O Virtue's pattern, glory of our times, Sent of past days to expiate the crimes, Great king, but better far than thou art great, Whom state not honours, but who honours state, By wonder born, by wonder first install'd, By wonder after to new kingdoms call'd; Young, kept by wonder from home-bred alarms, Old, saved by wonder from pale traitors' harms, To be for this thy reign, which wonders brings, A king of wonder, wonder unto kings. If Pict, Dane, Norman, thy smooth yoke had seen, Pict, Dane, and Norman had thy subjects been; If Brutus knew the bliss thy rule doth give, Even Brutus joy would under thee to live, For thou thy people dost so dearly love, That they a father, more than prince, thee prove. O days to be desired! Age happy thrice! If you your heaven-sent good could duly prize; But we (half palsy-sick) think never right Of what we hold, till it be from our sight, Prize only summer's sweet and musked breath, When armed winters threaten us with death, In pallid sickness do esteem of health, And by sad poverty discern of wealth: I see an age when, after some few years, And revolutions of the slow-paced spheres, These days shall be 'bove other far esteem'd, And like Augustus' palmy reign be deem'd. The names of Arthur, fabulous Paladines, Graven in Time's surly brows, in wrinkled lines, Of Henrys, Edwards, famous for their fights, Their neighbour conquests, orders new of knights, Shall by this prince's name be pass'd as far As meteors are by the Idalian star. If gray-hair'd Proteus' songs the truth not miss-- And gray-hair'd Proteus oft a prophet is-- There is a land hence distant many miles, Outreaching fiction and Atlantic isles, Which (homelings) from this little world we name, That shall emblazon with strange rites his fame, Shall rear him statues all of purest gold, Such as men gave unto the gods of old, Name by him temples, palaces, and towns, With some great river, which their fields renowns: This is that king who should make right each wrong, Of whom the bards and mystic Sibyls sung, The man long promised, by whose glorious reign This isle should yet her ancient name regain, And more of fortunate deserve the style, Than those whose heavens with double summers smile.