Idol of our Sex! Envy of thine own! Whom not t’ have seen, is never to have known, What eyes are good for; to have seen, not lov’d, Is to be more, or lesse then man, unmov’d; Deigne to accept, what I i’ th’ name of all Thy Servants pay to this dayes Festival, Thanks for the old yeare, prayers for the new, So may thy many dayes to come seeme few, So may fresh springs in thy blew rivolets flow, To make thy roses, and thy lillies grow. So may all dressings still become thy face, As if they grew there, or stole thence their grace. So may thy bright eyes comfort with their rayes Th’ humble, and dazle those that boldly gaze: So may thy sprightly motion, beauties best part, Shew there is stock enough of life at heart. So may thy warm snow never grow more cold, So may they live to be, but not seem old. So may thy Lord pay all, yet rest thy debtor, And love no other, till he sees a better: So may the new year crown the old yeares joy, By giving us a Girle unto our Boy; I’ th’ one the Fathers wit, and in the other Let us admire the beauty of the Mother, That so we may their severall pictures see, Which now in one fair Medall joyned be: Till then grow thus together, and howe’re You grow old in your selves, grow stil young here; And let him, though he may resemble either, Seem to be both in one, and singly neither. Let Ladies wagers lay, whose chin is this, Whose forehead that, whose lip, whose eye, then kiss Away the difference, whilst he smiling lies, To see his own shape dance in both your eyes. Sweet Babe! my prayer shall end with thee, (Oh may it prove a Prophecy!) May all the channels in thy veynes Expresse the severall noble straines, From whence they flow; sweet _Sydney’s_ wit, But not the sad, sweet fate of it; The last great _Pembroke’s_ learning, sage _Burleigh’s_ both wisdome and his age; Thy Grandsires honest heart expresse The _Veres_ untainted noblenesse. To these (if any thing there lacks) Adde _Dormer_ too, and _Molenax_. Lastly, if for thee I can woo Gods, and thy Godfathers grace too, Together with thy Fathers Thrift: Be thou thy Mothers New-years gift. _The Western Husband-man’s Complaint in the late Wars._ Uds bodykins! Chill work no more: Dost think chill labour to be poor? No ich have more a do: If of the world this be the trade, That ich must break zo knaves be made, Ich will a blundering too. [plundering] Chill zel my cart and eke my plow, And get a zword if ich know how, For ich mean to be right: Chill learn to zwear, and drink, and roar, And (Gallant leek) chill keep a whore, [like] No matter who can vight. God bless us! What a world is here, It can ne’re last another year, Vor ich can’t be able to zoe: Dost think that ever chad the art, To plow the ground up with my cart, My beasts be all a go.