Bright starre of Majesty, oh shedd on mee, A precious influence, as sweet as thee. That with each word, my loaden pen letts fall, The fragrant Spring may be perfum'd withall. That Sol from them may suck an honied shower, To glutt the stomack of his darling flower. With such a sugred livery made fine, They shall proclaime to all, that they are thine. Lett none dare speake of thee, but such as thence Extracted haue a balmy eloquence. But then, alas, my heart! oh how shall I Cure thee of thy delightfull tympanie? I cannot hold; such a spring-tide of joy Must haue a passage, or 'twill force a way. Yet shall my loyall tongue keepe this command: But giue me leaue to ease it with my hand. And though these humble lines soare not soe high, As is thy birth; yet from thy flaming eye Drop downe one sparke of glory, & they'l proue A præsent worthy of Apollo's loue. My quill to thee may not præsume to sing: Lett th' hallowed plume of a seraphick wing Bee consecrated to this worke, while I Chant to my selfe with rustick melodie. Rich, liberall heauen, what hath yor treasure store Of such bright angells, that you giue vs more? Had you, like our great sunne, stampèd but one For earth, t' had beene an ample portion. Had you but drawne one liuely coppy forth, That might interpret our faire Cynthia's worth, Y' had done enough to make the lazy ground Dance, like the nimble spheres, a joyfull round. But such is the coelestiall excellence, That in the princely patterne shines, from whence The rest pourtraicted are, that 'tis noe paine To ravish heauen to limbe them o're againe. Wittnesse this mapp of beauty; euery part Of wch doth show the quintessence of art. See! nothing's vulgar, every atome heere Speakes the great wisdome of th' artificer. Poore Earth hath not enough perfection, To shaddow forth th' admirèd paragon. Those sparkling twinnes of light should I now stile Rich diamonds, sett in a pure siluer foyle; Or call her cheeke a bed of new-blowne roses; And say that ivory her front composes; Or should I say, that with a scarlet waue Those plumpe soft rubies had bin drest soe braue; Or that the dying lilly did bestow Vpon her neck the whitest of his snow; Or that the purple violets did lace That hand of milky downe; all these are base; Her glories I should dimme with things soe grosse, And foule the cleare text with a muddy glosse. Goe on then, Heauen, & limbe forth such another, Draw to this sister miracle a brother; Compile a first glorious epitome Of heauen, & Earth, & of all raritie; And sett it forth in the same happy place, And I'le not blurre it with my paraphrase. VPON A GNATT BURNT IN A CANDLE.