Fox, Our forefathers did still commend The lovely golden locks. _Venus her self might comelier be,_ _Yet hath no such variety._ 2. I love thee for thy squinting eyes, It breeds no jealousie, For when thou do’st on others look, Methinks thou look’st on me, _Venus her self_, &c. 3. I love thee for thy copper nose, Thy fortune’s ne’re the worse, It shews the mettal in thy face Thou should’st have in thy purse, _Venus her self_, &c. 4. I love thee for thy Chessenut skin, Thy inside’s white to me, That colour should be most approv’d, That will least changed be. _Venus her self_, &c. 5. I love thee for thy splay mouth, For on that amarous close There’s room on either side to kisse, And ne’re offend the nose. _Venus her self_, &c. 6. I love thee for thy rotten gummes, In good time it may hap, When other wives are costly fed, Ile keep thy chaps on pap. _Venus her self_, &c. 7.