With these two seales, an altar and a sworde. Then saw I George new-sainted, when such preists Wore him not only on, but in their breasts. Oft did I wish that day, with solemne vow, O that my country were in danger now! And twas no treason; who could feare to dye, When he was sure his rescue was so nigh? And here I might a just digression make, Whilst of some foure particular knightes I spake, To whome I owe my thankes; but twere not best, By praysing two or three, t’ accuse the rest; Nor can I sing that order, or those men, That are aboue the maistery of my pen; And private fingers may not touch those things Whose authors princes are, whose parents kings: Wherefore unburnt I will refraine that fire, Least, daring such a theame, I should aspire T’ include my king and prince, and soe rehearse Names fitter for my prayer then my verse: “Hee that will speake of princes, let him use More grace then witt, know God’s aboue his muse.” Noe more of councell: Harke! the trumpetts sound, And the grave organ’s with the antheme drown’d The Church hath said amen to all their rites, And now the Trojan horse sets loose his knightes; The triumph moues: O what could added bee, Save your accesse, to this solemnitye? Which I expect, and doubt not but to see ’t, When the kings favour and your worth shall meete. I thinke the robes would now become you soe, St. George himselfe could scarce his owne knights know From the lord Mordant: Pardon mee that preach A doctrine which king James can only teach; To whome I leaue you, who alone hath right To make knightes lords, and then a lord a knight. Imagine now the sceane lyes in the hall; (For at high noone we are recusants all) The church is empty, as the bellyes were Of the spectators, which had languish’d there: And now the favorites of the clarke of th’ checke, Who oft haue yaun’d, and strech’t out many a neck Twixt noone and morning; the dull feeders on Fresh patience, and raisins of the sunne, They, who had liv’d in th’ hall seaven houres at least, As if twere an arraignment, not a feast; And look’t soe like the hangings they stood nere, None could discerne which the true pictures were; These now shall be refresh’t, while the bold drumme Strikes up his frollick, through the hall they come. Here might I end, my lord, and here subscribe Your honours to his power: But Oh, what bribe, What feare or mulct can make my muse refraine, When shee is urg’d of nature and disdaine? Not all the guard shall hold mee, I must write, Though they should sweare and lye how they would fight, If I procede: nay, though the captaine say, Hold him, or else you shall not eate to day; Those goodly yeomen shall not scape my pen; ’Twas dinner-time, and I must speake of men; So to the hall made I, with little care