It is not yet a fortnight, since Lutetia entertained our Prince, And wasted both a studied toy, As long as was the siege of _Troy_: And spent herself for full five days In _speeches_, _exercise_, and _plays_. To trim the town, great care before Was tane by th' Lord _Vice-Chancellor_, Both morn and eve he cleared the way, The streets he gravell'd thrice a day; One stripe of _March-dust_ for to see, No _Provost_ would give more than he. Their colledges were new be-painted, Their founders eke were new be-sainted; Nothing escaped, nor post, nor door, Nor gete, nor rail, nor b----d, nor wh----: You could not know (oh, strange mishap!) Whether you saw the _town_ or _map_. But the pure house of _Emanuel_, Would not be like proud _Jesebel_, Nor show herself before the king An hypocrite, or _painted_ thing: But that the ways might all prove fair, Conceiv'd a tedious mile of prayer. Upon the look'd-for seventh of _March_, Out went the townsmen all in starch, Both band and bead into the field, Where one a speech could hardly wield; For needs he would begin his stile, The king being from him half a mile. They gave the king a piece of plate, Which they hop'd never came too late; And cry'd, Oh! look not in, great king, For there is in it just nothing: And so preferred with time and gate, A speech as empty as their plate. Now, as the king came near the town, Each one ran crying up and down, Alas, poor _Oxford_, thou'rt undone, For now the king's past _Trompington_, And rides upon his brave grey Dapple, Seeing the top of _King's-Colledge_ chappel. Next rode his lordship on a nag, Whose coat was blue, whose ruff was shag, And then began his reverence To speak most eloquent non-sense: See how (quoth he) most mighty prince, For very joy my horse doth wince. What cryes the town? what we? (said he) What cryes the University? What cryes the boyes? what every thing? Behold, behold, yon comes the king: And every period he bedecks, With _En et Ecce venit Rex_. Oft have I warn'd (quoth he) our dirt, That no silk stockings should be hurt; But we in vain strive to be fine, Unless your Grace's sun doth shine; And with the beams of your bright eye, You will be pleased our streets to dry. Now come we to the wonderment, Of _Christendom_, and eke of _Kent_, The _Trinity_; which to surpass, Doth Deck her spokesman by a glass: Who, clad in gay and silken weeds, Thus opes his mouth, hark how he speeds. I wonder what your Grace doth here, Who had expected been 12 year, And this your son, fair _Carolus_, That is so Jacobissimus; There's none, of all your Grace refuses, You are most welcome to our Muses.