Upon the look’d-for seventh[43] of _March_, Outwent the townsmen all in starch, Both band and beard, 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; But cry’d, Oh! look not in, great king, For there is in it just nothing: And so prefer’d with tune and gate, A speech as empty as their plate. Now, as the king came neer 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 gray dapple, Seeing the top of _Kings-Colledge_ chappel. Next rode his lordship[44] on a nag, Whose coat was blue[45], 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 cry the boys? What ev’ry thing? Behold, behold, yon comes the king: And ev’ry period he bedecks With _En & 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 graces sun doth shine; And with the beams of your bright eye, You will be pleas’d 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[46] 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 have expected been twelve year, And this your son, fair _Carolus_, That is so _Jacobissimus_[47]: Here’s none, of all, your grace refuses, You are most welcome to our Muses. Although we have no bells to jangle, Yet can we shew a fair quadrangle, Which, though it ne’re was grac’d with king, Yet sure it is a goodly thing: My warning’s short, no more I’le say, Soon you shall see a gallant play. But nothing was so much admir’d, As were their plays so well attir’d; Nothing did win more praise of mine, Then did their actors most divine[48]: So did they drink their healths divinely; So did they dance and skip so finely. Their plays had sundry grave wise factors, A perfect diocess of actors Upon the stage; for I am sure that There was both bishop, pastor, curat: Nor was their labour light, or small, The charge of some was pastoral. Our plays were certainly much worse, For they had a brave hobby-horse, Which did present unto his grace A wondrous witty ambling pace: But we were chiefly spoyl’d by that Which was six hours of _God knows what_[49].