_P._ And doth not she make _Place_ happy as well as _Time_? What if she make thee a contynewall holy-day, she makes me a perpetuall sanctuary. Doth not the presence of a Prince make a Cottage a Court, and the presence of the Gods make euery place Heauen? But, alas, my littlenes is not capable of that happines that her great grace would impart vnto me: but, weare I as large as there harts that are mine Owners, I should be the fairest _Pallace_ in the world; and weere I agreeable to the wishes of there hartes, I should in some measure resemble her sacred selfe, and be in the outward frount exceeding faire, and in the inward furniture exceeding rich. _T._ In good time do you remember the hearts of your Owners; for, as I was passing to this place, I found this _Hart_,[288] which, as my daughter _Truth_ tould mee, was stolne by owne[289] of the Nymphes from one of the seruants of this Goddesse; but her guiltie conscience enforming her that it did belong only of right vnto her that is Mrs. of all harts in the world, she cast [it] from her for this time; and _Oportunity_, finding it delivered it vnto me. Heere, _Place_, take it thou, and present it vnto her as a pledge and mirror of their harts that owe thee. [Footnote 288: A Diamond.] [Footnote 289: = one. G.] _P._ It is a mirror indeed, for so it is transparent. It is a cleare hart, you may see through it. It hath noe close corners, noe darkenes, noe unbutifull spott in it. I will therefore presume the more boldly to deliver it; with this assurance, that _Time_, _Place_, _Persons_, and all other circumstances, doe concurre alltogether in biddinge her wellcome. _The humble Petition of a guiltlesse Lady, delivered in writing vpon Munday Morninge, when the [robe] of rainbowes was presented to the Q. by the La._ WALSINGHAM. Beauties rose, and vertues booke, Angells minde, and Angells looke, To all Saints and Angells deare, Clearest Maiestie on earth, Heauen did smile at your faire birth, And since, your daies have been most cleare. Only poore St. _Swythen_ now Doth heare you blame his cloudy brow: But that poore St. deuoutly sweares, It is but a tradition vaine That his much weeping causeth raine, For S^{ts} in heauen shedd no teares: But this he saith, that to his feast Commeth Iris, an vnbidden guest, In her moist roabe of collers gay; And she cometh, she ever staies, For the space of fortie daies, And more or lesse raines euery day. But the good St., when once he knew, This raine was like to fall on you, If S^{ts} could weepe, he had wept as much As when he did the Lady leade That did on burning iron tread: To Ladies his respect is such. He gently first bids Iris goe Unto the Antipodes below, But shee for that more sullen grew. When he saw that, with angry looke, From her her rayneie roabes he tooke, Which heere he doth present to you.